Mother's Day

It is not infrequently that I am asked a variation of the question, "How do you do all of that?"

Work . . .

School . . .

Family . . . 

House Maintenance . . .

Manage Finances . . . 

Vacation . . .

Blog . . .

Watch 'Top Gear' (the BBC version, of course) . . .

Maintain Friendships . . .

Maintain Marriage (I am very fortunate that Clay makes this easy and more joyful than it is for many) . . . 

Read . . . a lot . . .

Laundry . . . laundry . . . laundry . . . laundry . . . laundry . . . and toilets . . . 

Pray . . . 

The list is long. 

And the question makes me question my chaotic schedule and motives every. single. time. 

What am I chasing? For whom am I working? Why am I so busy? Does it matter? What matters? Who matters? 

I am reminded daily of the frailty of life. I am reminded moment to moment of time passing. I know, to my core, that MOST of what we pursue and do and are in this life, if we follow the culture and ways around us, DOES NOT COUNT. 

So WHY am I so driven?

Ultimately, I believe to my core that the final purpose of my life is to establish a lasting relationship with my children and those around me that is nothing more than an extension of God's love for us. And, while I am just about as far from perfect as one can get, I am aware of the implications of that in every move. 

It has the potential to be excruciatingly intimidating. To the point of crawling in a hole with a sour attitude and extra bottle of Jack, just in case. 

But. 

Just when I think it is simply NOT POSSIBLE, I hear things like this:

"Mom, wouldn't it be cool if we could breathe under water through our ears?"

"Mom, is God the same color as a rainbow?"

"Mom. Did you know that 'gangnam' backwards spells 'man-boob?!?'

"Mom, you are the best mom. Except when you are sort of tired."

"Mom, can we go to Target? It's my favorite."

"Mom, when you were little, were you in black & white?"

"Mom, can you have a sleepover with me?"

"Mommy, my honey, dis, you like purple? Awwww, you so sweet, Mommy!"

"We're not playing church, Mom. We're playing 'Grandpa Talking.'" 

"I can tell this is a church song. I can feel it in my circle." 

"Mom, did you know that Seth is in the Bible? My cousin! In the Bible!"

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, strongness, and parts." 

"It's ok, Mom, even Jesus had a bad day once when he was crucified."

(Sigh.)

So. I don't do it all. I do. And pray--more than anything--that my kids know God because I share my busy life and imperfect self with them. If I can raise my children to be wise, discerning, spiritual people who can easily live without me--but don't want to--I will consider my life successful. 

Happy, Happy Mother's Day. 

Easter Overdues

So, these pictures took a lot more than three days to resurrect out of their digital SD card tomb. But that makes them all the sweeter. 

The weekend before Easter, we drove to the little hamlet of Hesston, KS to blend our souls with cousins. For five glorious days and nights, we busied ourselves with coffee, routine, unstructured idle parenting. And enjoyed a live-in bartender and Euker tournaments every night.

 (Before we left, my wise and not-so-tactful mother reminded me that "after three days, company starts to smell like dead fish.")

This is a caption waiting to happen.  The longer you look, the funnier it gets. 

Their was an easter egg treasure hunt, complete with easter baskets. 

This might be one of the Courtney Loves. Or maybe Lulu . . .  Liam was trying to see where the eggs come out. 

I believe this is prior to the Great Dye Spill of 2013

Dance, Evelyn Rain, till you wash the world clean with your powerful soul. 

We drove to the happ'nin' city of Hutchinson. In case you are wondering, the Cosmosphere is as good as--if not better than--the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum. In addition to just as many awe-inspiring displays, there was a whole section on female astronauts and only a few items off-limits to touching and climbing on. With six (count them--six) little people in tow, touchable displays were incredible. It was also a bonus that one didn't actually have to walk through the gift shop in order to exit the building.

Posing in front of Apollo 13. Houston, we actually don't have a problem--everyone is smiling. 

The Endeavor. Really! We could even TOUCH it!!! 

The last night, Tyler & Eva spend at least two hours in the sub-freezing garage building a robot out of scraps. There was a welcoming ceremony and commencement exercises complete with sparklers left over from last July. 

Testing the world's first-ever "Cookie-Bot". 

And I was assured we never once smelled like fish. 

Well With My Soul

There are a few places I've been that I return to knowing my soul will find 

HOME.

Home in the timeless sense, that connectedness with the spirits around me who have come before and will come after and BE part of the landscape.

The first time I went to Sand Dunes National Park & Preserve I was 3. I remember it. Even then, I felt like the sand. Shifting, moving, restless permanence. It's a paradox of the soul.

How thankful I am to be able to take my kids there with me, and let them thrive in the expanse with absolutely no agenda except the one they decide. 

When we left, Gracie said, "Bye Sand Dunes! We had really fun!"

Even she knows they are alive. 

Ode to the Overachiever

This is an ode to projects
I'll never get done,
the things I've started
for gifts or for fun.

I have good intentions.
Really, I do.
For remembering birthdays
and calling you.

And for excercise, dusting,
cooking from scratch,
for sewing on buttons
and patching those pants.

There are blankets to make
and cookies to bake
and cards to send
and outfits to mend.

Sometimes, I dream
that my windows and sills;
were polished beneath
fancy curtains with frills;

I'd certainly like
to have the laundry all pressed,
and the children scrubbed clean
and perfectly dressed.

I've an idea for that button
and red ball of twine;
that lens cap might come in handy sometime.

