OK, that title is corny, but "hair" has been on my mind lately. I have a true love/hate relationship with my hair. I think I learned to hate it as a child because ... well, I think my mom hated it and therefore doing anything with my hair became a torturous experience. I was born with quite a bit of hair, and by the time I was a toddler I had a full head of thick, red curls. I have to say, when I look at our old family photos and slides, I was a really adorable baby. Fat cheeks, huge blue eyes (although now they're green -- go figure), and that mop of red curls.
Fast forward in the family album a few years and you see the oldest son, Steve. Then Dave. Then Jim. Then the fourth son. Oh no, wait -- that's me. My curls are gone and there I sit, looking like one of my brothers. When I asked my mom why she cut all my hair off (yes, she cut our hair and -- sorry, mom -- it was horrible), she replied that she just couldn't take it anymore. We didn't have nifty Kids L'Oreal products with built-in tangle-free goop, so every time I took a bath or had my hair washed, I would scream. And just forget trying to run a comb through the rat's nest of my hair -- I would scream even louder. My mom told me that so often my grandmother, who lived downstairs at the time, would come running up, thinking I was hurt -- "What are you doing to that girl?!" The funny thing (or not so funny) is that I can still remember crying as I got my hair washed at the kitchen sink.
So I spent most of my years with very short hair, even into high school. But by that time it was by choice. I played sports and was very active, so short hair worked for me. Plus it was the 80's and I lived in NJ, so I found a way to spike up that short hair in some totally rad 'do. But when I got to college, I decided to grow it out. It was the season of grunge and a resurgence of sorts of all things hippie, so not only did I grow out my red locks (which had lost its curl out of protest, I suppose, of years of shortness) but I ditched any and all make-up too. It felt good.
I graduated college in 1994, with my long, healthy, wavy bright red hair cascading down my back, a striking picture set against the black robe of my graduation. Now fast forward again to the present. I still look like I'm in college, 13 years later. While my hair isn't quite as long and my glasses are different, I still have that no-real-style hair that usually ends up in a pony tail because I don't know what to do with it, or it's too heavy and I get headaches if it's down for too long. B-O-R-I-N-G. But here's the deal: I'm a big chicken. While some women have been disappointed in love, I have been disappointed with salon experiences. On those few occasions where I have gathered up the courage to clip out a picture from a magazine, I was bound to be disappointed, and I ended up growing it all out, back to my Style Circa 1994. Here's thing: my hair is not curly or straight, but it's also not consistently wavy. It tends toward frizziness. It's so thick that my one pony tail is as thick as the pony tail of a friend of mine tripled up. It's so course that an individual strand of hair looks like a copper wire, and it's as strong as dental floss. A particular "style" doesn't usually work on me. Plus, I like looking younger than my age. The average guess is usually 10 years less, and I have to admit that I like being mistaken for a 20-something. If my hair goes short, the wonderfully erroneous age-guesses will go with it.
And yet every year I say to myself, "I'm sick of my hair. I want to do something new." I usually don't, or I'll get it cut a little shorter than usual or something very benign and safe. Two years ago I did take a drastic step, but I was motivated: my mom started chemo for her first round of breast cancer and lost all of her hair. In my love for her, my grief for her loss, and wanting to stand with her, I decided to donate my red ropes to Locks of Love, to help other cancer patients who have lost their hair from treatments. The stylist cut off 12 inches, but I still walked away with a shoulder-length, safe "bob" style which quickly grew out. That event occurred on Christmas Eve day, and that evening I made my debut in church performing a hand bell solo, accompanied by the organ ("O Holy Night"). When I walked in, a friend of ours blurted out, "Oh my gosh! You look like a teenager!" I have to say that made me feel pretty good -- a mother of one, and pregnant with my second child.
So here I am again, with my hair rather long again and hot as fire in this awful summer heat. On Monday, my mom is going to start chemotherapy again, and while I have heard stories that some people don't lose their hair the second time around, I'm not getting my hopes up. I'm starting to feel that pull inside of me again, that if my mom is going to lose her hair, then I am going to lose mine. Oh, I won't go all Britney Spears on everyone, but I do believe that it will come off. I don't think I have enough to donate again -- the minimum is 10 inches in a pony tail, and I might just have that ... which would mean it would be super, super short. But who knows -- if I can donate after all, even if I end up looking like my brothers again, maybe I'll go for it. But one way or another, I believe I am determined that it will be drastic -- just as my mom will experience something drastic on her head as well. So stay tuned ...
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Run, run, as fast as you can ...
I've been having a hard time getting my thoughts together, focused, like my brain decided to switch off for a while. I guess that's not such a bad thing, just unusual for me. Maybe it's the weather, slogging through day after day of soupy humidity. Maybe it's the fact that my cup is filled to overflowing with things to deal with, difficulties and tragedies, with a few good blessings thrown into the mix. Yesterday afternoon started out great -- I inflated our big pool in the morning, so by the afternoon the water was a comfortably cool temperature that all three of us could enjoy. I was having fun with the kids, splashing around, playing silly pool games like Mommy Sea Monster and Tip the Tube. But somewhere in the midst of playing I could feel myself getting increasingly ill -- dizzy, nauseous, just plain gross. I went indoors, chomped on as many Mylanta tablets as was allowed, and ended up lying down as soon as Don got home. He's one sweet, understanding guy -- he cooked dinner.
