Target, Tassels, and Tough Times

I went shopping at Target yesterday. I guess that must mean I'm wrestling with anxiety. I knew it wasn't going to be a perfect outlet, though -- Grace is in this phase now where she hates sitting in a shopping cart. So I knew that the fruit snacks and cheez-its would only last so long before the whining, the tears of frustration, the straining at the seat belt would commence. That only adds to my anxiety, making my shopping experience very unpleasant. And then there's Aidan, who for some reason becomes absolutely clueless when he enters a large store and can't seem to figure out that he needs to watch where he's going. I stopped counting the number of carts he ran into, how many times I said "excuse me" on his behalf, how many times I ran my own cart into the backs of his heels. But I guess I needed to shop.

I picked up the usual: paper towels and t.p., paper plates and napkins, Children's Tylenol, the biggest box of size 5 diapers I could find, a bag of Starbucks' Cafe Verona (bold) whole bean coffee, new underwear for Aidan, etc. Nothing for me -- that would be rare. I was completely annoyed upon leaving the store to find that some Orthodox Jewish young man (or Conservative, I couldn't tell the difference -- but the curls and the long white tassels hanging off his belt loops caught my attention) parked his car not only next to mine, but in my own parking space. He was far over the line and at most six inches from the driver's side of my car. He just looked at me and continued walking. What do you do in those strange circumstances? I had to climb in through the other side, hoist Grace over the back of the seat and literally toss her into her seat (since I couldn't obviously open her door). Then I had the very undignified task of climbing over the center console into my own seat, doing a very pathetic Britney Spears' imitation and flashing the Target customers in the lot, since climbing in a short denim skirt is, well, not what I had in mind for the morning.

It was a strange morning, but a good diversion. My mom spent all morning at the hospital undergoing a PET scan. It all seems so surreal sometimes. I wake up in the morning and often do think this has been some kind of bad dream. It takes about 10 seconds for reality to settle in, and then the heart feels a bit heavier. Oh, right, THAT'S what is going on ...

I've been thinking about my own spiritual journey and the unbelievable hard knocks it's taken. I thought of my grandma and how she relied on her faith and her own worn, tattered, rubber-band-bound Bible right up to the very end; I thought of my mom who despite her fears keeps saying with strong faith, "I don't know why this is happening, but I know God is with me." But what shape has my faith taken? I realized today that I've experienced a lot of things that many people have not, nor ever will. I further realized that my own faith, my own image of God, my own thoughts and understandings and what I have always relied upon have been shaken up. Now that's not always a bad thing -- if nothing else, it forces you to get out of your faith's comfort zone and cease to take it for granted. But lately it hasn't been feeling like a good thing. What I've been feeling is that I'm not sure what "rock" I'm leaning against anymore. Oh, I'm not doubting God's existence or anything like that. But those assurances, those promises, that faith that people like my grandmother fell back upon so effortlessly ... where is that? In the process of my own "shaking up," all I sense right now is the swirling sediment, with no real "form" to grasp. And perhaps that's why I feel the fear that I do, in those weak moments where I just cannot stay strong anymore.

**********************************

Last night we received a much-needed break. My sister-in-law offered to take the kids for dinner so we could go out. Amazing! We went to a cute, wealthy, picture-perfect little town nearby and ate at a pub-type place. They are known for their huge and ecclectic offering of beer. I couldn't resist ordering something purely by its name: Smuttynose Old Brown Dog Ale. Who could pass that up?! Those two hours without the kids was ... too short. Far, far too short. But priceless all the same.

More ramblings, perhaps getting more incoherent by the post! Sometimes things are just too big to think about for long, before mental exhaustion sinks in. Oh, how I wish with all my heart, all my being that we didn't have to face this now.

Summer Storms

I love summer storms. We've had two in the last two days, and they have been spectacular. After getting through a sweltering day, I love how the storms sort of pop up out of nowhere. Two days ago I filled up the smaller of our two inflatable pools (the one that belongs to my parents) around noon and let the heat of the day warm up the water. Around 3:00 pm we headed outdoors, myself included, and splashed away. One eye, however, was turned toward the sky, as a dark gray cloud loomed closer and closer. We heard the rumble of thunder yet continued to play: no flashes in the sky yet. The rumbles got louder as we continued to splash. Finally the darkness quickly overtook us, the kids hustled inside as I ran around the yard picking up toys amid the first fat drops of cold rain. I put the lid on the sandbox as the first flash split the dark sky.

Yesterday was a similar day. Sweltering heat, almost too hot to play outdoors, even when spraying the hose on the kids in our newly invented game of "Sneak and Spray" (Hey, what can I say -- I'm desperate). The air conditioning is on and the VCR is running. (Don't get me started on that one). We paid a trip to the air conditioned library in the morning, to sign Aidan up to the reading program in which I participated as a young girl, although it's much more catchy now. Aidan is now a Library Detective, with Badge #206 adorned with his name proudly displayed on the Children's Room of our local library. He must read 20 books, written down on the pages provided, in order to receive a prize. He wanted to ready all 20 today. Not that he can read ... that's my department. I told him we have to spread it out a bit. We checked out 5 books to start (and already read 3).

The sky had just started to blacken again, as I noticed while changing the sheets in the kids' room, seeing a dark sky out their window. I went outdoors to clean up the yard, and the approaching storm-breeze felt so refreshing, so lovely. I picked up my glass of wine -- leftover from the previous night's feast, the Saint-Veran Bourgogne Blanc -- and sat down on our small back porch, not suitable for sitting necessarily, but fine for me, sipping chilled white wine, feeling the cool storm-breeze wash over me, seeing the early fat rain drops hit the ground with a mighty splat. It was marvelous. My brain was free from anxiety, from worry, from anything ... just enjoying my wine and the breeze and the darkness, while the kids watched a "Maisy" video checked out from the library. However, the wind soon picked up, the fat drops of rain started pelting me as well as the ground, so I headed inside.

It would be over soon, this sporadic summer storm. The house is dark -- "as dark as as movie studio," said my little boy. Don was heading home soon, with a pizza from our favorite local pizza parlor (it's "Customer Appreciation Week," with pies selling for a scant $4.99 -- ironically, the pizza was burned. Gross. Disappointing.). Later that night, after the kids went to bed, I headed out to my youngest brother's house, to have a "girl's night out" -- on their front porch -- with my sister-in-law, Michelle, who over the years has become one of my very best friends. I needed this escape. Although I didn't leave until after midnight. I hope today I don't suffer.

I love summer storms. I love the smell, the display of beauty and magnificence, the sounds, the intense feeling of my smallness and God's hugeness. My mom has cancer; God is beyond huge. I hope I hang on to these feelings, this sense. I feel good.

Too mixed-up to think of a title

"They" say, "Be careful what you wish for." But I think right now I would like to wish for a life that isn't so full of challenges; a life that is calm with time to just enjoy it; a life wherein I can just breathe without "something" surrounding us; a life that doesn't have some siren going off every other day. I am so very, very tired of these sirens.

My mom starts her series of scans today, to make sure the cancer hasn't spread. Three today, one Friday, and two on Monday. This is the hardest part. The fear of spreading.

She saw a plastic surgeon on Tuesday, to talk about reconstruction. It's far more complicated and difficult than we imagined. Now she's not sure she even wants to deal with it. It's going to be a huge thing. I think I have been so preoccupied with my fear and panic about the "what if ..." that I haven't given much thought to the grief and pain involved with a mastectomy. I have been blowing it off, perhaps too fearful of what it really entails, thinking that if it saves her life, than it's a no-brainer. But it's more than that. Much, much more.

She talked to her aunt, who had a mastectomy a few years ago and opted for a prosthetic rather than reconstruction. She's going to talk to a friend who did elect for reconstruction, trying to get both sides of the situation and see what option would better suit her. It's going to be a grief-stricken process regardless of the choice.

My mom feels great, though. A little worried, tearful at times, but overall in good health. I've been feeling a little better, especially after a loving cyber-slap from a trusted friend of mine, knocking some sense into me like some old black-and-white movie where the hysterical heroine is smacked by the dashing hero. Suddenly there's a bit of clarity. A bit.

I found that I like to shop when I'm stressed. I also found that I like to cook. I really love cooking; it's just rather difficult trying to pull off a beautiful meal with two kids under foot. I've been perusing my mafia cookbooks and enjoying their offerings immensely (Thanks, Artie Bucco, for the phenomenal chicken francese!). Now I have turned to a newly acquired cookbook, which is all about grilling. We saw it on my mother-in-law's coffee table when we visited a few weeks ago, and we knew that she has no idea how to grill, so therefore the book was calling out to us for a new home. Our home, to be specific. The other night I stuck little slips of paper in just a few tantalizing pages and drew up my shopping list for yesterday's weekly trip to the grocery store. Last night our menu was fabulous:

- a whole chicken marinated in a fresh cilantro pesto paste
- mashed potatoes
- sweet corn
- a fantastic glass of Saint-Veran, Bourgogne Blanc

A delicious distraction from life. My life. And what's more, it was actually very easy. A bit involved, but I was able to whip up the cilantro paste while the kids were napping. I was free ... free to think. But that can be dangerous. Unfortunately I'm back to the difficulty of praying (why is that?). Lately little thoughts pop up, "Why bother to pray? What's going to happen is going to happen. Why fall on my knees, pleading for what might not happen? Do I really want to get my hopes up again, just to have my hopes get dashed again?" I know ... bad stuff. Really bad. That's why such a delicious distraction was in order.

