Lemonade

My days have been jam-packed with phone calls to doctors, discussions of casting and surgery and physical therapy and all sorts of topics to fix Grace's foot. There have been many moments of great anxiety, progress, tears, relief. But through it all Grace is wonderfully, blissfully ignorant.

And recently, on an unbearably hot summer day, my resilient and resourceful girl didn't need a big fancy pool to cool down. She turned a little plastic basin full of water into hours of afternoon fun. She truly knows how to make lemonade out of a bunch of lemons.

How many times do we learn lessons from our kids?
I love this picture.

Laugh Lines for the Week

Despite all of the heavy stuff going on in our lives lately, we sure do laugh a lot ...

- My mom is a born Sunday School teacher. She sees every situation, every moment as a lesson about God. Recently she asked Grace, "Look out the window. Do you know who made the beautiful clouds?"

"Yeah," she said with a sigh, as if somewhat bored by this line of questioning, since she so clearly knew the answer:

"Aidan."

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



Yesterday was a big, busy day for Aidan. We spent part of the morning with my friend Jacie and her kids, riding bikes (the kids, while we tried to cheer them on) and playing on a local playground. Aidan stayed there for lunch, while Grace and I went back home, and in the afternoon Aidan spent more time with them swimming in their neighbor's pool. He came home closet to 5:00 p.m. -- a long, fun day, but an exhausting one.

He could hardly keep his eyes open; he felt "floppy" and occasionally cried little whimpers of exhaustion. I knew part of his problem was the fact that he was beyond starving, and as as soon as he ate some dinner he'd get his energy back. I tried to explain this to him but he was too tired to hear it. I tried another tactic.

"Aidan, your body is like a car," I said. "Right now your gas tank is empty, so it needs some gas -- or food -- so you can start driving around again." He got that, but still whimpered all throughout dinner. He ate his chicken and broccoli veeerrrrryyyy slowly, but he ate nonetheless. Then, about 3/4 of the way through his plate, he put his fork down.

"Mommy," he said groggily, eyes half opened. "I'm all full of gas now."

That Hot Dog Shouldn't Be There!

What do you get when you stick a plastic hot dog and a superball where it doesn't belong?


... A competition (whose remedy will work for dislodging the offending items? The spoon or the race car track?)

... Teamwork

... A really good chunk of time used up in quiet determination (no screaming, fighting)

... Creativity

... With a little frustration thrown in the mix.

So, you might be wondering -- how did the hot dog and superball finally escape the dreaded ball-popper toy? (We'll skip the question of "how did it get there in the first place?" That's an easy one).

No kitchen utensils or flexible tracks necessary.
Grace just pulled it apart and retrieved her beloved hot dog.

Why this entire scenario cracked me up is a mystery, but these kids -- with the presence of a toy hot dog -- sure do make me laugh.

To Pee or Not to Pee

One of my potential goals this summer was to potty train Grace. She turned 3, a good age to start, I've been told. Aidan was 3 and a half, and the only reason I waited so "long" was due to the fact that I just had Grace and had heard way too many stories of relapses, resentment, spiteful peeing, and so on. I wanted none of that. Grace was about 6 months old when I started "training" my 3-and-a-half-year-old boy, and it took no longer than a week, with no accidents whatsoever. A snap.

I knew from the start that Grace would be more of a challenge. "Girls are typically easier to train than boys," I had read. Yeah, right. With Aidan, I could talk to him about it, figure it out together. With Grace, it's a different story. She's far more "babyish" (and I don't mean that in a bad way) than Aidan ever was; these kinds of conversations with her don't exist, really. She's just oh, so incredibly different and I would need a new tack for this endeavor. But what that might be, I had no idea.

I found a checklist online, a test of sorts to see if my girl is ready for the adventure:
Does she watch others do this with fascination and interest? No.
Does she talk about it or show an interest? No.
Is she interested in being a "big girl?" No.
Is she interested in panties rather than diapers? No.
Is she dry for longer periods during the day? No.
Does she tell you when she has gone in her diaper? No. (That's what noses are for)

Well, according to the "test," she's far from ready. I thought I'd try some visual connection for her, and purchased pull-ups, decorated with Cinderella and Belle and a bevy of beautiful Disney princess. She was absolutely delighted, hugging the package during our entire grocery trip yesterday. I talked to her about it, but really felt it was a situation of "lights are on but no one's home." I persevered.