As I laid there in the semi-darkness, still feeling a bit nauseous (but better) and unable to sleep due to the Diego video playing right outside my door, I suddenly felt -- tangibly -- all of my strength just seep away. I was feeling pretty good these past couple of weeks, despite what we're going through -- I felt strong, I felt at peace (well, for the most part), I felt confident that while the road to recovery will be long and difficult, my mom will beat this thing and there was absolutely no need to sink into despair. And yet that's just what I was doing for those 30 minutes before dinner ... sinking into despair, into sadness, and finally into a sobbing mess. One powerful line in the Anne of Green Gables story (yes, I'm a fan, even at my age -- it's timeless, really) came when Anne, having gotten into trouble yet again, sobbed out her woes to Marilla, saying she was in the "depths of despair." Marilla coolly answered (as only Marilla could), "To despair is to turn you back on God." I'll never forget that line ... yet sometimes you just slip into that place regardless of what you know to be true. I couldn't even articulate what I was feeling, really -- yes, that nasty fear came back, fear of losing my mom, feelings of resentment toward God ("Did you really lead us back home only for more heartache?!"), feelings of exhaustion from fighting something again, feeling like that's all we've been doing for the past X-number of years, fighting one battle wave after another. Sure, there are respites in between, brief moments to take a breath, but I'm almost kind of dreading those moments for they are so short-lived, knowing that when I do allow myself to take a breath it had better be a big lung-filling one because the next wave is going to hit, right on schedule ... I think, as I sobbed into my pillow with my dog curled around my feet, I just felt so tired.
*************************
Every day I take a nap with my son, a "habit" that started when he was a toddler (under age 2) who refused to take a nap in his crib. I don't mind this habit at all, because I get a snooze too. My kids have one of the greatest things in the world: their own library -- but lately Aidan has been getting a kick out of the books that Grandma has upstairs. I'm getting a kick out of these too because these are the books that I grew up on, and they're wonderfully "vintage." I just finished reading a collection of bedtime stories (copyright 1942), but it struck me how violent they all were: Little Red Riding Hood (wolf eating up people), Chicken Little (fox eating up innocent creatures), Three Little Pigs (wolf trying to eat the pigs, only to wind up being boiled to death in a big cauldron of water). Aidan insisted on me reading these stories, but I was so hesitant -- this is a kid who suffered through horrible night terrors last fall and who is afraid of scary things. He won't even watch Finding Nemo ... how will he handle a ravenous wolf eating little children? It just struck me that you will never, ever find these story lines in children's books today. Or maybe I'm just being overprotective of my child's innocence -- if I know ahead of time what a story is about, sometimes I try to change it a bit, and leave out the parts that might scare him. For example, he loves the story of Babar the elephant, but in the beginning Babar is out for a nice walk with his mother, when hunters jump out, kill the mother, and Babar runs off to the big city. Later on, the King of the Elephants eats a bad mushroom, turns a funky shade of green, and drops dead. Now, if you asked Aidan how the story goes, he would tell you that Babar and his mother went on a nice walk in the Great Forest, but Babar decided to go on his own adventure so he said good-bye to her and went on his way. And later, the King of the Elephants got very sick and just couldn't be king anymore, so they asked Babar to take his place. Rather sanitized, but at least he doesn't have to get upset about a mother being killed. My little boy has been through enough trauma in his little life.
Anyway, I couldn't really sanitize these old stories -- he saw the picture of the fox licking his c
hops and asked where Chicken Little was. Thankfully he didn't have a problem with it. So we read one or two stories at night, and our last tale was The Gingerbread Man (fox gobbling up the gingerbread man at the end). I tried to make light of the story, or divert his attention a bit about how old the book was (he's really interested in dates and the age of things, lately). I said to him, "Well, that was a silly story, wasn't it?" He thought for a moment: "No, not really. It was just very strange." Apparently he wasn't too bothered by the fact that the fox had a snack; he was more perplexed that a cookie could walk and talk. I don't know why, but that just cracked me up.
***********************
Grace is an incredible lover of music. Rarely does a moment go by where she is not singing some tune or other. Her
favorites are kiddie Bible songs -- "Jesus Loves Me," "Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain," etc. On her favorite CD are also a few of the more militant Christian songs such as "Onward, Christian Soldiers" and "I'm in the Lord's Army." This last one has turned into quite a favorite, I suppose because it involves marching and other fun movements that kids enjoy. Today in the grocery store, while I was in the check-out line, Grace grabbed -- not the enticing candy -- but a handful of mini-American flags. All she needed were those few props to get her going, and as she frantically waved those flags around, she started belting out in her loudest singing voice, "I'm in the Lord's Army! I'm in the Lord's Army!" It's not my favorite song in the kiddie repertoire, but she was just the picture of cuteness (and irony). And then I thought: yeah, she might be on to something here. God, listen up (please): just turn loose a horde of unpredictable, loud, tantrum-prone two-year-olds on Satan and his Minions and you've got the victory in the bag! :)
***********************
I'm smiling, but I am weary. I feel like I have been fighting in the Lord's Army and it's brutally relentless. And sometimes I feel like that gingerbread man, wanting to run and run and run. Unfortunately I can't seem to shake that wily fox, licking his chops ...
As I laid there in the semi-darkness, still feeling a bit nauseous (but better) and unable to sleep due to the Diego video playing right outside my door, I suddenly felt -- tangibly -- all of my strength just seep away. I was feeling pretty good these past couple of weeks, despite what we're going through -- I felt strong, I felt at peace (well, for the most part), I felt confident that while the road to recovery will be long and difficult, my mom will beat this thing and there was absolutely no need to sink into despair. And yet that's just what I was doing for those 30 minutes before dinner ... sinking into despair, into sadness, and finally into a sobbing mess. One powerful line in the Anne of Green Gables story (yes, I'm a fan, even at my age -- it's timeless, really) came when Anne, having gotten into trouble yet again, sobbed out her woes to Marilla, saying she was in the "depths of despair." Marilla coolly answered (as only Marilla could), "To despair is to turn you back on God." I'll never forget that line ... yet sometimes you just slip into that place regardless of what you know to be true. I couldn't even articulate what I was feeling, really -- yes, that nasty fear came back, fear of losing my mom, feelings of resentment toward God ("Did you really lead us back home only for more heartache?!"), feelings of exhaustion from fighting something again, feeling like that's all we've been doing for the past X-number of years, fighting one battle wave after another. Sure, there are respites in between, brief moments to take a breath, but I'm almost kind of dreading those moments for they are so short-lived, knowing that when I do allow myself to take a breath it had better be a big lung-filling one because the next wave is going to hit, right on schedule ... I think, as I sobbed into my pillow with my dog curled around my feet, I just felt so tired.