These are long days. Heavy, weighty days. We laugh, we're happy, we play ... but underneath there's that undercurrent of sadness, of anxiety, of distress, of just not wanting to go through this again. I get tired of these relentless undercurrents. "IT" is always there, always in the back of our minds, always in our thoughts, always present. What an odd, rambling post ... I guess what flies out of my fingertips is indicative of what's going on in my head. Lots of swirling, lots of unrest. I'm sad. I'm tired.

Revisiting the Land O' Sweets

We had a repeat scenario: Aidan awake, Grace still napping, some free time on our hands. I was feeling bold, confident, brave ... I pulled out Candyland again. Before I opened it, I said to Aidan, "So what are we going to do, Aidan? How are we going to play?" He smiled: "Nicely. No crying." Phew.

He was juiced; I was happy. So far so good. Too good. About halfway through the board I could almost see that tiny red cartoon devil appear on his shoulder -- it's time for a test. He pulled a yellow card, putting him on a square that would make him lose a turn. "But I don't want to do that," he said. Uh-oh, here we go ... A quick reminder, though, of how we were going to play today, and he was all smiles, losing his turn without comment. Phew #2.

There were similar episodes throughout the game -- I pulled a card that put me way ahead, and he asked if he could use the same card so he could move that far forward. His next card landed him back near the beginning and I held my breath. But there was not a single tantrum, nor a single tear. He ended up winning both games, and that's fine. I was kind of hoping he would lose, presenting a good learning opportunity, but I had super bad luck today. Oh well.

Oddly enough, our second game was interrupted by a bird flying into our kitchen. Yes, a bird. A female House Sparrow. We're on Round #2 with babies in our bird bottle outside, and I guess Mama Bird saw the open door and flew right in. I closed all the doors, enlisted my dad's help, and finally got her out an open window. How weird is that?

Anyway, I'm encouraged by Aidan's behavior with the game. I'll keep dragging it out from time to time, to check out the consistency of good sportsmanship. So far so good.

A (Sweet) Monster in the Making

My son will be 5 years old in a couple of months, and he truly is a beautiful little boy. He has traits that I love and admire to a degree I never thought possible. He's loving, he's very compassionate, he's considerate, he's outgoing, he has a voracious appetite for learning, and I love how his entire face lights up when he stumbles upon a new discovery or learns something new. We have been truly blessed a hundred-fold to have this little boy in our lives.

Yet like all of us fallen human beings, he has his flaws. Some of it is due to his nature, some due to the fact that he's 4-almost-5. He's stubborn and can display an attitude worthy of a teenager. He does not like to be outside -- he would much rather play indoors than out, something that I simply cannot fathom. Another less-than-desirable trait has been surfacing as of late and it's one that is very difficult for me, as a parent, to guide him through. He's extremely competitive. I have no idea where this comes from, as neither Don nor I have that kind of streak within us ... at least not to that degree. I mean, we're talking violence here. Take this example:

The other day Aidan awoke from his nap before his sister, and since we had a baby-free half-hour on our hands, I wanted to use that time to spend with him, just the two of us. I stupidly suggested we do a puzzle together (a favorite of his), until I realized that all the puzzles were in their bedroom where Grace was sleeping. Then I suggested that we play Candyland, and his excitement was endearing. I was looking forward to this -- we don't get many of these moments together anymore. Before we started the game, I said we had to play nicely -- no getting upset or throwing tantrums, and he readily agreed. But then he immediately said, "But I'm gonna win, Mommy." Uh-oh.

The game progressed well for the first 5 minutes. When I landed on the Rainbow Trail, a sweet short-cut that put me far in the lead, I nervously looked at Aidan to see how he would react, but thankfully he didn't seem to care. A couple of turns went by, and Aidan said, "I'm going to take the short-cut too, because I have to catch you." I said that was fine if he got a purple card, but if he got another color he would pass it up. Sure enough, he pulled an orange card ... but took the short-cut anyway. Gently I tried to explain that we had to play by the rules, that he had to go back to the orange square, etc. That's when he lost it: "NOOOOO!!!!" he screamed. He threw some cards on the floor, he knocked my green guy over, tears spilled out of his huge, angry eyes. I wanted to strangle him. How stupid can you be? It's a freakin' kiddie game about candy! I instantly thought, and hated myself for thinking that. Instead, I remained calm, trying to talk him through it but he was lost to me. I said if he was going to act that way, then we cannot play games together. I started to pack everything up when he suddenly turned remorseful, he apologized, and I gave in, saying we could continue but the next time he pulled that stunt the game was over. Period.

He did very well for the next 10 minutes or so, but I was still nervous because I was still out in front. With every turn he said with glee, "I'm coming, Mommy! I'm gonna catch you!" Well, that's OK. I was actually happy when, about 10 spaces from winning the game, I picked up a card that put me all the way back in peppermint land, close to the beginning. Great! I thought. I'll show him that it's OK when things like that happen. I said, "Aidan, look -- I have to go all the way back. Am I crying? (No.) Am I screaming? (No.) Do you see that this is OK? It's fun? It's all part of the game?" (Yes.). So far so good.

When Aidan was approaching the end, he too picked up a card that sent him backward, although not nearly as far as I had gone. He said he wasn't going to do it. I explained (again) about the rules, about how we have to play fair, how I had gone back and it was OK, etc. That was it. The volcano exploded. He freaked out in a way I didn't even know was possible. Cards went flying, the board skidded across the kitchen table, it was totally unbelievable. Without a word I started putting the game away. Incredibly he still wanted to play but I said no, this is not how we play games, he already got his warning. I said I was very disappointed in his actions and behavior (and I'm sure I said a lot of other things I should not have), and I told him he had to go sit in the living room chair and think about what he did. He raced out of the kitchen, crying and screaming, and plopped into the chair. Several minutes later he came sniffling back into the kitchen with red-rimmed eyes and said to me, "Mommy, I thought about it. It wasn't wrong." (Ummmm ... what was that?)

Oh man. I'm in trouble. This is foreign territory for me. I have no idea what to say to him or how to properly discipline him/guide him to appropriate behaviors and attitudes in regard to this. It stinks, though, because our nice time together was ruined, and I don't want that to keep happening. This is going to be an interesting summer. Looks like we'll be making repeated trips to Candyland, trying to work this out.

Blackbirds and Grace

When Aidan was a baby, he was not a very good sleeper. We had to come up with a pretty involved routine to get him to bed at night. First came a story, then prayer, and then a song or two (or three, or four ... and in the very early days, the songs were followed by a very lengthy time of rocking until he fell asleep). Sometimes we would sing throughout the rocking phase, and our repertoire expanded considerably. Yet out of all the songs we sang to our little boy, two of them stuck (from Don's repertoire): "Blackbird" and "I Will," both by the Beatles. At 4 and a half, Aidan still requires this same bedtime routine (minus the rocking), finishing up with those two songs. He had both of these songs memorized by the age of 2.

Grace is the polar opposite of her big brother in the sleep department. No routines are really necessary for her, as she is completely content to be plopped in her crib, falling asleep on her own. But now that she's getting older, we are beginning a routine of her own: no story yet at bedtime (I do that at the afternoon nap time), but we pray and sing a song. Each night I usually take care of Aidan while Don handles Grace, but on those occasions when I have Grace-duty, I usually sing "Jesus Loves Me."

Not too long ago, Grace was in her usual daily singing mode, going through her own little repertoire. You can't usually understand the words (just a few scattered throughout a given song), but her pitch is usually spot-on, so the song is easily identifiable. After her versions of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," the ABC song, "Jesus Loves Me," and so on, she then launched into a new one:

Bwack Bwird FLY!
Bwack Bwird FLY!

Now I know what Don does at bedtime. And in our household, another Beatles fan has been born.

Thank God for an extra measure of "Grace" during difficult times.

An Unbelievable Week

This has been one of the weirdest weeks of my life that I can recall. Within a few shorts days, we went from a total high (Sunday's gathering at my brother's house, for Father's Day and my mom's birthday) to a low that we never saw coming. And in between there has been some strange random weirdness, producing a few laughs or just a shaking of the head ...