After her nap, I thought it would be a perfect time to try. I had the afternoon in front of me, I prepared to set the timer at half hour intervals, and so on. I dragged out the purple potty seat from the attic (the kind that sit directly on the toilet) and deemed it her new "princess throne." She squealed with delight; I was hopeful. I sat her down; "Nothing!" she said. OK, no problem. I put on the pull-up and showed her how it worked. She loved it and refused to put her regular pants on. "I want to show Grandma!" she said, so we trekked upstairs.

Then came the final sign. She stopped in her tracks, stood by the door and ... just stood there. For a moment. I just looked at her, she looked at me. Then:

"Mommy! I have to go potty!"

A flurry of activity, I whisked her to the bathroom, pulled down her pants ... and smelled pee. She had peed first, THEN told me she had to go.

Well, it's a start.

Later that evening, the little nudie kids stood in the bathroom, waiting patiently while Daddy filled the tub. I had placed her, just moments before, on the toilet, recalling how we started training Aidan -- right before bathtime. "Nothing!" she said again. Now the nudesters stood together, a cute picture really, when suddenly:

"EEWWWWW!" from Aidan, looking at a puddle on the floor.

"Grace, what is that?" I asked. She smiled at me.

"Mommy, I have to go potty!"

I put the pull-ups in the closet.
She is so not ready.
Nor am I.

Who'da Thunk

Grace got this present for her birthday. It's adorable -- a wooden spin on the old "paper dolls" I used to play with. No more ripped-off tabs and crumpled paper clothes. It's all magnetic, with gowns and shoes and accessories. It's actually really fun. But Grace doesn't play with it much. Why?

Her almost-six-year-old brother LOVES it, and plays with it daily.

It's kind of funny, watching Grace play with his Hot Wheels while Aidan mixes-and-matches. Although today he decided to switch it up, putting everything in the wrong places. Grace had a fit at this travesty. Bejeweled glass slippers do not belong on the head of a princess.

Ah, yes. This is my day. Now they're playing with balloons, watching them bounce around off the ceiling fan. I'm bracing myself for a big pop ...

Take a Breath

Phew! It feels like it's been ages (or at least, definitely, days) since I've paid a visit to my little blog and felt it time to check in. I'm not sure where my time has been flying to lately, but there's certainly been a current of frantic in the air around here. You'd think that all my buzzing around would result in some loss of poundage but alas ...

So let's see what I've been up to lately:

- I've got clubfoot on the brain, that's for sure. Still trying to find the right doctor for Grace and feeling rather stuck at the moment. We know for sure we want to find someone who follows the Ponseti Method, but good luck trying to find such a person in this densely packed state of NJ. I don't get it, really -- we're not a modern day Ingalls Family stuck on the big prairie, with only Doc Baker at our disposal. We're in NJ, for pete's sake! We did rule out one guy who, oddly enough, was highly recommended by Ponseti folks, but after hearing his game plan for our little girl, we decided to walk in the other direction ... quickly ... without looking back. A few days ago I actually emailed Dr. Ponseti himself, all the way in Iowa, to get his opinion on the matter. I'm awaiting his response and, hopefully, a good push in the right direction. Still waiting, still eyeing up that little foot which looks more and more like a fat banana each day, still trying not to panic as time ticks by ...

- Also trying to get my "new" kitchen back together. I am loving it, my friends -- the cool shade of silvery blue, the energy in the room, the spaciousness, the brightness, the LIGHT! Now we have to find a time to purchase a dishwasher (portable), see if we like the arrangement (photographs below), maybe move some things around (although we don't have much space to do much of that, really), and once we have the puzzle put together, hang an awesome old wooden, painted sign belonging to Don's grandfather, from his carpentry days. Then my kitchen will feel complete. Well, almost ... until we get a new floor and begin restoration on the little "desk" area in the hallway ... It's an ongoing project, to be sure.



- Speaking of the kitchen, had a fun Providential moment when we realized our large, rectangular table would not fit with a dishwasher in the mix as well. Suddenly, I received a phone call from my friend Jacie. "Guess what I have in my attic?" she said. So ... we are now the happy owners of a round table which fits perfectly in the new arrangement. And it was FREE! Thanks, Jacie! :)

- I thought about potty training Grace this morning. For about 5 minutes. She is so not ready.

- My son impaled himself on a dinosaur sprinkler on Sunday afternoon. At least I think they are dinosaurs. It was gruesome, but in a weird way because there was no blood. He tripped, fell right on top of a unicorn-like creature, whose horn-thing impaled Aidan right in the groin. He screamed, he looked terrified, I tried to brush it off (he's not the bravest of kids when it comes to injuries, having more mole hills than mountains). I took my time turning off the hose, moseyed back over to him ... but when he pulled down his swim suit and I saw the deep hole, with thick layers of skin and a subterranean view I had never seen before ... well, then I got on the ball. It was the strangest thing, this deep hole but lack of blood. We skipped a visit to the doctor, taped him up with some butterfly contraption of snipped up band-aids, and it looks OK. What a weird experience.