If there's something you need
there's a good chance its here
in the projects I'm planning to work on next year.

I've got such good ideas!
I'd be happy to share
but I know I'll be late to--
well, everywhere.

Before getting my work done,
between loads of laundry,
I just play with my kids
and solve their latest quandry.

I give kisses to toads
and pretend to love spiders,
make peace after fighting,
to make them politer.

So perhaps this ode
to projects only done in my head
is really to what matters most,
instead.

Fate's "Almost"

"Normal Day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  
Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow."    - Mary Jean Iron

Today, we almost lost a colleague.

'Almost'

Had he not been sitting where he was, with whom he was, in the building where he was . . . . 

'Almost'

He--and the rest of us--are extremely lucky. Or at least greatly indebted to the tricks of fate that let him be who, when, where. GEEZ. My heart is still thumping. His almost stopped. 

'Almost'

Quantum theory describes a parallel for every 'almost'. In the simplest descriptions, it states that every time an outcome could've been different, a split in atomic time happens and that outcome DOES happen in parallel to what is actually experienced; and--in theory--the outcomes of a thousand downstream effects change in an instant. 

It's a curious theory, and one that seems to be able to be proven on an mathematic, atomic level, but not on a relational level. If you really feel ambitious, check out the definition on Wikipedia. There is enough blue hyperlink there to keep you busy for a very, very long time. (hint: Don't try it after a glass of wine. You will go cross-eyed. Trust me.)

Sometimes, it is the 'almost' that defines us more than what 'is'. The thought of what might be, or what could have been, galvanizes our focus to our purpose and priority in a way nothing else can. 

You've seen it in the tragic experiences of others, and you've thought it, a thousand times:

"What if . . . , What if . . . ."

There are a bazillion things that pull us from the edge of that quantum question back to actual experience, and reason, and logic, and commitment, and obligation, and . . . and . . .and  . . . and . . . 

Quantum theory has already spoken. You are already doing what your heart really wants, in some parallel. 

Listen to the "what if". Don't wait for that "rare and perfect tomorrow". The "what if" is the "almost" that is calling you back to your heart. 

Lucky Rocketship Underpants, et al

There is a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon that follows Calvin through a day where nothing goes his way, but he is oblivious to the chaos because he is in Superhero Mode. Only because he is wearing his Lucky Rocketship Underpants.

There are days when I can sense I am going to need Lucky Rocketship Underpants, when Alexander's Terrible Horribe No-Good Very Bad Day is going to sit in my back pocket from the get-go.

Today started last night, knowing today would be one of THOSE days. Unfortunately, I don't have Lucky Rocketship Unders.

I DO, however, have Lucky Herioine Shoes. These are Superhero shoes, the kind that say I'm smart and sassy and tall enough to reach the top shelf. These are comfortable enough I can chase the villains all day and look good doing it. These say, "Why, yes, Mr. CEO. That WAS my idea and original presentation. When can I share this with the rest of the C-Suite team?"

And. They sparkle in the sun. What more could a working girl want?

Crashing into Reality

At church this morning, one of my good friends commented on how, even with my busy schedule and frenetic pace, I always "have it together". I was, honestly, floored. I can count on one hand the number of days in the past year I have felt "together". Either I underestimate my ability, or I am really good at faking it. Probably both. 

This week at work, I found out the facility I work for had finalized a contract with THE thoracic surgeon in town, which means our program will be exploding (in a good way) and I get a front row seat in the peanut gallery. My opinion has been sought out on a number of levels. Even when on the spot and not expecting it, I can usually manage something resembling intelligent conversation. At least anytime after 8 am. Before then, it's a crap shoot.

When I ran into a fellow RN a few weeks ago who was having trouble getting a catheter in a patient, I offered my assistance (I am the Foley QUEEN). After nearly four years of not practicing, I still threw the line in on the first try. 

So, when my li'l Miss Gracie hurt her arm tonight and I was pretty sure she had fractured it, I marched right in to urgent care with confidence that I was in the right place. I am a nurse, after all. 

Just when I thought I could add another day to my "together" list. HA!

She was honest-to-God crying and holding her arm after falling. She wouldn't let me touch it and didn't seem like she could bend her elbow, rotate her wrist or hold anything without pain. 

We checked in and sat amidst all the infected masses for nearly an hour (I swear my next suggestion to our urgent care clinics is to please have a 'sick' waiting area and a 'hurt' waiting area). She was content--I wasn't messing with her and she was watching Sponge Bob. ("Bunge-Spob" as she calls it. Sorry, Justin Bieber. You got nothin' in comparison.) 

We went back to triage and she let the tech check her vitals without so much as an "I am the most pathetic thing ever" frown. As we sat back down, I reached around her and felt an ever-so-slight click in her arm. She fussed a minute and settled down again. 

Then Dr. Campbell came in. She looked at him, held out her arm and showed him where it was hurting. He started to mess with her arm. No flinching, no fussing, no frowning--nothing. I was starting to feel awkward and like a dufus helicopter parent. 

She looked him dead in the face and said, "Mommy fix it. You not fix it, Mommy fix it all better. I poopy wet. You poopy?" Then singing, operatic style standing on the chair conducting with both arms, "Poopy-poopy poopy-poopy wet wet poooooooo-pyyyyyy wet!" 

Uhhhhhnnnggg. 

There is nothing like a small child to bring one's pride crashing right back down to a more manageable level. Thank you Gracie. Sorry, Dr. Campbell.