- Yesterday wasn't a good day. A crying day. I decided to relieve some of my anxiety by going shopping. I've discovered that some people, during times of crisis, like to eat; I like to shop. But I also have enough wherewithal to know what is (or what is not) in my wallet. So armed with that need and that knowledge, I headed to the Dollar Store. We have a great Dollar Store. I spent $13 on cheap toys for the kids, a steno pad, foaming hand soap for the bathroom, antibacterial hand gel for the kids, a box of envelopes. While I was standing in line, a girl pushed right in front of me and stood in front of the candy. Suddenly she picked up a box, poked through the cellophane, and started eating. After she popped a few into her mouth, she put the box back on the shelf and went back to her pregnant mother (and siblings) a few lanes over. What the heck?! I didn't say anything to the girl -- heaven forbid you say something to someone else's kid -- but I did give the box to an employee (who I believe spoke to the mother -- I suddenly heard raised voices, although in a language I couldn't understand). It was just a really weird thing to witness.

- We drove to our favorite pizza place to pick up two pies last night. We passed a rather seedy pub, just two doors down from the pizza place -- a pub which I never knew existed. The name of it was totally random: "The Shepherd and the Knucklehead." I don't know why, but that sign jumped out at me. I loved it. Hey -- maybe it's really a message from God. "The Lord is my Shepherd" ... I am the Knucklehead.

- Aidan unwittingly relieved some tension when he said to Don at dinner, "Daddy, look at your belly. I think a baby is going to come out of there." I'm not sure if Don found it to be funny, but I got a good chuckle out of that one.

But chuckles only last so long. Reality sucks. In between the humor seep those God-questions again. Forget the fork in the road. The "why's?" are flooding back. Why would God lead us back home for healing -- something we so desperately need -- only to have us face something far more horrible than anything we've endured to date? I know I'm jumping the gun, but the grief of it all is unbearable. Most times I feel that I can't even breathe, that my breath gets caught in my chest somewhere, and the more I try to breathe the more painful it feels. Why would God allow this happen? Why now? How is it that such horrible, dark thoughts take up residence in my spirit, thinking of scenarios that haven't even happened? I've fallen backward in the prayer department, squeaking out "Just spare my mom" throughout the day. And now I sit here in my "Sunday Meetin'" clothes, hair wet and ready for the dryer, getting ready for church. Church? Today? How in the world am I going to be able to do that?

Journey Detour

My mom's cancer has returned. We just found out this afternoon. We were so sure it was just scar tissue from her last surgery. I mean, what are the chances of this? She just got over chemo (it literally leaving her system only a few months ago), she's taking some kind of medication that is supposed to inhibit these nasty hormones ... and still it happens?! Shock is a funny thing, how news like that doesn't hit you right away. You're strong, you hug, you say things like, "It will be all right" and any other positive thing that pops into your frozen brain. But give it a good half hour and the dark thoughts just roll right in, like an unrelenting tide of pain and even fear so strong you can feel it with each breath.

They're talking "mastectomy" this time around. A scary, huge thing -- but if it saves her life, well, that's OK. We have no idea what's going on yet. The next step is scheduling a bunch of scans to see if it spread. That's the scary part. Waiting and wondering.

This isn't really about me ... It's about my mom. I can't write for her. But it is also a part of my journey now. A detour of sorts. I can't help but feel that every time I feel that I've been making progress (I'm still treading water in my own healing department), every time I'm moving forward on my path after being knocked back 14 spaces, every time I feel that I'm starting to get my wobbly legs back under me, WHAM! Like that stupid game at the boardwalk arcade, "Whack-a-Mole." I'm that idiotic mole, sticking my head out of the hole. I'm just not sure who's holding the mallet. Silly analogy, I guess -- no one is out to get me; it's not that sinister. It's just how I feel.

Someone sent me an email this afternoon with a little adage: "I know God won't give me more than I can handle; I just wish he didn't trust me so much." That's funny, and it's kind of what it feels like. Will there ever be a time when I and my family can just take a breath and live without always having to be strong for one reason or another? Please, God?

So once again, in just a few short months, my kids are seeing Mommy cry. I have no idea how to explain this to them. I know this is probably all sounding so self-centered, so self-pitying ... but right now, at 8:59 p.m. this is where I am. I know, I know -- we don't know anything yet, there's no point in indulging those dark thoughts, there are lots of positives (caught early, etc.). I know all of that. I just have to figure out a way for my heart to get the picture.

Painting Pictures

There's been a funny little "theme" going on lately. When God wants me to think about something, or address something, it gets shouted out on a pretty deafening scale. Not long ago I had no choice but to starting thinking about forgiveness (even though I didn't want to, nor even could at that point) -- it was hurled at me in several different ways, by different people, with different methods. And just yesterday, when I finally wrote down those two thoughts I've been hesitant to address, that very afternoon #2 was thrown at me like a water balloon: our entire life, as we had known it, has been theoretically wiped out. So what exactly am I grieving? Why do I miss it? Do I really miss it?

We have a 6-CD changer in the car so I'm never quite sure what will come out of the speakers, but the disc on tap was thankfully not Van Halen or Kids-Sing-Along-Songs, but rather a newly-borrowed one, Sara Groves' Conversations. I had asked my friend Jacie to hook me up with some good Christian contemporary music (because, frankly, I wasn't sure much of that truly existed). I really like this one, and I'm glad it was the selected disc of the day, for the song that flew out at me resembled a cartoon, where a large arm suddenly pops out with an over-exaggerated boxing glove on the end of it. The song: "Painting Pictures of Egypt." I italicized the lines that really spoke to me --

I don't want to leave here, I don't want to stay,
it feels like pinching to me either way.
The places I long for the most are the places where I've been.
They are calling after me like a long lost friend.
It's not about losing faith, it's not about trust,
It's all about comfortable when you move so much.
The place I was wasn't perfect but I had found a way to live.
It wasn't milk or honey but then neither is this.

Chorus:
I've been painting pictures of Egypt leaving out what it lacked.
The future feels so hard and I want to go back.
But the places that used to fit me cannot hold the things I've learned,
and those roads were closed off to me while my back was turned.

The past is so tangible, I know it by heart,
familiar things are never easy to discard.
I was longing for some freedom, but now I hesitate to go,
I am caught between the promise and the things I know.

Chorus

If it comes too quick, I may not recognize it.
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand.
If it comes too quick, I may not appreciate it.
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand.

Sooooo ... what's going on here? Am I a modern-day Israelite, afraid to leave my Egypt because it's what I know, it's "comfortable?" I've done more than my fair share of grumbling with my "lot in life" -- leaving my family, my home, my friends, my church, attending a denomination with which I have some major disagreements, never feeling quite "at home" (dare I say, exile?) or never feeling like a "good enough" pastor's wife. I missed not being able to spend some holidays or important events because we were tied to the church. Don't get me wrong -- the has been a lot of good through it all too, and I certainly wouldn't be the person who I am today without those experiences. But it's been all I've known, in my post-college, married, adult life ... so is that why I miss it?

Am I afraid of what's in store, the unknown? Interestingly, many people whom I've talked to have called this period in my life my "desert experience," echoing the song's final words. Like the Israelites wandering around the desert, they felt some fear about what they were approaching -- the unknown, despite God's promises of the "Promised Land" -- and they frequently longed for what they left behind, seeming to forget that it was slavery ("painting pictures of Egypt, forgetting what it lacked") but wanting it all the same because it was comfortable, all they'd ever known.

Is this me? Do I really long for what I no longer have, just because it was familiar? The other night our church's intern and his wife came over to hang out (after the kids went to bed -- it was great!), and we spent a portion of the time talking about our experiences in "the church." As we talked I kept thinking to myself, "There's no way I could go back to that. There's no way I want to go back to beating my head against a brick wall. I have absolutely no energy for that." The irony is that they are now where we were about a decade ago, just starting out, full of excitement and energy, preparing to plant a church in Manhattan this summer (they are -- we weren't). I, on the other hand, felt like some kind of beat-up, bloody warrior retreating from the front lines, completely wiped out. Do I really want to go back to that, again, just because it's all we've really known? What in the world does that say about me? That I never fully embraced it in the first place? And if this is true -- that I have left my Egypt -- then where in the world am I going? I am in some serious manna-territory right now. At least the Israelites had a pillar of cloud/fire to guide them. I have absolutely no answers -- and maybe I never will. I'm not even sure why this "hit" me now, in such a strong way. It's definitely a lot to think about, chew, and digest, like an extremely stringy piece of celery. I wonder where it will all lead ...