- Tried a few new recipes recently, one by way of a Gordon Ramsay podcast and the other from a GlobeTrekker special, featuring foods from Southern Spain and Italy. We had Ramsay's last night -- pasta with a sautéd mix of cherry tomatoes, black olives, red onion, fresh basil, garlic, capers, and anchovies. Woo-hoo! Have a hose ready, for while it was delicious, it was outrageously salty! Don's a salt guy, so it didn't bother him at all, but my goodness I downed about a gallon of water during the meal. Super tasty, though, so I'd make it again. The other dish was a Tuscan spin-off, featuring chicken (the dude used rabbit but ... ick) lightly coated in flour, sage, and thyme, then sautéd black olives, white wine, garlic, rosemary ... finishing up by braising the concoction for a while in the oven. Don added some cherry tomatoes to the mix and served it over rice. Good and quite easy, but also salty. Fun stuff.

- Trying to sneak in another trip to the shore before we find a doctor for Grace, who will indubitably start casting her right away. Once casted, no water. More planning ...

- Of course, I have the day to day craziness to deal with, all contributing to a whirling of the brain. Now it's time for lunch. with a special request from Aidan to make "Daddy's Special Sandwich." Hmmmm ... time to play chef for a while. Hopefully I'll get a deep breath in there somewhere.

A Truly Girlie Day

Ah yes, what's a birthday for a three-year-old girl without princesses, talking mirrors, tiaras, and My Little Pony? Yes indeed -- Grace is quite the girlie-girl, and what a fun party we had!

To survive the sweltering heat, we blew up a few pools -- the big one for the bigger kids ...

... and the Princess of the Day got her own little wet realm, which suited her just fine.

Even girlie-girls can play with the Big Boys, here engaging in saving the world as Super Heroes, and, of course ... Super Girl!

Mommy is secretly digging all this girlie stuff too.

And, of course, the day wouldn't have been complete without a Cinderella cake, which made Grace's eyes light up like never before.

So how are we spending our Sunday? Quietly, at home. I think all of the activity -- not only the birthday, but the serious stuff too over the past month or so with her clubfoot relapse, my own stuff going on, Aidan being ... Aidan, at times ... kids being kids, and so on. I woke up this morning feeling like I too had a birthday -- my 87th. I felt rotten -- not sick, but just completely fried. Don needed to take it easy today anyway and had planned to stay home from church, so the kids and I joined him. I just couldn't do it. Even if I mustered up some non-existent energy to get there, I would never have been able to focus, I am that wiped out. So here we are, a quiet Sunday morning -- we finished watching Erwin McManus preach on a podcast, and now Don is sleeping on the couch, the kids -- who just finished eating The Backyardigans (or as Grace says, The Fartigans!) fruit snacks -- are quietly playing with some of Grace's new toys (while Grace busies herself with a Little People Circus, Aidan has taken over the new Bristle Blocks), and I am starting to feel my spirit starting to slowly put itself back together again, not even thinking what lies in store for me this week. Today is just that ... today. Quiet.

A Birthday Phenomenon

All morning long, Aidan has been asking me, "Mommy, is she three yet?" No, my boy ... 11:19 a.m. (or thereabouts). I think he asked me about 6 times throughout the course of the morning. Clearly he hasn't learned how to tell time yet.

11:19 a.m. came and went. We had lunch. We cleaned up the kitchen. We're about ready for naptimes (for all of us!). It's now 12:38 p.m.

"Mommy," Aidan just asked me. "Is she three yet?"

Oh, yes! Actually, she is! I told him she officially turned three about an hour ago.

"Hooray!" he yelled and ran into his room, where his sister was in the process of dressing up like Cinderella. I love what happened next.

"Gracie! Gracie! Guess what? You're three now! You're three! Just look at yourself! You're taller now!"

"Yes, yes!" responded Grace. "I'm taller! I'm wearing heels!"

I don't think that's exactly what he meant.
I love these kids.

Happy Birthday To ...

Yep ... she's 3. Already.
Unbelievable.
What a girl!

That Kinda Day ...

What do you get when you cross web-slinging Spiderman with Cinderella Ballerina? (Yes, that's what she calls herself) ...

Two very happy kids.