*************************
Every day I take a nap with my son, a "habit" that started when he was a toddler (under age 2) who refused to take a nap in his crib. I don't mind this habit at all, because I get a snooze too. My kids have one of the greatest things in the world: their own library -- but lately Aidan has been getting a kick out of the books that Grandma has upstairs. I'm getting a kick out of these too because these are the books that I grew up on, and they're wonderfully "vintage." I just finished reading a collection of bedtime stories (copyright 1942), but it struck me how violent they all were: Little Red Riding Hood (wolf eating up people), Chicken Little (fox eating up innocent creatures), Three Little Pigs (wolf trying to eat the pigs, only to wind up being boiled to death in a big cauldron of water). Aidan insisted on me reading these stories, but I was so hesitant -- this is a kid who suffered through horrible night terrors last fall and who is afraid of scary things. He won't even watch Finding Nemo ... how will he handle a ravenous wolf eating little children? It just struck me that you will never, ever find these story lines in children's books today. Or maybe I'm just being overprotective of my child's innocence -- if I know ahead of time what a story is about, sometimes I try to change it a bit, and leave out the parts that might scare him. For example, he loves the story of Babar the elephant, but in the beginning Babar is out for a nice walk with his mother, when hunters jump out, kill the mother, and Babar runs off to the big city. Later on, the King of the Elephants eats a bad mushroom, turns a funky shade of green, and drops dead. Now, if you asked Aidan how the story goes, he would tell you that Babar and his mother went on a nice walk in the Great Forest, but Babar decided to go on his own adventure so he said good-bye to her and went on his way. And later, the King of the Elephants got very sick and just couldn't be king anymore, so they asked Babar to take his place. Rather sanitized, but at least he doesn't have to get upset about a mother being killed. My little boy has been through enough trauma in his little life.
Anyway, I couldn't really sanitize these old stories -- he saw the picture of the fox licking his c
hops and asked where Chicken Little was. Thankfully he didn't have a problem with it. So we read one or two stories at night, and our last tale was The Gingerbread Man (fox gobbling up the gingerbread man at the end). I tried to make light of the story, or divert his attention a bit about how old the book was (he's really interested in dates and the age of things, lately). I said to him, "Well, that was a silly story, wasn't it?" He thought for a moment: "No, not really. It was just very strange." Apparently he wasn't too bothered by the fact that the fox had a snack; he was more perplexed that a cookie could walk and talk. I don't know why, but that just cracked me up.***********************
Grace is an incredible lover of music. Rarely does a moment go by where she is not singing some tune or other. Her
favorites are kiddie Bible songs -- "Jesus Loves Me," "Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain," etc. On her favorite CD are also a few of the more militant Christian songs such as "Onward, Christian Soldiers" and "I'm in the Lord's Army." This last one has turned into quite a favorite, I suppose because it involves marching and other fun movements that kids enjoy. Today in the grocery store, while I was in the check-out line, Grace grabbed -- not the enticing candy -- but a handful of mini-American flags. All she needed were those few props to get her going, and as she frantically waved those flags around, she started belting out in her loudest singing voice, "I'm in the Lord's Army! I'm in the Lord's Army!" It's not my favorite song in the kiddie repertoire, but she was just the picture of cuteness (and irony). And then I thought: yeah, she might be on to something here. God, listen up (please): just turn loose a horde of unpredictable, loud, tantrum-prone two-year-olds on Satan and his Minions and you've got the victory in the bag! :)***********************
I'm smiling, but I am weary. I feel like I have been fighting in the Lord's Army and it's brutally relentless. And sometimes I feel like that gingerbread man, wanting to run and run and run. Unfortunately I can't seem to shake that wily fox, licking his chops ...
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Thoughts
What's on tap this week ...
- I successfully completed Day One of my Chore-Challenge, with Monday being Wash Day. I guess that's kind of like cheating, though, because Monday has always been wash day for me, so it was really no different than my other Mondays. Today will be the real challenge: dusting and vacuuming. I mean, really dusting -- moving things off shelves and putting them back on, etc. Sounds like loads of fun. Maybe I'll find my cell phone.
- Yes, I lost my cell phone last week. Last Sunday, to be exact. I was charging it up right before we left for church in the morning. That's the last I remember actually seeing it. I know that I picked it up when it was done charging and turned it off (there's nothing more annoying than cell phones going off in church -- "Sorry, God, gotta take this call. Just hold that thought"). I think I then put it in my purse as we went out the door, but when I went to retrieve it from my purse the next day it wasn't there. Did I lose it in church? I didn't see how that could happen, plus I checked this past Sunday and no one had seen it. I have a sneaking feeling that my daughter rummaged around my purse and snatched it, but where it could be (in the house) is a mystery. It's a small, two-bedroom apartment, but you'd be surprised where kids can hide something. Maybe I should employ one of Aidan's "magical prayers" ...
- Last week was a "vacation" on the cancer front. While the break from doctors was refreshing, the waiting drives you crazy. Today things pick up again with a visit to the doctor who will put my mom's "port" in -- a device that gets inserted right under the collar bone with a tube or something that leads directly to the heart. For the chemotherapy treatments, she'll get hooked up and the nasty stuff will go into the port, to her heart, and distributed throughout her body. With all the advances in medicine, why couldn't they come up with something less barbaric? Ugh. But today is just a visit with the doctor. More waiting ...