Murky Thoughts

It's funny how my brain works. I will have a string of serious thoughts, heavy words to chew on, a revelation or two, but then it seems as if I have a need to shut it down, think of fluffy things for a while, and let the heavy stuff simmer a bit until it comes to the forefront once again. I've waded in some pretty intense waters over these past few months, with revelations and insights about my journey, my spiritual growth, forgiveness (or not), and so on. While I joke about lighter fare such as Don's hobby, or think about my kids and their antics, or Mafia cooking, I have also been noticing a slight bubbling in the background of my mind of some other heavier entrees that are vying for attention. If I could paint a picture inside my skull, there are large areas that are full of light (my kids, my friends, my love, my family, good things and good times). Then there is this darker area toward the back, very black yet foggy, like a cave, where I know that many thoughts and emotions reside, yet I'm hesitant to take a peek and see what's there. Sometimes there is an escapee from this "cave," like when reading a book about forgiveness forces me to face that within myself and my own heart. And that's good. Then my feelings about prayer -- which were very hard to admit to -- seemed to slip out and demand attention. That's good too. Yet I know that dark, foggy area is still inhabited by some thoughts, some issues and I know they want to come out. OK, that might sound a little like mental illness but it's not. I am just painting a picture of what it's been like for me to try to get a handle on everything that is going on, and everything that has happened. Clearly the things that we've experienced cannot be dealt with all at once. I guess this is my brain's defense mechanism, letting them leak out very slowly so I can handle them one at a time in small, somewhat palatable doses.

I have recently been aware of two such thought-creatures. I know they are there, I have tried to put my finger on them, but then found myself pulling back. I'm not sure why. Am I afraid of where it will lead me? Am I afraid of the answer, if there even is one? Am I afraid of the feelings that will become dredged up if I allow myself to think about it? I don't know. I'm going to try writing them down and see where it goes.

1. Actually, I have to give credit to Don for being the one to voice what I have been thinking but have not said. While driving home from our weekend trip, Don said to me very sadly, "I don't have any goals or dreams anymore." When I heard those words come from his mouth, I felt my heart break in two. It's so true. I have been feeling that same way. Oh, the dreams we used to have of building up a church! Don almost had visions of it, it was so real, so exciting, so tangible, so life-giving. We used to talk, make plans, dream and then dream some more. And not just of church -- of buying our own home, or building one, or restoring one. Of raising our children with our friends' children. Big dreams and little dreams, goals to work toward. And now he feels completely stripped of that. And I do too. I guess that's why I've been putting my heart and soul into little goals -- gardening, painting some rooms, and now thinking about a new kitchen floor (on my landlord's tab). But to actually voice that, to admit that your goals are no more ... that really is a devastating feeling.

2. I touch on this next one every once in a while but then shelf it back in that dark, foggy place in my brain. Clearly I am grieving many, many losses. But what exactly do I miss about my "old life?" It was not easy being married to a clergyman. It was not easy being caught in the middle of or witnessing stupid-people-games. It was not easy dealing with all kinds of abuse. It was not easy always being by myself on Sunday morning (especially with two kids), while all around me sat nice little family-units, or rarely seeing my husband during Christmas and Holy Week. So what do I miss about it, really? Why am I so upset about not living that life anymore? Do I really think of this period now as "down time," that we'll go back into it again at some point in the future? And if so, why do I want to go back? Or do I even want to go back? I'm not going to get into the topic of being "called" (can you truly reneg on a calling from God?) -- that's another day. Recently a friend shared some of her own personal experiences during a similar painful time in her life, and she too went through rounds of questioning. After years of healing and wondering why, she now believes that perhaps on some very deep level she was ready, that God was perhaps answering some kind of subconscious scream that she, too, had kept shelved in that brain-cave. So I wonder ... is that what I've been doing over all these years? Subconsciously screaming? And of course I know this isn't all about me ... so what about Don? I can't write for him, of course, but what is he feeling? If asked the question, "What do you miss about your 'old life,' really?" what would he say? Why am I so afraid to think about this? Perhaps I'm afraid of what the answer might really be. I'm not sure why I keep putting that back on the shelf. I'll really have to think about this sooner or later.

Bargain Hunter

I always feel so good when I strike a good bargain. I frequently check Craigslist or Freecycle for things I'm interested in (around these parts, I usually turn up empty, though). I used to be a huge eBay fan, but it's gotten so congested over the past few years that I usually don't even bother.

The "Thing To Do" in this area is visit a garage sale. No, correction: visit many garage sales. As many as you can. They are everywhere. Every weekend you will see hundreds of neon-colored posters on neighborhood corners, directing you to the desired location. The local newspapers are loaded with entries under the "Garage Sale" heading. This kind of thing gets me drooling; however, with my life as it is I do not usually indulge. I do not like visiting garage sales with my kids, and since they are rather attached to me, ergo: no shopping trip.

Last weekend, however, was a coup for me, a real victory. I have been looking for some items that, if purchased brand new, are quite expensive: a toy kitchen for my daughter's 2nd birthday, and an outdoor playhouse for the yard. I checked my first two familiar sites (Craigslist and Freecycle) to no avail. I checked eBay and, while they had many, many listings, they were all bombarded with bidders. When I see an item with 38 bids and 5 days to go, and already up to $100, I am going to pass it by. I get utterly frustrated.

I could not believe my good fortune when I saw a little kitchen up for auction on eBay, nestled amongst the 15 other listings, with only one bid, $5, 3 days to go. Hmmmm .... I wasn't sure why this kitchen was being overlooked while the others were being attacked by human vultures, but I decided to wait one day and see where it went. With 2 days to go, there were now 2 bids at $5.50. I went for it, putting in a maximum bid of $10. The second bidder attempted a last-ditch effort to outbid me but failed, and I won the auction at $8!! I haven't won anything in a long, long time and it felt great. I had a lovely conversation with the woman on the phone, I drove to her home on Saturday to pick up the kitchen, and now my daughter has something for her birthday.

Oh, but the good times don't stop there! Later that day, when Don and I were driving home (sans kids, who were with their grandparents), I was looking wistfully out the window at all of those neon signs, beckoning me to the 500 garage sales being held that day. I was certain there were so many kiddie items that we could use! But alas, Don kept driving and the neon colors whizzed past me like some strange, mocking rainbow. As we drove up the hill, I saw one sign pointing toward a home that was just a few houses in on a side street. Since we were literally driving past it, I asked Don to turn down the street. As we pulled up to the house and peered down the driveway to check out the goods, standing proud and tall was an outdoor playhouse! Exactly what I was looking for! I jumped out of the car (I believe it was still moving) and headed right toward the woman. And for a mere $15 (rather than the $150 the eBay bidders were haggling over), my kids now have a playhouse in the yard. It took a major amount of cleaning and hosing down with the "jet" setting on the nozzle, but now it's absolutely perfect. (I also got a huge bag full of brand name, hardly-worn/never-worn 3T clothes for Grace for the fall: $12, with a few extra pieces thrown in for free when Don went back later on that day to pick up the house).

It cracks me up that I get such a rush out of these experiences. I feel like some sort of hilarious super-mom, beating the other moms to get cheap toys for my kids. They could care less that it's used, and I don't care either. I love parents who feel they must always buy the best, the biggest, and brand new ... I will gladly pay for their cast-offs. That feeling of success carried me on for a few days. Next on my list? Some kind of chunky plastic climber-slide-thing (no swing sets), but that can wait.

Conspiracy

I believe there is a conspiracy going on in my household.



This scene was not staged. Grace did this all on her own. What makes this picture even funnier is the cover of the magazine she is "reading."

A Bittersweet Birthday

Yesterday was my mom's 68th birthday.

We had a fabulous day, celebrating her birthday, her sister's birthday (the day before), as well as Father's Day, at my youngest brother's home. We had a barbeque, we swam in their pool, we laughed, we relaxed, and had great fun. It was a good way to spend the day yesterday.

Two years ago my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had a lumpectomy, which also required the removal of several lymph nodes under her arm. She went through radiation as well as 8 months of chemotherapy. It was an extremely difficult and frightening time for our family, and especially (obviously) for her.

Last year in June, at this same time, she received probably one of the greatest birthday gifts of her life -- she was finished with her treatment and was given a perfect, clean bill of health. That was last year.

Today, the day after her birthday, she is going in for a biopsy for a possible reoccurrence of breast cancer. Something "cloudy" was detected right along the scar. We are obviously praying that this is merely scar tissue. But "cancer" is an evil word, so there is fear.

Last year she was given the gift of clean health. This year's birthday is a biopsy. I wish there was a way to put a pretty bow on that and make it better.

Happy Father's Day

I have been extremely blessed not only to have a father in my life, but one who is a wonderful, loving, and caring man. I've mentioned that I am adopted, and from what I can tell based upon my 19-year-old unwed birth mother's view of things, my biological father was something of a deadbeat. I feel like a flower, having been plucked from a poorly tended, rocky, dry bed and transplanted into a pot of Miracle-Gro.

While I of course had my struggles and difficulties growing up, I nevertheless am very thankful that I had a healthy upbringing. What is interesting about my dad is that, even though we share no blood ties, he is very much like me. We are both introverted, we are both funny, we are both "heart-feeling" and emotional. And I even received many, many comments growing up how much I resembled my father as well in appearance. Well, that always made me laugh. And now living with "Papa" upstairs has been a tremendous gift both to me and my children, and I know my kids will cherish these times forever.

I'm blessed, too, that my kids have a loving, devoted father and one who is just as goofy and silly as they are. They adore their daddy, as I do mine. I cherish my childhood memories with my father, and I love the fact that my children are already forming theirs. In a time now when so many fathers work tremendously long hours each day, I am grateful that Don adores spending time with his kids, and teh smile that brightens his face when he is with them is unlike any other.