So far. :)

Gotta Love a Good Diversion

I've had clubfoot on the brain now for a while -- it does indeed have the potential to take over every thought, every moment of your day. So what did I need? A good diversion ... and boy, did I get one.

My dad has been having some work done on the exterior of the house -- replacing many of the cedar shingles on the top half of the house, and now everything is being given a new coat of paint. Suddenly, in a rather impromtu-ish sort of way, I suggested, "Why not bring the painter inside to repaint the kitchen?" Yes, why not?!

A few months ago we started talking about renovating our little old kitchen, entertaining ideas from the minimal to some ultimate far-out concoctions. We shelved the project for a while, as "life" set in, other things needed to be taken care of, and so on. It happens. Every once in a while it would be resurrected, we'd chat, and then it went back on the shelf. But now, with the painter literally on our doorstep, we decided to take the plunge!

We had about one day to pick out a paint color -- a time frame which, for me, was nerve-wracking. I'm the sort to pore over those little strips of colors, obsessing between one shade to the next, driving everyone crazy. Perhaps the rush was a good thing for me, forcing me to choose, and choose quickly. I went to the hardware store with the kids, picked up a few booklets and about half a dozen color strips, and then sat at my kitchen table, scratching my head. I called my mom, and the two of us put our heads together, narrowing down the list. Then on Sunday afternoon I brought the array to Don, who in his predictable way, said, "Yep. No. Not bad. What else ..." In about 10-minutes' time, we had a color. "Silver Cloud."

When we first moved in a year and a half ago, I was never a fan of the kitchen -- the color especially. The tenants before us painted it a deep, dark, blood red. Now, I do love the color in and of itself -- as nail polish, or perhaps adorning an accent wall in a Great Room. But in a small, cramped, already-dark kitchen, it was a horrible choice. Well, not "horrible," but it definitely gave it a cave-like feel. That, coupled with super dark mud-brown cabinets circa 1981, it did not lend itself to a comfortable room.

So we decided to swing the pendulum in the opposite direction. With bright white glistening doors and woodwork, our kitchen walls now shine with a pale silvery blue. The room has completely opened up, playing a fabulous optical illusion in its doubling of size. I am in love with this room! It does take some getting used to, I have to admit, going from something dark and very warm to super bright and cool and energizing. But ... wow, what a difference.

Before -- not bad, but quite dark

After: pictures, of course, don't always do justice. Looks a bit sparse with nothing on the walls, but that will soon be remedied.

Possible Plan: Move the fridge to that empty corner (that's where my Grandma always had it), work table and dishwasher on the other side, and round table in the middle. We'll see ...

And here's the best part: yes, we're getting a dishwasher! Oh, to have a true innovative gadget to wash the dishes for me! The only dilemma is getting it to fit in our tight space. We've taken out a tall, thin cabinet that Don had made years ago in order to make room, but it's still going to be tight. It looks like we have no choice but to purchase a new table -- a round one, otherwise it will be a Feng Shui nightmare. Our current table is just too big, too angular to fit with any additional appliances. But that's OK. My job today is to scrounge around for cardboard boxes and create a mock-up of a dishwasher so we can get a good idea of what it will look like. I have to move the fridge, take our current table out, set up a temporary round one from my uncle ... you get the idea. Then I'm hitting the attic, rummaging around our 1,253 boxes to find packed-up pictures, since our color scheme has changed completely and what once decorated our walls must find another home. It will be fun to recycle. This is full-blown redecorating. I LOVE IT.

Tomorrow I'm taking Grace to see another specialist for her clubfoot, with more questions and more concerns and clubfoot will once again burning on my brain. But that's tomorrow. Today I am flying cherub-like on my own silver cloud, loving every minute of this diversion. Thanks, God, for this gift.

Life Really Can Be a Beach

We spent the day at the Jersey shore yesterday, a hugely anticipated trip not only for the kids but, admittedly, myself as well. I LOVE the shore and feel so blessed to live within an easy drive of it. Last year, we tried the same thing, embarking on a dismally dark, gray, and cold day and arriving at a dismally dark, gray, and cold beach, inhabited by only two bundled lifeguards and ... us. We had as much fun as we could, which wasn't much at all.

Yesterday's trip started out with great promise ... until I discovered that My Friend Murphy is a Beach Lover too! Oh, yippee hooray for me! Ah, but doesn't it always make for a good story ...

We left early with the plan to arrive at this particular beach by 10:00 a.m. -- and to my surprise, we actually made it by that very hour! But then Murphy, donned in his swim suit and sun glasses, put on his sea legs and got to work. Oh, did you want to park fairly close to the beach? Well, of course, since we have two kids and car load of stuff ... Well then, my dears, prepare to take out a second mortgage to pay for such a luxury. Our first ouch in the wallet that day ...