- Tomorrow is a meeting with the second-opinion oncologist. Apparently my mom's oncologist strongly recommended seeing someone else, because he has never seen this particular type of cancer before. At least he's honest. He came up with a game plan -- I guess he wants to make sure this other guy concurs. More waiting ...
- Thursday is a meeting with her primary oncologist, I guess to go over the results of the second opinion and finalize the game plan.
- Monday is the big day: the first chemo treatment. No one is looking forward to this -- it's beyond nasty. She has her wigs out, ready to go, as well as her little turbans and other head coverings. I'm gearing myself up for cooking lots of meals (probably more for my dad than for my mom, who won't want to eat much of anything) and doing whatever chores they need me to do. I'm OK with that -- I just don't want to see my mom sick.
As I'm writing this I'm starting to feel some things bubble up -- emotions that I don't think I'm letting myself really feel. I think they're somewhere in the realm of self-pity and resentment. Very human, very honest. Yes, let me say it: I resent this major detour on my journey. Or I guess it's not even a detour -- it's what my journey is supposed to look like. But it stinks. We've lived through a nightmare (again -- I've lost count), and we came home for healing. So what's this? There are times when I feel so fragile, I can't even imagine how I'm going to get through all of this cancer stuff. I'm no good to others if I feel like I'm going to fall apart in the blink of an eye. Instead of healing, we get sickness. Our summer has been filled with worry and heartache, instead of joy and healing and strength-gaining. Our autumn is going to be filled with anxiety and illness, rather than fresh smiles and new beginnings. My mom's last treatment is Dec. 31 -- New Year's Eve. I am not going to say, "Oh, next year just has to get better. We'll get through this, and 2008 will be a turnaround year." I've stopped saying things like that about five years ago.
OK -- I've indulged my bleak thoughts this morning. Time to wash my face and get my day started. I'm going to tackle my Chore-Challenge. I'm going to fill up our big inflatable pool and let this horrible heat warm up the water for a swim later today (I use the sword "swim" loosely - more like "splash around"). I'm going to visit our urban farmer friend's Veggie Garage to see what fresh treats I can find (yes, it's what it sounds like: she farms in an urban setting, she opens her garage, she sells her harvest). Lord, give me strength and bring me through this valley of shadows ...
- I successfully completed Day One of my Chore-Challenge, with Monday being Wash Day. I guess that's kind of like cheating, though, because Monday has always been wash day for me, so it was really no different than my other Mondays. Today will be the real challenge: dusting and vacuuming. I mean, really dusting -- moving things off shelves and putting them back on, etc. Sounds like loads of fun. Maybe I'll find my cell phone.
- Yes, I lost my cell phone last week. Last Sunday, to be exact. I was charging it up right before we left for church in the morning. That's the last I remember actually seeing it. I know that I picked it up when it was done charging and turned it off (there's nothing more annoying than cell phones going off in church -- "Sorry, God, gotta take this call. Just hold that thought"). I think I then put it in my purse as we went out the door, but when I went to retrieve it from my purse the next day it wasn't there. Did I lose it in church? I didn't see how that could happen, plus I checked this past Sunday and no one had seen it. I have a sneaking feeling that my daughter rummaged around my purse and snatched it, but where it could be (in the house) is a mystery. It's a small, two-bedroom apartment, but you'd be surprised where kids can hide something. Maybe I should employ one of Aidan's "magical prayers" ...
- Last week was a "vacation" on the cancer front. While the break from doctors was refreshing, the waiting drives you crazy. Today things pick up again with a visit to the doctor who will put my mom's "port" in -- a device that gets inserted right under the collar bone with a tube or something that leads directly to the heart. For the chemotherapy treatments, she'll get hooked up and the nasty stuff will go into the port, to her heart, and distributed throughout her body. With all the advances in medicine, why couldn't they come up with something less barbaric? Ugh. But today is just a visit with the doctor. More waiting ...
- Tomorrow is a meeting with the second-opinion oncologist. Apparently my mom's oncologist strongly recommended seeing someone else, because he has never seen this particular type of cancer before. At least he's honest. He came up with a game plan -- I guess he wants to make sure this other guy concurs. More waiting ...
- Thursday is a meeting with her primary oncologist, I guess to go over the results of the second opinion and finalize the game plan.
- Monday is the big day: the first chemo treatment. No one is looking forward to this -- it's beyond nasty. She has her wigs out, ready to go, as well as her little turbans and other head coverings. I'm gearing myself up for cooking lots of meals (probably more for my dad than for my mom, who won't want to eat much of anything) and doing whatever chores they need me to do. I'm OK with that -- I just don't want to see my mom sick.
As I'm writing this I'm starting to feel some things bubble up -- emotions that I don't think I'm letting myself really feel. I think they're somewhere in the realm of self-pity and resentment. Very human, very honest. Yes, let me say it: I resent this major detour on my journey. Or I guess it's not even a detour -- it's what my journey is supposed to look like. But it stinks. We've lived through a nightmare (again -- I've lost count), and we came home for healing. So what's this? There are times when I feel so fragile, I can't even imagine how I'm going to get through all of this cancer stuff. I'm no good to others if I feel like I'm going to fall apart in the blink of an eye. Instead of healing, we get sickness. Our summer has been filled with worry and heartache, instead of joy and healing and strength-gaining. Our autumn is going to be filled with anxiety and illness, rather than fresh smiles and new beginnings. My mom's last treatment is Dec. 31 -- New Year's Eve. I am not going to say, "Oh, next year just has to get better. We'll get through this, and 2008 will be a turnaround year." I've stopped saying things like that about five years ago.