Thinking of a gift for my dad was easy: I didn't have to. :) He purchased a new, compact lawn mower so we're just chipping in. Don was more difficult. I love him dearly, but he is extremely difficult to shop for. He doesn't read, so I cannot buy him books. He wears uniforms every day now at his job (well, I guess you could say he's always worn "uniforms," being an Episcopal priest), so he does not need any clothes. He usually just wants money to finance his habit -- a new gadget, vacuum tubes, cables, etc. Things that I will definitely not purchase on my own. In fact, he recently said to me, "Hey! I have an idea of what you can get me for Father's Day." I just shook my head ... here it comes. "You can give me the time and the funds so I can take a trip to the local record store." Ummmmmm .... NO.

I had good reason, though, for my denial of his request. I already had something in mind. I bought him a rose bush. Perhaps some manly-men might think that's a rather emasculating gift, but not so. You see, Don really loves roses. When we purchased our first (and only) home after seminary, we inherited a few gorgeous, mature rose bushes, and Don dove right in and took them over. He cared for them, pruned them, treated black spot and other ailments, and in the end the bushes were more beautiful than ever. He was hooked. So naturally, when we moved to our next church and our next house, Don wanted to set up another rose garden, this time from scratch. We lived in a rectory (or parsonage, or manse -- depending upon your own familiar terminology for "one-more-thing-you-owe-the-church" or "one-more-thing-where-the-church-owns-you"), but that did not stop us from pouring our own funds into beautifying the property. We did make the mistake of purchasing some pathetic little sprouts at Walmart in our ever-present need to save money, but when one of those died we decided to take the plunge and purchase a good, hearty bush. It was well worth the expense, and then some. It was absolutely gorgeous, with huge blooms, mixing together the colors of salmon, orange, and yellow -- I've never seen another like it. When we left that church after five years, it broke our hearts to leave behind our beautiful roses.

Last weekend, when we returned to PA, we had some time to kill before Grace's appointment, and since she desperately needed a nap, we decided to drive around for a while so the kids could sleep in the car. Don said he wanted to drive up to our former rectory. Why???!!! I asked. It was painful enough for me being back in the area; did I really have to subject myself to seeing something so specific, like our former home?! He said he was doing OK emotionally, and he just wanted to see his roses. That made me really sad, for some reason. I immediately gave in and we headed north. It was very, very strange being back, but we were glad to see that the new rector is some kind of gardener (although not my taste) and our roses looked healthy, though very, very small (she must have gone crazy with pruning).

That's when I got my idea, to get Don a rose bush for Father's Day. Later on in the car on the long drive home, he admitted to me that he has no more goals or dreams, and that just broke my heart. I actually feel the same way, and I will write about this at a later point (I need to flesh that out), but I thought that by giving him the gift of a rose bush, it will not only give him the joy of seeing beauty, but also the satisfaction of having a goal, something to tend, something to nourish and grow. He tended people's souls for many years, and now that's gone. Maybe he can take a baby step here and tend a little rose bush.

So guess what ... yesterday I made a solo trip out to a recommended nursery to look for the perfect rose bush. This was clearly"meant to be," because as soon as I walked to the appropriate section, there it was: the very same rose bush we had at our second home, the one that he loved so much. I was floored; I believe my mouth dropped open. It couldn't have been any more perfect than that. So I hope this little rose bush will be a sign of hope for my husband, the wonderful father of my children, and on some small level I hope it fills a bit of that void in his life right now. As the bush flourishes under his care, I pray that his own spirit will heal and flourish too.

I love the dads in my life.

Laugh Lines for the Week 6

- In PA, in the office of Grace's foot doctor: we had just finished our visit (having waited with record speed a mere 1 hour) and were on our way out when Grace had a meltdown. The last item on the agenda before leaving was to pay a visit to the bathroom. I think Grace's outrageously loud outbursts shut my brain down to some extent, because I grabbed Aidan's hand and walked into the men's room. When we walked out, Don was still standing outside the door with a somewhat-pacified girl in his arms. He said to me, "You know, you went into the men's room." I'm still trying to figure out why he didn't tell me that before I entered ...

- I have a new Yankee Candle that I really like called "Green Meadow." It had been burning long enough, and Aidan asked to blow it out. He loves to blow out candles for some reason, but he knows he must always ask first. Anyway, I said yes and so he did. Grace witnessed the entire thing, and when the flame went out she burst into song, "[Mum-ble Mum-ble] to you!" Apparently all candles indicate someone's birthday, and it is her duty to sing it.

- Aidan is quite fascinated with pooping and is never slow to express his pride at a "rocket poop" or some other similar feat of nature. Today was another such day (guess the prunes are working) and he exclaimed with tremendous gusto, "Mommy, just look at this giant poop! Phew - I feel so much better already!"

- Grace was puttering around the yard, sniffing various flowers (before attempting to decapitate them). In one pot on our patio, I placed my mom's very tiny windchime -- a hummingbird attached to a little stake, with the little metal rods dangling from the bird. Grace loves that thing -- it's very tinkly and sweet. Yesterday she found a new purpose for it. "A with-ull!" she said, promptly sticking one little rod into her mouth and "whistled" (or rather, humming) a little tune.

- Aidan was playing with his Power Rangers outside in the yard. He was experimenting with the best way to maximize the occupancy of the jeep. Finally he exclaimed, "Mommy! I have a fabulistic idea!" Oh, baby, it doesn't get any better than that!

Getting Involved: Read a Book

I love to read. I always have, ever since I was a little girl. I have some really fond memories of my childhood summers, participating in my local library's program of summer reading. I remember getting some kind of paper with many lines, where I would list each book as I read them. I can't remember what I read, but I remembering doing it -- and loving it.

With two active kids to take care of, I don't read as much as I used to. In fact, I don't read at all during the day -- only at night, tucked into my own bed, as much as I can devour before I fall asleep. My tendency is to pick up historic fiction (ha - no surprise there), and it's been a while since I've read a contemporary novel. Since my reading time is so limited, I usually shy away from anything "heavy" -- non-fiction, or things that will make me "think." Pathetic, I know, but maternal burn-out by day's end will do that to you. But hey -- I'm up for anything.

I have a fun and engaging opportunity in front of me that tickles my literary funny bone. I have been invited to not one, but two, book groups! The first invitation came from my friend Pam who lives in PA. She's experimenting with an online book group through her blog "Booknotes." We will be reading Susan Vreeland's Girl in Hyacinth Blue, a novel based on the discovery of an unknown painting by the Dutch master (and one of my all-time favorites) Johannes Vermeer. I've read Vreeland's The Passion of Artemisia and loved it, so I am looking forward to this journey and how it will all unfold online.

The other day I received an email from a woman in my new church, asking if I'd be interested in joining a little book group that had formed with some church members. I had heard about this before in a conversation with my new friend Jacie (also the pastor's wife -- hey, we have to stick together!), who is also a member of the church's group, so I've been chewing on it for a while. They hope to delve into A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Hussein. Never heard of him, and since I rarely read this kind of contemporary work, this will be a great experience for me. I don't think two groups could be any farther apart! I don't necessarily like to read two books at once (perhaps not giving each individual work the undivided attention it deserves), and my little night table will be quite crowded (along with various Dr. Seuss, Curious George, and other story books), but it's healthy to shake things up a bit.

I've never done this before. I think it will be good for me, and a good way to get involved. I just ordered Vreeland's book from Half.com (expedited shipping, so it should get here soon) and then I'll try to find the other. I'm looking forward to this new little journey.

Stop the flow!

A few days ago Don came home with yet another black box with ominous knobs and buttons. Herschel is really hooking him up. Don didn't wait for my response, but quickly bubbled, "Look what Herschel gave me! It's an equalizer ..." I kind of tuned out at that point, as he made his way down to the basement with it.

I met Herschel yesterday, when I dropped Don off at work in the morning. "Hello, Don's wife!" was his greeting. He freely admitted he was the gift-giver, and informed that he has a whole basement full of things that Don would like. I just laughed. Perhaps Don should just move into Herschel's basement.

Last night, while I sat on our front porch watching a newly discovered, awesome TV channel called "NYC TV" (all things New York, with incredible programs like "Reservations Required" and "Eat Out NY"), Don stayed indoors to "rearrange" our little IKEA entertainment cabinet. First he drilled holes in the back, because all of those gadgets were generating so much heat that it was starting to become hazardous. Then he took out his goofy-yet-beloved vintage solid state amp, as well as the tube amp he spent months reconstructing. His plan then was to insert Herschel's pre-amp and another amp, and then put back the high(er)-end CD player, the cheap-o DVD player, the VCR, and the turn table.

(This is funny: When I asked him what he was going to do with those two replaced amps, he said he was going to put them downstairs in storage (in what?! Where?!) and use them again at another point. "It's like the seasons," he said. "You take things out, interchange things, when the seasons change ..." That's a new one!)