A few months ago I had purchased a super-nifty beach cart for just such family jaunt, and the night before I loaded it into the car ... never thinking to take it out of its packaging. It was so nicely and neatly wrapped, all perfectly rectangular with 90-degree angles, that it helped make packing a dream. That is, until we started to unload the car. Don laughed at me as he pulled out the crinkly-packaged beach cart, but then the laughing stopped when he realized,

"Sue, it has to be assembled!"

Oops. Thank goodness no tools were necessary, as we had all the parts scattered around the parking lot, with Handy Helper Aidan running for Rod A or Wheel B. Gotta love cheap-o pop-in plastic parts! Boy, did I feel stupid.

With the beach cart perfectly loaded, we made our way to the boardwalk and headed for the bath houses, which we had done every year for years on end when I was a child. But this time we were greeted by a huge sign, informing us of the third mortgage we would have to take out on our house (if we owned one), in order to purchase beach tags and have full use of the bath house. Forget that -- we'll just sit in the car on the way home in our salty suits and gritty skin and sand in places it shouldn't be. What a rip off.

We did have to pay near $20 to get on God's Beautiful Beach, though, which never sits well with me, but we gritted out teeth, paid the fare, and finally dug our eager toes into the warm sand. The kids ecstatic and I instantly forgot how thin my wallet was by this point. We're here, we're here ...

Now, it's been a few years since I was at this particular beach, yet my memory had completely failed me when I saw the state of the beach. It wasn't as big as I remembered, erosion probably having some hand in the matter, but after we dropped our stuff off at a location not too far in from the boardwalk, we walked toward the ocean ... and what turned out to be a giant precipice. I've never quite seen anything like this, the way the sand suddenly dropped out an alarmingly steep angle, down down down toward the breaking waves, so steep that you'd need climbing gear to haul yourself back up. And the surf ... the surf was outrageous. Somewhere 1,300 miles down south a hurricane was spinning, and the resultsfor us was killer surf, the strongest riptide I've felt in a long, long time. My Motherly Protective Freak-Out Instinct Button was getting pushed with each 10-12+ foot wave that came crashing down, with each stumble of my boy who doesn't have his sea legs yet. Aidan and I stood hand in hand in that rough surf, only up to our shins, but I was not at ease as my lotion-slicked hands couldn't get a good grip on my equally lotion-slicked boy. It was a bit nerve-wracking.

My normally fearless girl, on the other hand, was a very different -- and surprising -- story. She wanted nothing to do with those gigantic crashing waves of water ... thank goodness for that. She was more than content with her bucket of water at the top of the precipice and stayed put for hours. Don, Aidan, and a little stray boy named Kevin dug a huge hole, fortress-like to keep out the waves -- a fun exercise that lasted for quite a while ... until the mini-tsunamis hit. Yes, at the Jersey Shore.

Out of nowhere a giant wave made its way up the steep incline of sand, washing completely over our fortress and pushing its way far up the beach. Unsuspecting children screamed as they tumbled in the harsh surf. Sleeping sunbathers were washed a few feet from their places of slumber, sputtering with shock as they tried to gather their wits -- and soaked towels -- about them. Chairs and shovels and pails and every other beach item imaginable went floating, intermixing with the belongings of others, as we all scrambled to spot our own things among those of others. Soon after another one hit, then another. Then it was quiet. The lifeguards atop their high perch were cracking up -- indeed a funny spectacle, I'm sure. It was truly the weirdest thing I have ever experienced at the beach.

That was it for us -- a perfect break for lunch. We secured our super-nifty beach cart back farther, quite close to the boardwalk now, and we hit the throngs on the wooden walkway in search of food. Ah, yes, to feed a family of four on the boardwalk entails selling the house you now have 3 mortgages on -- it was outrageous but a pure display of capitalism at its best, for "supply and demand" rules supreme there. After the fabulously unhealthy fare, we went back to our spot, only to discover that the beach had been transformed ... into a lake.

Signs were posted now, "Rough Surf -- No Bathing." Ah, but who needs to swim in the actual ocean, when you can splash to your heart's content in a giant lake? Sure enough, the surf had become so aggressive that it crashed over the precipice and washed out almost the entire beach. The lifeguards were quite literally sitting on their perch in the middle of a sandy island, while kids splashed about in the newly formed lake. And there was our stuff, still fairly neatly packed in the super-nifty beach cart ... but soaked. Everything.