OK -- I've indulged my bleak thoughts this morning. Time to wash my face and get my day started. I'm going to tackle my Chore-Challenge. I'm going to fill up our big inflatable pool and let this horrible heat warm up the water for a swim later today (I use the sword "swim" loosely - more like "splash around"). I'm going to visit our urban farmer friend's Veggie Garage to see what fresh treats I can find (yes, it's what it sounds like: she farms in an urban setting, she opens her garage, she sells her harvest). Lord, give me strength and bring me through this valley of shadows ...
Monday, August 6, 2007
Let's hope Caspar is friendly!
It's just really strange. I know my grandmother died in this house, in her sleep in her bedroom (which is now our bedroom). But I don't know how I feel about ghosts. I suppose I was brought up with the "I don't believe in ghosts" mentality, although I can't remember an actual conversation or teaching time with my parents about this. I guess it was just assumed. I have worked in two places that were considered (although not officially) "haunted," but in only one of those places did I actually experience something myself. In my last job, before I stopped working to stay at home with my kids, I was a tour guide at a "house museum." A few of my fellow guides, as well as the site administrator, told me of things they had seen or witnessed, but thankfully I remained blissfully unaware. My only personal "ghost experience" came when I was working at a library in Washington, D.C. When I got there, many of my colleagues told me of various "sightings" and other unexplained events throughout the years, mostly experienced by the guards on the night shift (the employment turnaround was tremendous): seeing the figure of Mr.-- himself (the man who started the library decades prior), in formal evening wear and top hat, walking down the corridor in the middle of the night; the light above his portrait turned on or off (after being checked by the guards), etc. The one event I personally witnessed involved the elevator going to the stacks underground. I was sitting at the desk on the lower level on a Saturday afternoon, the floor being "dead quiet" (pun probably very intended), when I suddenly heard that tell-tale "ka-chungggggggg" as the elevator starting coming up from the floor below. I looked at the doors as they opened, expecting to see one of the weekend staff, but instead it was empty. The doors closed, and then I heard "ka-chungggggg" again as it returned downstairs. It did it again later on. Boy, did that creep me out. I told one of my colleagues later on -- a woman who had been there for years and has had many ghostly sightings herself -- and said, "Oh, that's just Mr. or Mrs.-- ... that's been going on for a long time." There had been numerous calls to the elevator repair people over the years, but they never found anything wrong. Weird.
Then one day in October, while I was shelving books on that same lower level, one of my colleagues sought me out and had a very strange look on her face. She was a middle-aged woman and a retired CIA operative -- in other words, a by-the-book kind of woman, an empirical evidence kind of woman, an "I laugh at in the face of ghost stories" kind of woman. She was shelving books on the very lowest level, an area that is always kept very dark, save for a few very dim emergency lights and the individual light switches you turn on for the particular stack in which you are working. It is indeed a somewhat creepy place. Anyway, when she found me she asked, "What does Mrs.--" look like?" I told her to follow me, and together we went to a particular room where her photograph was hanging. My friend's face got a little whiter when she said, "That's her. That's who I saw." She proceeded to tell me what just happened:
As she was pushing her cart of books down the long center aisle, she happened to glance to her right when she saw a figure crouching in the darkness of the stacks. Being very dimly lit, she couldn't make out who the figure was ... perhaps a co-worker shelving a book, not bothering to turn on the light? That would make the most sense, because no one is allowed down there unless you are an employee or a special guest of someone who works there (and even then you must be accompanied by an employee at all times). There is no chance a random person off the street would ever be there. So she walked into the stacks and got a closer look at the figure: not a co-worker, but rather an old woman, wearing very old-fashioned clothes, with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The woman looked up at her in silence, and as soon as my friend said, "May I help you?" the figure disappeared.
Boy, was I spooked. According to my friend, the woman in the photograph, Mrs.--, was wearing the same shawl and the same period clothing as the person in the stacks. I asked my friend if she believed in ghosts and she adamantly replied, "NO ... but I cannot explain what I just saw." She was truly baffled. I was truly freaked. I left my job about seven months later, when Don graduated from seminary and we moved back to PA. I could not shelve books down on that level after that experience -- and if I had to, I was extremely uneasy. I would be very loud in my shelving, I tried to "turn off" my peripheral vision, I would sing songs, I would recite a few Psalms ... anything to say, "Hey, I'm here -- don't show yourself!"
I still don't know what I think about all of that. I can easily dismiss my own experience of a mysterious elevator as something wrong with the wiring (even though the repair people couldn't figure it out). But this? A strange woman in the stacks? An experience told to me by a woman who lives in a black-and-white world (at least as far as that stuff goes)? And now here I am, suddenly seeing "orbs" in my photographs ... how do I explain that? Well, I can't.
I guess I'll just have to break out my dust rags more often. According to my new chore-challenge, imposed upon myself last week (and starting today), Monday is wash day (better get moving on that ...), Tuesday is dusting and vacuuming day, so Wednesday is no-more-orbs day. Love it!
Friday, August 3, 2007
My Mother's Daughter ... Maybe
I am not my mother's daughter. At least in some respects. Maybe it's (partly) because I'm adopted, and I don't have that Dutch huisvrouw gene in my blood. I always feel strange when, in filling out some form or other, I must check the box for "homemaker," for even though I stay at home and take care of my children, I can hardly call myself a homemaker. As a girl, I spent more time outdoors with my brothers playing wiffle ball, pickle, football, and with cars and trucks in the dirt than I did at my mother's side baking, sewing, or cleaning. While I do love to cook now (a new-found passion) and I love a clean and orderly house, I cannot say that it (cleaning, that is) comes naturally to me.