About halfway through my program (NY 360) Don called me in, saying that he had to talk to me about something. Oh, how I just knew I was not going to like this. His new array of gadgets would not fit in the cabinet, and he asked if I would "be so kind as to consider" putting another little table that we have elsewhere next to the cabinet, so he could put his turntable on top of that. My answer? NO.

I had 3 good reasons for my answer. First of all, on a purely practical level, that's just asking for trouble. We have two children, and if you put something in their reach with fancy knobs and buttons, and especially a fun swinging arm, you're crazy if you think they will ignore it. Especially Grace. Secondly, also on a practical note, that table is currently being used for something else, so that's just obnoxious. And thirdly, on a deeper level, I saw that as the first sign of this sickness oozing out of its contained space (i.e. the cabinet) into other parts of our house. Our place is small enough as it is, and there is not much of "my stuff" anywhere to be seen (a huge sacrifice on my part). The living room is dominated with stuff belonging to the kids and to Don. So if this ooze continues, we will be surrounded by electronics and Little People. I had to stop the flow!

Thankfully Don accepted my compromise (indeed, figuring what-goes-where has been a compromise, and has now turned into the understanding that he can do whatever he wants, as long as it's contained in the cabinet) and when I came back inside later on, after hearing a lot of sporadic grunting, I saw that somehow he figured out how to get everything to fit. I won't ask any questions. I did get a lesson this morning on how to play a simple CD: I have to push 3 buttons, change one setting, and I think there's a knob involved somewhere too. All that for Bob and Larry's Campfire Songs.

Cookin' with the Mob

I have freely admitted that I am a huge Sopranos fan. Yes, it's gory at times, and immoral to the point of being ridiculous, but it's a fantastic -- and fascinating -- story that's astoundingly well-written. One of the highlights of this past weekend's trip was a visit to our friends' home. Jim is also a deeply committed fan, and Jim also has cable. So, in a very fitting way, Don and I finally saw the Sopranos "live," on HBO at 9:00 p.m. -- something we have never been able to do (since we do not have cable), always catching it at another time. As my friend Amy said, "... living in North Jersey, there’s no way you would not have heard about the ending before you saw it!" So for the very first time -- and our very last chance -- we sat with millions of other viewers and said farewell to one of the best stories of all time.

Tonight we are having dinner, mafia style. I did not plan this, our meal of pasta, based upon all of the mob-talk this weekend. Rather, we had so much meat in a two-day span that we must become vegetarians for a few days until our systems balance back to normal. So when I want amazing pasta, I reach for one of my favorite cookbooks: "The Mafia Cookbook," by Joseph "Joe Dogs" Iannuzzi. The subtitle reads: "With 37 new, foolproof recipes of Mob favorites to die for, as well as the full story of 'Cooking on the Lam,' in which Joe goes from 'mobster' to 'protected witness.'" The recipes are interspersed with hilarious and colorful mafia stories, so it's fun to read as well as cook. The page most dog-earred is for Joe Dog's Pasta Marinara.

We also have another fabulous cookbook straight from Artie Bucco: "The Sopranos Family Cookbook." OK -- it's a little corny (I mean, it's fiction, after all), and Artie had nothing to do with it (because, well -- Artie doesn't exist). It's written by someone named in a very un-Italian fashion, Allen Rucker (although the recipes are are by Michele Scicolone, so that works). Like Joe Dogs' book, this too mixes recipes with stories and characters, making them even more real than we would pretend to believe. We had a Marinara Cook-Off not too long ago, and while it was impossible for me to choose a favorite (as they were both so incredible and so different), Don voted for Mr. Dogs. Sorry, Artie (although "his" Chicken Francese is fantastically delicious).

So in honor of this sad ending to a great ten years of entertainment, we will be having Pasta Marinara. As Joe says in the anecdote preceding this recipe, "This is a classic. Just throw in a littl'a this, a littl'a that and you got a sauce to die for (you should pardon the expression)." And to pass along the good feelings, I'll pass along the recipe (with a little alteration of our own).

2 cloves garlic (or a little more, depending how much garlic you like -- I'm a crazy garlic lover), crushed and chopped fine
1/4 cup olive oil
1 (28 oz) can peeled tomatoes, chopped fine
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1/4 tsp dry mustard
1/4 tsp pepper
2 tbs crushed dried pepper
1 bouillon cube (chicken)

In a small saucepan saute garlic in olive oil until garlic dissolves (do not brown or burn).
Add chopped tomatoes, stir, and simmer for 5 minutes.
Add remaining ingredients, stir, and allow to simmer over low heat for 25-30 minutes.
Serve over your favorite pasta.

La cucina nostra. Buon appetito!

A Good Report

The primary purpose of our trip back to PA was Grace's check-up with her foot specialist, for treatment of her clubfoot. I was a little apprehensive about the visit, wondering what he would see (or not see), praying that she would not need further casting or surgery. I'm her mother, I'm fiercely protective of my daughter -- I will probably always feel apprehensive about these visits. I'm happy to say that, so far, all is as well as can be expected. We are extremely fortunate to have one of the best, most influential doctors in the clubfoot-world, so our decision to continue seeing him, despite the two-hour trip, is an important one. One bit of good news is that her check-ups will now be annual, so we only have to make one trip a year.

Grace is a hoot. When the doctor walked in, my extroverted girl ran right up to him, looked him in the eyes, and said, "Hi Doctor!" And when he asked her to walk over to Mommy, she did -- but on her toes. She has never walked on her toes before, but leave it to Grace to do so at that moment. She knew she was being funny, but finally she gave in and walked around the room in a normal fashion. He then flexed her foot, at a maximum of 30-degrees, which is about right for a clubfoot (although it could be a little better, with more stretching of the tendon). He noticed two things, though, that we need to keep an eye one:

- Her foot, and especially her toes, do turn in rather dramatically, making her quite "pigeon-toed." The "treatment"of this is, of course, continued wear of the bar shoes at night, but now we must also put her daytime shoes on the wrong feet. Ugh. He said I should prepare myself for lots of stares, lots of questions, and lots of little old ladies saying, "Dearie, you put her shoes on wrong" like I'm some imbecile mother.

- He noticed that she might have a "drop foot," or a lazy foot, although she wasn't consistent with that every time she put her foot down. Often patients with a drop foot have nerve damage to that foot, and now they're finding that the damage occurred in utero. This is just something we have to keep an eye on.

Yet all in all, he was pleased with her progress, and even better -- no need for further casting or surgery! So we have about one more of those awful bar shoes until our visit again next year. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers. It feels good to have gotten through this. We're praying that the year ahead will be equally free of problems.

A Weary Traveler

We returned home yesterday after a few days back in PA. It was a mixed experience: great, anxiety-ridden, fun, painful, productive, bittersweet. After a four hour trip back (which usually takes two), and yet another late night for the kids, today was one of those bone-weary, exhausting days. I could not shake the fog in my brain; Aidan whined constantly and oozed an obnoxious attitude; the kids wouldn't play very well together; I roamed about trying to unpack and get things back in order. I was reminded why we don't ever go on vacation (I'm not kidding -- we don't): not only is the time away exhausting (kids out of their element, etc.), but the return is equally -- and if not more so -- taxing beyond belief.

I have a lot to write about -- good blogging fodder. But not tonight. I will say that I returned home to a hefty inbox, and I enjoyed going through my emails. One was sent from a friend who is consistent with emails that will make me laugh. This latest caption suited my day perfectly:

So I'm back for a while. But right now I'm going to bed. As Grace would say, "Ni-Ni."

Don's hanging out with the wrong crowd

I'm not sure I like Don's new co-worker. He started a few weeks ago. His name is Herschel, he's about our age and ... he's an audiophile. Herschel is enabling my husband's addiction.

A few days after Herschel started, Don came home with more than his lunch box. (Well, he doesn't really carry a lunch box -- it's one of those insulated things). He was carrying a very large black box with knobs. It made me nervous. He told me it was a pre-amp. Not quite sure what a PRE-amp is, and considering the fact that we have about 4+ regular amps ... well, my question was obvious: "Do we really need this?" And of course Don's answer (to the affirmative) was equally obvious. After spending about a full week on the kitchen table, this can't-live-without pre-amp has now taken up residence in our back hall, on the way to the basement. (Correction: it is now in the basement.)

A few days ago Don came home from work, again with more than his lunch box. There on the front porch was another black box with knobs (thankfully smaller than the first "gift" from Herschel). I just stared at it -- no audible questions necessary. Don blurted, "It's an amp ... from Herschel." Hmmmmm ... that brings our amp total up to ... well, a ridiculous number. That, too, is now sitting in the basement, next to the pre-amp, keeping it company.

I'm not sure I'm liking Herschel all that much.

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OK, I'll make one little concession: the other night Don was messing around in the back regions of the TV and other black boxes in our cabinet, kind of like an electronic proctologist, installing yet another "gift" from Herschel. He told me they were pure silver cables, designed to produce the absolute best picture when watching movies. We saw the James Bond flick, "Casino Royale" ... Pretty cool. I like pure silver cables.