I had it. I was done, and so were the kids. We all toweled off, gritty and sandy and itchy -- although lucky Grace got changed in the car, for there's nothing worse than a Dora Swimmie Diaper loaded -- and I mean loaded -- with sand. As soon as her car seat buckle clicked, she was out like a light. My poor, worn out, sun-kissed, happy little kids.

What a day. Odd, yes, by all means. A little too exciting for me, really -- some nice calm bath-water-surf would have been just the ticket for me. But hey, My Friend Murphy sure makes for some interesting tales ...

Golden Question of the Day

In the car today, running errands around town, Aidan once again pulled out one of his Golden Questions:

"Mommy, does a platypus live in the ocean or lakes?"

Hmmmm ... I was stumped. For some reason I didn't think it lived in salt water, but then I wasn't sure what kind of lake it would take up residence in. After going back and forth, I had to admit to my boy that I just wasn't sure. Frankly, I don't think about the platypus often. Or ever.

"That's OK," he said. "When we go home, we can just look it up on "platypus-dot-com-"The Mystery" and then we'll discover everything!"

For some reason, that really struck me funny. I did poke around a bit, for fun, and there is indeed a website called "platypus.com" ... but rather than unveiling the mysteries of the sea creature, it featured some contemporary artist in California.

I love what goes through his little brain -- and the intense enthusiasm that goes right along with it. Even if it involves the odd, duck-billed, platypus who now has a champion in a little boy.

A First Step Can Be a Doozy ... or a LOT of fun!

Yesterday my girl and I took our first step -- literally -- down Clubfoot Lane, or at least the new branch of it. We're starting over, finding someone who will treat her properly, correct her relapse, and in our first step yesterday we paid a visit to a new doctor, to check him out. I went in with basement expectations and walked out quite elated and very pleasantly surprised. Still, I'm cautious -- very cautious. We have another dude to check out next week, to do a little comparison shopping.

Anyway, the visit went very well and Grace was a dream -- also exceeding my expectations. At the age of almost-3, she is a handful, and difficult to take places (at least for me). She gets antsy very quickly, especially in doctor's offices. But yesterday she was beyond great, playing so nicely in the office while we waited, keeping her hands off of "doctor things" in the little examination room, and so on. She got a big kick out of the x-ray machine, and seeing her foot bones. All good.

After being admired by the nurses/receptionists behind the counter for quite some time (and clearly basking in their admiration of her cuteness), we finally left. As the door closed behind us and we stepped into the hall, Grace suddenly shouted (yes, shouted):

"Oh, that was SO ... MUCH ... FUN!!!!"

I do believe, My Dear Watson, that we're off to a very good start!

He Really Needs To Start His Own Blog ...

My "I'm not interested" husband asked me to write another post for him, last time recounting his youthful experience at the Smithereen's concert, and now his glee over something else. Actually, it is quite a fun story -- one of those experiences that fall into the "This never happens to me!" category ...

A few weeks ago he went to some training seminar for his current line of work (which, for those of you who might not be aware, is "Episcopal Priest-turned-high end A/V home theater & home automation installer" ... I actually put that as "father's occupation" on Grace's medical form, haha!). At the end of the second day of training, he called me on the cell phone on the way home, giddy and verging near big-man giggling.

"Guess what? I won something!" he exclaimed.

Ooooo-kaaaayyyyy ... where's this going?

As it turns out, he had put his name in for a prize drawing, and actually won the item -- a super high end Universal Remote Control (MX980, he said over my shoulder, lest I leave out the most important part!). High-end indeed, worth hundreds of buckaroos! What are we going to do with it? I asked.

"Sell it!" he said. And sure enough, within a few days he sold it for a nice hefty sum, half of which slipped right back out to purchase a new processor for our computer, which has been running like a 92-year-old man at the Boston Marathon. Scratch that -- there probably are some incredibly fit 92-year-old men who can indeed run the Boston Marathon. I'll just say the computer was running like ME at the Boston Marathon ...

That is a pretty cool story, actually. Not only winning something (which doesn't happen often) but winning something big, not some trinket or dorky fridge magnet or a nice shiny logo-encrusted pen. OK -- so I didn't quite mind posting this little nugget, since I also benefit from it. My, blogging now is so speedy ...

But still -- he really does need to start his own blog.
Yeah, and I think the chances of winning something are greater than that ever happening.

Got Tums?

My stomach is churning a bit this morning. After spending the entire morning yesterday on the phone with doctors, I am now beginning the first steps on a somewhat "new" journey -- or at least, a new branch of a journey we've been on for the past three years with Grace. In a nutshell, we're starting all over with her clubfoot situation.