[Caveat here: this post has nothing to do about presumed gender roles or anything like that. I am not saying women are predestined to belong in the kitchen or strapped to an ironing board. This is about my own experience in taking care of my house ... or not. I know at least one stay-at-home dad, so this could be applied to anyone.] :)
When I was a girl, I was a huge fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her Little House books (I still am, actually). I remember in one of the earlier books, a young Laura talks about their life on the homestead -- in particular, the role of Ma (and, of course, every other female in that era):
I always got a kick out of that little list, thinking how nice and orderly it all was for them. Things didn't change much, really, as the generations went on, for I realized that even my mother has a sort of weekly chores schedule. It doesn't involving churning or mending, and it isn't quite so set in stone or involving entire days just for one task, but she did (and does) indeed follow a particular rhythm. Her house is spotless, and everything gets done.
My other great-grandmother, meeting the weekly produce peddler
What got me thinking about this was my self-imposed chore this morning: cleaning the bathroom sink fixture. My parents got a new bathroom sink installed the other day, and my dad commented on how rusty my faucet looked, so he was going to save his old faucet (which was still newer than mine) and make a switch. I thought I'd check out my own fixture, to see how bad it was, when I noticed that it wasn't really rust -- it was just caked on junk from our hard water. I found some Lime-Away in the basement, took the fixture somewhat apart, doused the whole thing in the solution, and now it's bright and shiny. In my defense, I too thought it was kind of rusty -- that's what it looked like when we moved in, so I figured that was just its condition. Nope -- just covered in junk. Now ... if I had just followed my mother's example and scoured that bathroom once a week, I wouldn't have this problem. So where do I fit in? How much of a loser housewife am I? Let me look at my version of list again ...
Monday: wash day ... yep, that's the same
Tuesday: I don't really iron ... ever
Wednesday: sewing day -- I don't sew, except to replace a button or a quick fix of a hem or a hole in a stuffed animal. Instead, this is my market day.
Thursday: Since I already went to the market, this is the kind of day when I wake up, I know I've been very busy all day, yet when I go to bed I'm not sure what I've done)
Friday: Cleaning day? Well ... another day like Thursday, really
Saturday: baking day -- nope. I bake when the mood strikes. Rather, this is play day, get Don to help me with chores day, I need to get out of the house day ...
Sunday: day of rest -- Amen to that.
Hmmm ... not bad. About 3 very predictable housewifely events my seven-day week. Better than I thought. So why is it that the rest of my days are so haphazard? I clean the bathroom, sure ... when it's starting to look gross. I clean the kitchen, yes ... for the same reason as the bathroom. I dust and vacuum, of course ... when I can't stand how chaotic the rooms look. I pay the bills ... when I know the due dates are looming. I wash the dishes all the time, since we have no dishwasher, but I don't do it regularly, like every evening after supper, for example. Forget that: I want to relax! I want to play with my kids outside! I want to go for a walk with my family! By the time I'd get done with doing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, my kids would have to go to bed.
I find all this extremely fascinating. I wonder if I would be able to follow through if I set up a true schedule for myself. Would I be able to do it? Would I prove a scientific fact, that the huisvrouw mentality can be nurture as well as nature? Or am I doomed because I am not a Type A personality, not one prone to this kind of thing? Maybe this can be a challenge to myself. So what would my week look like? Here's a possible list:
Monday: Wash Day
Tuesday: Dusting and Vacuuming
Wednesday: Market Day
Thursday: Clean the Kitchen
Friday: Clean the Bathroom
Saturday: Daddy's Home -- Milk It For All It's Worth Day
Sunday: The Lord's Day
OK -- the challenge is on! I will try this ... for how long? Two weeks? Weigh in, friends -- I'm just as curious myself to see if this will work. Break out the pinafores and hang on to your apron strings -- Susie Homemaker is on the loose! (Starting Monday, of course).
[Caveat here: this post has nothing to do about presumed gender roles or anything like that. I am not saying women are predestined to belong in the kitchen or strapped to an ironing board. This is about my own experience in taking care of my house ... or not. I know at least one stay-at-home dad, so this could be applied to anyone.] :)
When I was a girl, I was a huge fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her Little House books (I still am, actually). I remember in one of the earlier books, a young Laura talks about their life on the homestead -- in particular, the role of Ma (and, of course, every other female in that era):
"For Ma and other pioneer women, each day had its own proper chores. Ma used to say,
Wash on Monday,
Iron on Tuesday,
Mend on Wednesday,
Churn on Thursday,
Clean on Friday,
Bake on Saturday,
Rest on Sunday."
Iron on Tuesday,
Mend on Wednesday,
Churn on Thursday,
Clean on Friday,
Bake on Saturday,
Rest on Sunday."
I always got a kick out of that little list, thinking how nice and orderly it all was for them. Things didn't change much, really, as the generations went on, for I realized that even my mother has a sort of weekly chores schedule. It doesn't involving churning or mending, and it isn't quite so set in stone or involving entire days just for one task, but she did (and does) indeed follow a particular rhythm. Her house is spotless, and everything gets done.
My great-grandmother, a formidable huisvrouw
So what's my deal? I have been a "housewife" now for almost 5 years (meaning: leaving my full-time job before my son was born) and yet I can't seem to get into any kind of predictable groove. I remember hearing stories of my women ancestors in Holland, living along the canals, doing so much housecleaning that it bordered on obsession. I was told of my Dutch womenfolk actually going outdoors to scrub their front stoop on a regular basis. I'm lucky if I grab a broom once a month to sweep the front steps. I found an updated version of this list, although it hasn't changed much:Monday: wash day
Tuesday: ironing day
Wednesday: sewing day
Thursday: market day
Friday: cleaning day
Saturday: baking day
Sunday: day of rest
The article was very interesting, too, stating that there was actually some logic behind this. Doing the wash was the most vigorous of all chores (remember: no washing machines) so it made sense to do it on Mondays, since you had an entire day of rest the day before to gather your strength. With ironing coming the next day, to take care of the wrinkled clothes you just washed, it made sense to follow it with sewing and mending after that. This is actually very similar to the schedule that all my greats, and my grandmother, and mother held over the years. I grew up with the amazing smells of freshly baked goods every Saturday morning ... Interesting.Tuesday: ironing day
Wednesday: sewing day
Thursday: market day
Friday: cleaning day
Saturday: baking day
Sunday: day of rest
My other great-grandmother, meeting the weekly produce peddler
Monday: wash day ... yep, that's the same
Tuesday: I don't really iron ... ever
Wednesday: sewing day -- I don't sew, except to replace a button or a quick fix of a hem or a hole in a stuffed animal. Instead, this is my market day.