Fine ... another concession. Herschel really does seem like a nice guy. I'm glad Don has a new buddy. He needed one.

Ambivalence

Well, school is now officially over for Aidan. I am feeling a great deal of ambivalence about this, which in a way surprises me.

Things that I won't miss:
- bratty children somehow armed with the hurtful guidebook, "How to Form Cliques At An Age When You Shouldn't Know Anything About It."
- a boy named Zachary, who not only told Aidan he wasn't cool, but today -- on the very last day! -- ran up to Aidan on the playground and hit him smack in his little manhood, for no reason. I asked Aidan how he responded, and he said he told his teacher, because it hurt. The teacher got very angry and put Zachary on the naughty bench. I'd like to hit HIM in his little manhood with the naughty bench!

However ...
- I foresee very, very loooonnnnggg summer days with kids whining that they don't know what to do
- I foresee a big, gaping hole in the corner of my brain where Creativity should reside, not knowing how to entertain my children for those loooonnnnnggg summer days
- I foresee an incredible stroke of creative genius, finally, on my part -- coming up with some awesome activity ... only to have them be bored with it after 2.5 minutes (rather than the 2.5 hours I envisioned)
- I foresee a lot of frustration and tears on my part
- I foresee lots of Vacation Bible School, bouncing from one neighborhood church to the next (oh, that's bad!)
- I foresee a lot of water going into the little swimming pool

Things I will miss:
- a few hours alone (well, with one child -- but a sleeping one during those hours)
- hearing Aidan's tales of what he did, and what he accomplished, seeing his little crafts, etc.

And this is the big one that I'm going to miss:
- Prayer. Now this might sound strange, but this ended up being one of the greatest gifts to me during these past few months. When we were (quite literally) kicked out of PA, and feeling the tsunami of pain wash over us, my prayer life stopped. Utterly and completely. Admittedly, I was never one to have an established daily "quiet time" spent in prayer and devotions. With my two kids, and my personality, that just wasn't going to happen. But I did pray -- often. Cleaning the house, washing the dishes, walking Grace in her stroller. Lots o' prayer. But when Don was terminated on Jan. 5, I stopped praying. I couldn't pray. My last "prayer" was a cry up to God, the night before Don was fired, and I will never, ever forget that God actually responded. I've never had that happen to me before, but with my soul ripped open, I "saw" God. God was speaking to Don, whose head was bowed and shoulders stopped, and God said something very, very prophetic. It was almost creepy, yet not because it was surrounded by some kind of strange peace. That was my very last prayer -- and the last time I "heard" from God.

Fast-forward a few prayer-less months. I knew many, many people were praying for us and I was grateful. I could feel it, actually, but I couldn't do it myself. There were moments where I tried, like I was dipping my toe into the water of a dark pond, but as soon as that first little synapse fired the message of "toe-touching-water" a strange wall flew up, stopping the prayer. There were times when I wanted to pray but couldn't, times when I did not want to pray at all because I was too angry and confused, times where I was actually terrified to pray because I had become afraid of God. The six horrible months in PA were indeed dark; the months following were an abysmal Black Hole.

However, one day I was driving back from dropping Aidan off, around 12:20 p.m. It was a perfect spring day, gorgeous blue sky, a flew fluffy white clouds, a nice breeze. It was quiet in the car, and all of a sudden I felt it -- this compulsion, this undeniable pull toward prayer. I didn't want to -- I was very tired, and I still had those lingering fears. But I couldn't stop it. I had to pray ... and I did. And the coolest thing happened: I could almost "see" in my mind God sitting there, listening intently. God never left. I had no choice in that moment but to pray. I'm not exactly sure what I said. I know I cried the whole way home (makes driving a little difficult with water-blurry eyes). I know I said, "I'm sorry" about a thousand times. I know I asked for forgiveness, for things "done and left undone." I know I was forgiven. I know I was sinned against in a big, bad way -- I know there is nothing I can do about that. I know I was welcomed back like the Prodigal Son (er, daughter). And I have to say it felt good to be back.

I'm going to miss those afternoon drives. For 12 minutes, 3 days a week, I had God's ear, with absolute peace and no interruption. I ranted, I raved, I praised, I cried, I thanked, I smiled, I questioned, I begged. 12 incredibly powerful minutes in my day. But what I found to be absolutely astonishing is that the nature of my prayer has changed. Not the prayer itself -- although that too has taken interesting turns -- but more like my spirit behind the prayer. I can feel, in some inexplicable way, that I am changed. The way I talk to God is different, and lately I've been feeling a confidence and a strength that I didn't feel before. I've been feeling an intense, burning anger, too -- not at God, but at the darkness, at the evil I've seen and experienced, at the injustice I've encountered, at hypocricy and lies. It was almost an empowering feeling, really. I almost felt I could start casting out demons, for goodness sake! But to finally be able to open up my soul, to hold it up to God and say, "See? Here it is, every last shred of it" and to let the prayers pour out in a kind of intimacy I'm not sure I felt before ... it has been very, very cool.

Now I'm not sure what I am going to do. I'm going to miss those 12 minutes. I can't even take these few minutes here to write down these meager thoughts without 25 interruptions, or screams from the yard which bring me a-runnin'. I guess we'll just have to wait and see how this next phase -- summer vacation -- plays itself out.

***********
P.S. Just as I finished writing this, Aidan ran in the house yelling, "Grace isn't in the yard!" Another 5 minutes of absolute terror, racing around the house, down the basement, up to my parents' house, back out in the yard, screaming her name ... Finally Aidan looked out the porch window and said, "There she is! In the street!" I don't think I've ever run as fast as that in my entire life (my legs are still shaking). Thankfully a woman (whom I never met before) who apparently lives down the next block saw her wandering in the street and brought her back over to the sidewalk. Unbelievable. That's Escape #2 for her already. I still haven't stopped shaking, or crying. This really is going to be a long, long summer.

Last Day of School

I've been feeling so blue lately. I'm not exactly sure why, but just a strong shade of blue. Some personal things have been going on (which I'm sure will pop up in some future post) within my family, a dreaded trip back to PA, plus other unpleasant occurrences ... I don't mean to be so cryptic, but just general stuff that makes me walk through my day with the constant sensation of feeling the tears behind my eyelids, not quite brimming over but ready to spill at the drop of a hat.

Today is Aidan's last day of preschool, and what started out the year with great promise and anticipation has now ended on a really bittersweet note. I spoke with his teacher for a few minutes after class yesterday afternoon, just to sort of recap his four months there, and I was a little disheartened at what she had to say. It wasn't anything bad -- it was just, well, sad for me to hear of some little changes in my little guy. When he started school in September, he was the oldest in the class and enjoyed the role immensely. He jumped in with both feet, not a fear in the world, oozing confidence from every pore. Within the first week or two he knew every child's name and something about them. He jumped at every chance to help the teacher, and he even helped the other students whenever he could. He was the happiest I think I had ever seen him. I was so incredibly proud of him.

Aidan was devastated to leave that school in January, and for a time he thought that he had done something to cause such an abrupt dismissal. He grieved that tremendous loss -- his teachers, his new friends, his role in his class. Thankfully he didn't give me a hard time about joining this new school, and he went three days a week with some quiet anticipation. He never said anything bad about the school or his classmates, and he told me he loved his teacher, so I assumed everything was going as it had before.

I was wrong. It's not that it was so bad -- it wasn't. It was just very, very different. Aidan was now the youngest in his class, and having started mid-year, the cliques had already formed, and the other kids were not willing to let him in. It broke my heart yesterday to hear his teacher say he was trying so desperately hard to fit in, but the doors remained closed to him. She said finally, about 3 or 4 weeks ago, the other kids just started to let him in and he was finally starting to connect with them. Three or four weeks ago ... that meant that for three months he was alone, with no friends. Those tears were threatening to spill big time.

It was a multi-faceted problem, beginning with the fact that he was the youngest. There were kids in that class who were a full year or more older than he was, so for example, when Aidan came to class in a new shirt that he thought was really cool, the other kids blew him off, because "cool" to them isn't a stupid shirt, it's building a robot. I'm not sure if Aidan understood this or not; all he felt was hurt when Zachary told him he wasn't cool. He's only four years old.

I also feel that part of his issue with "not fitting in" was fear on his part. I think he learned way too early that trust can be broken. I wonder if a part of him was incredibly hesitant to get close, because he knows from experience what it feels like to be ripped away from people you love. Better to put up your guard than get hurt again.