Do I want to be here, at this point? No way. No one likes going backwards, starting over. It's kind of funny -- ironic funny -- that my very last post expressed a new "beginning" for me regarding one major part of my journey, letting go of the events of the past, forgiving, and moving on. Maybe it's not so coincidental -- perhaps reaching that milestone has freed me up to now focus on the next stretch o' road in front of me, gathering up my emotions and energy and will and placing them on my daughter and her needs. Yes, we're starting over.

Grace's clubfoot has relapsed. It doesn't look great and of course I'm concerned. For a while now my mother-gut has been churning, hearing and listening and doing yet not quite believing that what we were doing was right for her. I have some fabulous new women in my life now, helping me along the way, filling in the cracks and voids so I am better armed to face what's ahead. It kills me to think that she never even needed that horrible surgery at three months of age, that it was completely avoidable, that the scar tissue clogging up her heel now wouldn't even be there if we had known. But no one can go back.

This afternoon my girl and I are taking our first journey-steps, heading over to a new pediatric orthopedic surgeon nearby. He comes highly recommended, and I'm sure he's fantastic with certain orthopedic issues, but how he handles clubfeet is yet to be discovered. Thanks to these women who have gone before me, I now have a list of questions (that I'm sure he'll love!) to ask, to better understand what's in front of us, what our options are. I'm doctor-shopping and he's my first stop.

I'm nervous. I said to Don the other night, I feel very similar to what I did when we first began this journey, at Grace's birth -- not knowing what all this is about, feeling inexperienced and lost, feeling overwhelmed and scared. After one of our earlier meetings with her doctor, I recall him saying that when she reaches the age of 3, this will basically all be over, save the occasional check-up in the future, older years. The age of 3. I remember thinking, at the time, as I held my newborn girl, that three years seemed an eternity. I remember telling Don that, while I didn't want to overlook those precious newborn moments due to looking in vain into the future, there was that part of me that kept muttering, "I can't wait until she's 3. I can't wait until she's 3 ..."

And now, she's 3. Well, almost. And we are so, so, so far from being finished. We're just starting it all over again. While I won't wallow in this, while I won't be swallowed up with regret and woe, I will allow myself to feel this, to grieve this, and then to take those first steps forward on this new leg of the journey. I don't know what's in store for her, but I do know this: she is one incredible, vivacious, beautiful little girl who will, I have no doubt, handle this better than her Mommy. :)

So here we go ...

Roadside Assistance

"First I thought it was numbness, shock. The inability to believe that a just God could allow someone to destroy a gold mine of prehistoric knowledge for a year's worth of Salisbury steak … Life is a mystery. One man's life-altering experience is another man's tenderloin. I'm one of you now. I'm a Cicelean."

(Dr. Joel Fleischman, Northern Exposure, Season Five - Episode 24, "Lovers and Madmen")

Joel just discovered an entire, perfectly preserved woolly mammoth while playing golf in the wilds of Alaska, only to later find it gone -- transported to Walt's shed where he was in the process of butchering it. Nothing like a 3-inch fillet of mammoth the size of your femur, smothered in onions and peppers ...

After this wretched discovery, Joel collapsed on Maggie's couch, stunned that someone would butcher a mammoth rather than show the world one of the most incredible discoveries of all time. But instead of having a typical Joel-meltdown, he's quiet, reserved ... resigned. The above quote is his famous monologue -- the moment where Joel finally realized he's crossed over. After years of fighting and protesting and whining and fighting some more, it's over. He's finished. He's one of them now.

Last weekend's trip to PA was, for me, more than just about Grace's clubfoot. I discovered my own woolly mammoth, in a way, and I learned something pretty important. I took a few more crucial steps along my journey's path, and like Joel, I realized I have come to a monumental point. While I'm not a Cicelean, I have been able to do something that I've been "fighting" with for so long. Like forgiveness, it's been in my head, but finally -- Fleischman-like -- it made it's way down to my heart.

I'm OK.
Everything is really, truly, finally OK.

I mean, with everything -- with what happened with the church, with our calling, with our ministry, with our lives, with where we ended up ... it's OK. I still feel angry at times, and that's not such a bad thing. I'm created in God's imagine, right? And God is a just God. He didn't create sin, or injustice, or abuse, and God hates it. So, being in God's image, it's OK to hate injustice. It's OK to be angry with people who do bad things. Period.

But what our weekend trip helped me do was to put that in its rightful place, in that box labeled "Appropriate Response" and put the lid on tight. It's no longer in that sieve, seeping out through tiny holes into every area of my life, making me miserable. And so how did this come about? Through two separate conversations with two separate friends, on two separate days.