Thursday: Since I already went to the market, this is the kind of day when I wake up, I know I've been very busy all day, yet when I go to bed I'm not sure what I've done)
Friday: Cleaning day? Well ... another day like Thursday, really
Saturday: baking day -- nope. I bake when the mood strikes. Rather, this is play day, get Don to help me with chores day, I need to get out of the house day ...
Sunday: day of rest -- Amen to that.
Hmmm ... not bad. About 3 very predictable housewifely events my seven-day week. Better than I thought. So why is it that the rest of my days are so haphazard? I clean the bathroom, sure ... when it's starting to look gross. I clean the kitchen, yes ... for the same reason as the bathroom. I dust and vacuum, of course ... when I can't stand how chaotic the rooms look. I pay the bills ... when I know the due dates are looming. I wash the dishes all the time, since we have no dishwasher, but I don't do it regularly, like every evening after supper, for example. Forget that: I want to relax! I want to play with my kids outside! I want to go for a walk with my family! By the time I'd get done with doing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, my kids would have to go to bed.
I find all this extremely fascinating. I wonder if I would be able to follow through if I set up a true schedule for myself. Would I be able to do it? Would I prove a scientific fact, that the huisvrouw mentality can be nurture as well as nature? Or am I doomed because I am not a Type A personality, not one prone to this kind of thing? Maybe this can be a challenge to myself. So what would my week look like? Here's a possible list:
Monday: Wash Day
Tuesday: Dusting and Vacuuming
Wednesday: Market Day
Thursday: Clean the Kitchen
Friday: Clean the Bathroom
Saturday: Daddy's Home -- Milk It For All It's Worth Day
Sunday: The Lord's Day
OK -- the challenge is on! I will try this ... for how long? Two weeks? Weigh in, friends -- I'm just as curious myself to see if this will work. Break out the pinafores and hang on to your apron strings -- Susie Homemaker is on the loose! (Starting Monday, of course).
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Focus
These tracks are probably over 30 years old -- they belonged to my brothers who raced their Hot Wheels or Matchboxes. These tracks have been stored in the attic -- along with many of our other childhood toys -- and they come out from time to time when my kids play upstairs with their grandparents. Some time ago my dad dragged out these tracks for the first time and Aidan was enthralled. At the time, though, he played with them for just a few minutes and then that was it.
Four days ago we were upstairs and the kids immediately went to the stash of toys on the attic stairs. Grace picked up her usual favorite, Pop-Up Pirate, and Aidan saw the bag of tracks -- having completely forgotten about them -- and asked if he could bring them downstairs. And here they are. He has all of his cars from the CARS movie, as well as several Matchboxes and race cars, and one by one he shoots them down the track, seeing which one will make it all the way to the end. He's like a little puppy playing fetch with a stick -- one car zips to the end, he fetches it, and brings it back. Over and over again. He's making the cars talk to each other too, so there's some plot going on as well. I have never seen him so focused on anything -- at least certainly not for days on end. He doesn't have ADD or anything like that -- he's just never been the kind of kid that can sit and play with something for a long period of time. Each night we dismantle the entire set-up and make the living room spotlessly clean of any and all toys. And each morning he wakes up, has his yogurt drink and granola bar, and then heads over to the bag of tracks, setting it up again. I wonder how long this will last ... I love it. It's just too bad it takes up over 2/3 of our entire apartment.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
A pat on the back
OK, I'll just say it -- I'm pretty awesome. Yes, indeed. I rock. I can do anything I put my mind to. Yes, siree, I'm awesome.
That's what I said to Aidan the other day. Unfortunately he didn't share my enthusiasm. He responded, "No, you're just my Mommy." Oh well.
The reason for my outburst of glee? For my truly amazing fait accompli? I installed an audio system, all by myself. OK, I'm sure I'm making a way bigger deal out of it than is due, but hey -- I'm entitled to a a pat on the back. And here's the story ...
My aunt and uncle are storing the majority of our furniture in their second floor unused apartment. Some time ago, we went over there to dispose of an old chair that my uncle said was smelling up his front porch, where it was housed. At some point over the years, it had become Jack's chair, and it did look rather unsightly -- threadbare upholstery, embedded dog hair that refused to come out, etc. While it looked a mess, I didn't smell a thing, but even so we decided to get rid of it. While we were there, I saw a box marked "sterio" ... I wasn't sure what it was, until I opened it up an saw that it was indeed a "stereo." I took it back home with me, figuring we could find some use for it rather than sitting out in the elements on my uncle's porch. I knew just where I wanted it: the kids' bedroom. In our previous homes, Aidan had his own room, and loving music as he does, we had a cheap little CD player that he could operate and play his favorite tunes. Upon moving here, the CD player broke and Aidan has been asking for a new one, to play his music again in the bedroom.