The teacher also said two things that really surprised me. First, she said he was having some trouble mixing up his lower case letters, like "b" and "d," for example. I know that during the fall, he was writing his letters -- both cases -- perfectly, with no mix-ups at all. And now this? Why would he be going backwards? Maybe that's normal -- what do I know. She also said that very often he would be in his own little world, looking around instead of listening, kind of day dreaming. Now that is pretty unusual for him. The example she gave: he was sitting in a chair and she asked him to get a rock. He wouldn't move, but instead just started looking around the room. After a time she said, "Aidan, what are you supposed to be doing?" Clearly he heard her, for he answered, "I'm supposed to be getting a rock." When she asked why he didn't wasn't doing it, he responded, "I don't know" but then finally got up and fetched the rock. He wasn't being obnoxious or disrespectful, just not ... I don't know, present. I have no idea what this is -- I haven't seen him do this at home, and I certainly never heard of him doing this back in the fall.

Am I reading too much into this? Maybe. The teacher was very confident that he'll do well in TK (Transitional Kindergarten) in September. All the kids will be the same age (August-October birthdays), and everyone will start with a clean slate, with cliques yet to be formed. I pray that his confidence will be restored, that he won't be scarred from what he's experienced and what he can't understand. Sometimes loving someone so much can hurt more than you could ever imagine.

Pesky Parent Prevails

Sounds like good headline -- and it is. After playing some phone tag with Aidan's school director about this tuition issue, I ran into her today at the office when I dropped my boy off for school. Within 7 seconds, the issue was resolved. She saw me, said hello, and then said, "I looked over Aidan's attendance in February and now June, and I just waived this month. It's no problem at all -- don't worry about it."

Phew! $193 safely tucked away in my bank account! I was very, very happy. It's funny how I simply hate dealing with things like this. Internal cringing, avoidance ... and now thankfully a positive resolution. If I can be frugal enough, I'll hang on to that and put it toward next year -- he enters Transitional Kindergarten in September at $343 a month. Ouch.

I think I'll write her a little note of thanks. Now that is something I can do with ease.

Chinese fortunes

Had Chinese food for dinner.

Fortune Cookie #1: Cleaning up the past will always clear up the future.
Hmmmm ... pretty appropriate, considering all this journey-talk.

Fortune Cookie #2: Don't kiss an elephant on the lips today.
In the countless number of fortune cookies I've consumed over the years, I have never received something like this.
This one is definitely making the fridge.

A Journey Back

On Saturday we're taking our first road trip in several months, having been cloistered up here in NJ and focusing inward. We have no choice this time, and of all places we're going back ... home? The place that had been home to us for many years, where we had gone to college, met our friends, had our children, developed wonderful memories. Only now, however, this place is associated with a whole lot of pain. And we're going back.

On Monday, Grace has an appointment with her surgeon, for her tri-yearly check-up for her clubfoot. We decided, at least for the time being, not to switch this doctor, for several reasons: he's one of the best in the world, he studied under Dr. Ponsetti himself (the clubfoot guru), he's known her since her birth, and it's a short trip for only a few times a year. When we left months ago, I had already made this appointment. I never knew it would be this hard to go back.

We're first traveling to the Lancaster area to visit Don's parents, since it's his father's birthday on Sunday. Then we will travel back to our former area for Grace's appointment Monday afternoon. I'm not too worried about Grace, although I guess there always is that little part of me that fears something is wrong. Is her foot developing the way it should? I have noticed that it turns inward, but is that just "normal" for her? Recently, in these warmer days of wearing shorts and little dresses, I've noticed that her right leg is considerably thinner than her left, and I'll have to point that out to the doctor. She tends to gallop when she runs -- is that just Grace being quirky, or is one leg shorter than the other? I know her feet are different by almost two sizes ... Yes, a mother's brain kicks into hyper-drive whenever her children are involved. As long as he says "no surgery" and "no cast" I think I'll be OK.

It's the other stuff that's subtly eating away at the lining in my stomach. Going back there. Driving down familiar roads. A reunion with great friends that will be so good yet so painful for me. A place that once represented my dreams, but now reminds me of dreams shattered. How am I going to do this? I am trying to talk myself out of all of this, saying I'm making too big a deal of it, but without my even thinking about it I can almost feel these things creeping into my soul like a gray mist. I don't want to go back. It's going to be too hard. Thankfully we don't have to drive past the church -- I think if I had to see that place I would completely fall apart. But her doctor is a mere 5 minutes away from that place and my mind is going to take off in a manner rivaling any space shuttle. I suppose this is my "exposure therapy," or as my counselor said in an email this morning, it's "anticipation anxiety." The area itself is benign; the reason for our trip is completely unrelated to anything that happened with that church over those horrible months. Going back to this theoretically benign place would be exposing me, in a way, without the pain or horror of confrontation with any of those people ... I don't know. It scares the crap out of me. Honestly. I think, if I have to name this, I feel intense fear right now.

It's funny. I guess when push comes to shove I'm not as healed as I'd like to be. I know, I know -- I have to give myself time. But in the moment ... ugh. Maybe we should ask the doctor if he has any contacts in NY that he could recommend ... or would that be avoiding the exposure? How often do you have to expose yourself until you cross that line into simply torturing yourself? Or on the other end of the spectrum, will this exposure in the end bring some healing? Plus some other stressful things are going on which are compounding the disappearance of my stomach lining ... this is going to be a long week.

Halloween in June ...

... or, "A dreary, rainy, yucky day with two bored children." Break out the costumes. Today's character of choice is Batman ... and Batgirl, or rock chick (Aidan's Batman glasses). I'm a little desperate today.

Happy Birthday, Jack!

I remember hearing people joke that before couples have children, they get a dog --I guess to practice or whatever. I suppose we are guilty of that, making our first "child" our Beagle, Jack. OK, people, a little indulgence here -- I'm a sucker for animals, especially dogs ... my dog. Today is his birthday, a whopping 8 years old (or 56 in human years). I'll never forget when we got our middle-aged pal, because the decision to become dog owners wasn't actually ours. We were living in our first "real" house (purchased ourselves -- our brief two-year stint with home ownership, equity, and all those other big grown-up words associated with it), and one day in late July my father-in-law called to say a neighbor was selling off his litter of Beagle puppies. He was thinking of getting one (he's a long-time hunter) and wanted to know if we were interested (in the dog, not in the hunting). We said we would have to think about it -- I mean, that's a pretty big decision. We both adore animals, but while Don grew up with Beagles and was familiar with dog-ownership, I never had one (despite my constant childhood pleas, and my parents' equally firm replies to the negative). I, on the other hand, had hamsters (even had one in seminary) -- something very different than owning a dog. We just weren't sure this was the right time for us.

Well, like I said, the decision ultimately wasn't ours. My father-in-law called back the next day, saying he purchased two puppies, the last of the litter -- one for him, and one for us. Now I absolutely love dogs, but I was not sure I was ready for this -- and I certainly do not like having decisions made for me. But, as Tony Soprano would say, "Whaddaya gonna do ..." Indeed. So in those following weeks I made the necessary purchases of all things related to dogs, I made the necessary phone calls to friends who had dogs for quick over-the-phone tips on what the heck I was getting myself into and what the heck I was supposed to do, and in the first week of August we packed up the car and headed toward our destiny in the Poconos.

We drove to the neighbor's place and I have to admit I was really appalled at the conditions. The father -- a gorgeous, perfect Beagle and a renowned hunter -- was chained to a post, while the mother was locked in what looked like a large rabbit hutch, crammed in there with her remaining two puppies. The cage was disgustingly filthy, with more dog poop on the floor than visible flooring. There was only one bowl of food, apparently shared by the entire litter, with the mother eating last. From what we were told, all the local hunters came and with their infinite wisdom picked the best puppies for their upcoming hunting expeditions. I'm not sure why no one chose Mike (who went to my in-laws -- he ended up being a total doofus, a spaz of a dog, but very cute in a simpleton sort of way. So much for the great hunter), but Jack was the runt. He was timid, was glued to his mother, and was the last to eat (and therefore a bit smaller than the others). Everyone dismissed him as a "loser" and not worth his salt in the hunting world. That was perfectly fine with us -- we weren't going hunting, and a quiet beagle was perfect. I fell in love with him the minute I saw him. At 8 weeks old, he was all eyes and ears. Taking him from his mother, though, was one of the most heart-breaking experiences of my life. He cried, she cried, I cried ... it was awful. But I knew we couldn't leave him there in that filthy place, so we held him up one last time -- he on the outside of the coop, she on the inside -- they cried and touched noses, and off we went. It was truly heart-breaking.

Jack was a dream dog in many ways: fairly easy to train (except in the food department -- you will never get that out of a beagle), very quiet, lovable to the point of being clingy, sweet disposition. He's been a friend, a companion, a stress-reliever -- everything you always hear about in a good dog. And the most ironic thing is that out of the entire litter, he's the best hunter, as far as instinct goes. We aren't "hunting people" (Don is reformed), but even on a calm lazy walk his instinct kicks in. His muzzle is starting to turn white, he's slowing down, but from time to time we'll see a burst of puppy energy. Don's childhood Beagle lived to be 16 years old, so I'm hoping we have many years left ahead of us. He's a wonderful dog, and a huge part of our life.

Happy birthday, buddy. We're glad you're a part of our family.