In a nutshell, our friends -- both of whom have experienced their own painful situations, one also within the church -- both said this: it's OK. You came upon it, you experienced it, you were hurt by it, you moved through it, and it's OK. It's part of our history now, our story, our journey. But journey's don't stop ... they keep going. They have to. But I just kind of got hung up there on the roadside, mired in the muck. But thanks to the weekend trip -- going back, revisiting where we lived, seeing friends, and being ministered to -- I finally felt like I received some roadside assistance, pulled out of the muck, so I can start walking again.

Sure, I've got my things to work on -- I'm not perfect. I know I'll slip up and fall backwards. I don't have a lot of hope yet for the future -- indeed, who knows where things will lead? But the hope is this: it will lead somewhere. And right now, everything is OK. It really, truly is.

And that's really all that matters.
It's good to finally see this, to become a Cicelean.

Hour of (Explosive) Power

It's 4:00 p.m.

Why is it that kids explode at this hour?

The hour I most need to myself.
To think.
To finish up whatever I missed through the day.
To take care of last-minute chores.
To start thinking about (or preparing?) dinner.

And then the rumbling starts, followed by ...

Actually, it's ironically fitting that following the rumbling came an explosion of lava ... in the form of red juice, spilling all over the living room floor ...

Ah, yes. There are multiple explosions going on here.
There's no other hour quite like it.
I just don't get it.

One Little Foot

When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time last year, she didn't see it coming. She was happy and confident as she went to the appointment, the routine check-up. She foresaw nothing on her horizon, and life was good. But then she got the results, like a bolt of lightening, no warning, just the words: "your cancer is back." There's no feeling in the world like it, receiving that kind of blow.

I was feeling that way going into Grace's appointment for her clubfoot -- happy, confident. She runs like some fleet-footed creature, she has no pain, she's in good shape. But as the days ticked down toward The Appointment Day, I started to get a little nervous. Maybe all is not quite right. So I entered yesterday's appointment with ebbed confidence, with a nagging sense that we're not out of the woods.

And the funny thing is, I was right.

After over an hour's wait, as expected, the doctor came in. He stretched her foot a bit, threw around funny words like "dorsiflexing" and various percentages that seemed a little low to my ears, my maternal warning light starting to blink. He asked her to walk, he twisted his mouth a bit as he watched her. OK, so here's the good news: NO MORE SHOES! Oh, my goodness, I can't tell you how happy that made me, being rid of those monstrosities. And yet, even after experiencing that bit of relief, I knew a "but" was close behind.

My hunch was correct -- her foot wasn't quite right. He wasn't pleased with how little "give" there was. It is way too tight. When she walks, there's no movement or flexing of the foot. He showed us the comparison to her healthy foot, which flexes and stretches all over the place, every which way. But her clubfoot, while it moved a bit, didn't move enough. It was way, way too tight. My heart dropped a bit. We're not out of the woods.

He was comforting, clearly trying to relieve some of my Mama-Guilt. It's genetic, and there's only so much you can do to beat out something that wants to do something contrary by its very nature. Her little foot has, for some reason, been programmed to do this, to tighten up, to turn inward. Each kid is unique, each response is different. So, for the next four months, we have to be super-diligent in stretching her foot; "force is more important than time," he said. 10 minutes in the morning, 10 at night (let me tell you -- it's much longer than it sounds!), stretching that little foot to its limit and then some. We have to return in October, and if the foot hasn't loosened up, then we're back to serial casting. Ugh -- not what I wanted to hear. Every week she'd get a new cast ... every week travel to Philadelphia?! No way. We'll cross that bridge when we get there, troll and all, but if casting is involved we'll have to look for someone up here. But until then, we stretch stretch stretch, amid the protests and wailing and "No, Daddy, STOP!"

So that's it, the end result of our check-up yesterday. Sure, I was hoping he'd give the all-clear sign. But I have to be real -- there is no "all-clear," really, with a clubfoot ... at least not during childhood. Each growth spurt is a potential relapse waiting to happen, and she's got lots of them on her horizon. My lesson here: CHILL OUT. Take each day, each growth spurt, each diagnosis, each potential cast as it comes. She's alive, right? She's walking, she's running, she's healthy, she's beautiful.

Lots of lessons heard and learned this weekend, my friends. This is just one of them. This clubfoot trip is all part of the package called Grace -- not what I envisioned at all for my child, but it's her journey, our journey, and we're on it together. What a girl.