Perfect, I thought -- we'll just use our old "sterio." "It'll never work," said Don -- he thought it was "too much" of a system for the little, crowded bedroom. Now, this was a rather expensive little system -- not a mere "boom box." We bought it several years ago for our second parsonage, due to our massive bedroom and the isolated layout of the second floor. We needed a system that was small, yet powerful enough to fill the second floor with music. Don found a perfect little Cambridge Soundworks system, we saved our pennies, and it was ideal. It's a rather complex little system with several components: two speakers, the main CD player/radio part, a sub-woofer, and lots of wires. All I wanted was good sound; I didn't have to bother with any of that other stuff ...
Until now. I opened the "sterio" box and saw black items of varying sizes and a mess of wires like black spaghetti. I was definitely trodding on foreign ground, but I was determined to have music in my kids' bedroom. I pulled out all the components, lined them up, sorted out the wires, and calmly and deliberately set to work on this crazy puzzle. I didn't understand all of the words on the back -- "input" something-or-other, "max" something else. I just plugged things in where I thought they should go. The trickiest part came with a set of wires with frayed ends, little copper wires sticking out like strands of hair. That was a little intimidating, but I found a place to put them -- or so I hoped ...
Finally I plugged it in and said, "Ready, Aidan?" I hit the power button ... and out came music! I went nuts, shouting and dancing around. I really surprised myself. Aidan thought I was a little crazy and in that childlike honesty you sometimes hate said, "Daddy's still better at that" -- but he too was pretty happy to hear his music. And to top it all off, I got it all set up perfectly, with the player and speaker on top of a bookcase, high enough for Aidan to reach while standing on a chair yet still out of Grace's reach (for now). The sub-woofer is hidden in the closet to the left, tucked away completely out of sight, without a single wire exposed. Right now Grace is in there, eating her snack of Gorilla Munch and singing and dancing to "Action Bible Songs for Kids." Yes, I'm awesome.
Maybe I should go work as an A/V installer and let Don be a stay-at-home dad ... or not. Don gave me a very indulgent smile when he came home from work, like I was a little child presenting my crayon scribblings to him and believing I'm the next Van Gogh. Maybe he was feeling threatened by this new-found competition in the house. And now I must get back to my reality -- Grace just dumped the box of Gorilla Munch all over the kitchen floor. So much for my moment of glory ... Ah, the trip from high to low occurs in the blink of an eye with a two-year-old in your midst ...
That's what I said to Aidan the other day. Unfortunately he didn't share my enthusiasm. He responded, "No, you're just my Mommy." Oh well.
The reason for my outburst of glee? For my truly amazing fait accompli? I installed an audio system, all by myself. OK, I'm sure I'm making a way bigger deal out of it than is due, but hey -- I'm entitled to a a pat on the back. And here's the story ...
My aunt and uncle are storing the majority of our furniture in their second floor unused apartment. Some time ago, we went over there to dispose of an old chair that my uncle said was smelling up his front porch, where it was housed. At some point over the years, it had become Jack's chair, and it did look rather unsightly -- threadbare upholstery, embedded dog hair that refused to come out, etc. While it looked a mess, I didn't smell a thing, but even so we decided to get rid of it. While we were there, I saw a box marked "sterio" ... I wasn't sure what it was, until I opened it up an saw that it was indeed a "stereo." I took it back home with me, figuring we could find some use for it rather than sitting out in the elements on my uncle's porch. I knew just where I wanted it: the kids' bedroom. In our previous homes, Aidan had his own room, and loving music as he does, we had a cheap little CD player that he could operate and play his favorite tunes. Upon moving here, the CD player broke and Aidan has been asking for a new one, to play his music again in the bedroom.
Perfect, I thought -- we'll just use our old "sterio." "It'll never work," said Don -- he thought it was "too much" of a system for the little, crowded bedroom. Now, this was a rather expensive little system -- not a mere "boom box." We bought it several years ago for our second parsonage, due to our massive bedroom and the isolated layout of the second floor. We needed a system that was small, yet powerful enough to fill the second floor with music. Don found a perfect little Cambridge Soundworks system, we saved our pennies, and it was ideal. It's a rather complex little system with several components: two speakers, the main CD player/radio part, a sub-woofer, and lots of wires. All I wanted was good sound; I didn't have to bother with any of that other stuff ...
Until now. I opened the "sterio" box and saw black items of varying sizes and a mess of wires like black spaghetti. I was definitely trodding on foreign ground, but I was determined to have music in my kids' bedroom. I pulled out all the components, lined them up, sorted out the wires, and calmly and deliberately set to work on this crazy puzzle. I didn't understand all of the words on the back -- "input" something-or-other, "max" something else. I just plugged things in where I thought they should go. The trickiest part came with a set of wires with frayed ends, little copper wires sticking out like strands of hair. That was a little intimidating, but I found a place to put them -- or so I hoped ...
Finally I plugged it in and said, "Ready, Aidan?" I hit the power button ... and out came music! I went nuts, shouting and dancing around. I really surprised myself. Aidan thought I was a little crazy and in that childlike honesty you sometimes hate said, "Daddy's still better at that" -- but he too was pretty happy to hear his music. And to top it all off, I got it all set up perfectly, with the player and speaker on top of a bookcase, high enough for Aidan to reach while standing on a chair yet still out of Grace's reach (for now). The sub-woofer is hidden in the closet to the left, tucked away completely out of sight, without a single wire exposed. Right now Grace is in there, eating her snack of Gorilla Munch and singing and dancing to "Action Bible Songs for Kids." Yes, I'm awesome.
Maybe I should go work as an A/V installer and let Don be a stay-at-home dad ... or not. Don gave me a very indulgent smile when he came home from work, like I was a little child presenting my crayon scribblings to him and believing I'm the next Van Gogh. Maybe he was feeling threatened by this new-found competition in the house. And now I must get back to my reality -- Grace just dumped the box of Gorilla Munch all over the kitchen floor. So much for my moment of glory ... Ah, the trip from high to low occurs in the blink of an eye with a two-year-old in your midst ...
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