A Funk, A Moose, and (hopefully) a Miracle

"While you're at it, why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?"

(Miracle Max, The Princess Bride, 1987 ... what? 1987?! Oh, man, that's depressing ...)

The Princess Bride -- one of my all-time favorite movies. Once upon a time, like many teenagers, I had pretty much the whole movie memorized. Priceless quotes. Timelessly applicable to any and all circumstances. Like Miracle Max's hilarity above -- kinda of fits my mood as of late (21 years later -- ouch!).

More often than not, I'm OK with where I am. I've learned to be. I've learned to be OK. It certainly wasn't easy to get to this point -- that's why it's called a "journey," I suppose. But more often than not, as of late, I've learned to look past the hurts -- or, at least try to -- and bathe myself in the blessings. Yes, there's been a lot of those.

But then -- dash it all! -- dash it all? Who really says that anymore? Oh well -- I can't put a "stronger" word in here because my parents read this -- I get stuck. I trip up on a rock on my path. My foot gets stuck in a dark hole. I stumble. I don't feel blessed. I feel angry. Hurt. Something comes up and forces me to think about it all, when really all I want to do is forget. It's frustrating. It's aggravating. I get mired in the now, wondering "is this it? Is this the end of the vocational/ministry end of things?" Hey -- it might very well be. I have to be OK with that. But the crazy thing is, that I'm more and more becoming almost too OK with it. I kind of like being where I am, not mixed up in "church" and all that comes with it. What I do with that is beyond me. All part of the whirling. But it's hard, this journey ... it's like pouring lemon juice into a cut.

I think our impending visit to PA has put me into a funk. Memories, all of our hopes and dreams filed away into a drawer somewhere. A friend told me yesterday, "All of this will be used, somehow. It has shaped you into who you are. It's now a part of your history." I kind of laughed a whiny laugh (oh, so that's where my kids get it?!) -- I don't want that to be my history!

Ugh. 'Tis my funk for today. It's been a whirlwind day, trying to put PA out of my mind yet all the while it's there before me, tomorrow's destination. I trekked out with the kids, visiting the groomer for a quick doggie nail trim and ear-cleaning, then to the bank, then to church ... Grace wanted to swim, so I blew up the kiddie pool, got her favorite bucket, cup, sponge, and watering can (all the girl needs for a good time), slathered her fair still-baby skin with lotion, and clad her little self in a cute two-piece bathing suit (which she promptly ditched, having no liking whatsoever for swim suits at all). I started packing, realizing that this once-upon-a-time normal routine for us -- travel, travel, travel -- has fallen by the wayside, now that we're here near family and have no need to hit the roads much. At least, not like we used to. I'm out of practice and find myself wandering around, fiddling, not accomplishing much.

I think the kids are sensing my quagmire too. Everything went south after lunch -- the kids are restless, edgy, following me around everywhere I go ... which is the very worst thing to do to a person in a quagmire. I finally escaped to my room -- which really isn't much of an escape, considering the kids were a mere three steps away in the living room --to lay down on my bed for a few moments of peace. Yeah. Right. As soon as I put myself in a prone position, I heard the muted thumps of little feet. Then the pulling of the bed cover as a little girl climbed up. She thought it was a riot, laying down behind me. Then my boy came, all bony and gangly, snuggling up in front of me. I was sandwiched, and while I should have appreciated that sweet, sweet moment ... I didn't. I couldn't. Ach.

So now we're nearing the close of a very frustrating day. It literally took me all day to write this, adding to the funkiness. Every time I sat down to write, someone needed me -- Grace needed a new diaper, Aidan needed juice, Don needed help with lunch. Not much is packed -- the kids' stuff is about done, ours isn't even started. There are so many last-minute things to think about -- toothpaste and snacks for the car and a hair dryer. All will wait for tomorrow. Don's preaching again, having spent all day -- again -- writing his sermon, with the computer crashing left and right ... all adding to the funk o' the day. Tonight after the kids are bathed and put to bed, we're going to crash. Savor a few beverages, finish up Season Five of Northern Exposure ... Ah, yes, another funk-element. We have one more season to purchase, thereby finishing our collection of one of the all-time best TV shows ever. I read a brief synopsis of Season Six and felt an incredible sadness, oddly enough. Watching this series so many years after my first introduction, I saw new things, learned new things, connected with the characters in a very different way than I did in my carefree, happy college days. One more season to go before I bid farewell to Joel and Maggie, Holling and Shelly, Chris, Ed, Maurice, Ruth Anne ... another good-bye. Boy, this is one hefty funk if I'm now waxing melancholy about a TV show! Sheesh.

What a day it's been. Funks are weird, aren't they? Tomorrow we leave for our journey. More to come, more to come ...

Trigger Alert & Mama-Guilt: It's Been A Doozy of a Week

OK, so how weird is this ... We are traveling to Philadelphia on Sunday for Grace's annual appointment with her clubfoot doctor, scheduled for Monday afternoon. We haven't seen him since last June, when he said she's doing beautifully, wear those danged shoes, and stretch stretch stretch that little foot. Gotcha.

It's strange to think that a whole year has gone by, and now it's time for the verdict. And boy, did we come up short. Grace's treatment, since birth, involves what's called the Ponseti Method, at least for the most part. If I'm not mistaken (from what little I know of all of this), a true Ponseti follower seeks to avoid surgery, going by the route of serial casting and orthotic shoes. While our particular doctor, who works out of the Children's Hospital of Pennsylvania, studied at the knee of Ponseti himself and works with the method, he does involve surgery as well. So our little Grace had the surgery, clipping her little heel's tendon, at the age of 3 months. It was one of the worst experiences of my life to date, but Grace sailed through. Since then we've dealt with her sweet little leg in a cast for months on end, followed by the dreaded shoes. We've struggled with that blasted footwear. And in the course of this past year since her last visit, the shoes continued to be a terrible ordeal. She'd wear them for a bit, then develop horrific blisters, so the shoes stayed off so the toes could heal. Shoes back on, same festering blisters, shoes off. Off-on, off-on, week after week, month after month. Finally, a couple of months ago, she officially outgrew the shoes, and we were faced with choice: buy yet another new pair (straight out of our near-empty pockets, with no insurance coverage for such "optional" items) for the last couple of months before the appointment, or just wait and see what the doctor says. We opted for the latter, to forgo the shoes until we meet with the doc, but try to stay diligent with the stretching. Yeah ... that wasn't as easy as it sounds. I tried, usually during diaper changes while she was laying on the bed anyway, but it didn't last very long. The balm to all of this was a comment made to me by the guy who sold us the shoes last year. He was floored to see my prescription for the clunky contraption, saying in his 30 years of business, he hasn't seen these in nearly 15 years. What?! What do clubfoot patients do around here, I asked? He wasn't sure, but he said that docs here in northern NJ don't use them anymore. Just surgery and stretching, I guess. I was surprised but secretly glad, feeling a bit of that Mama-Guilt starting to slip away. I hoped for the best.

This has been a stomach churning week for me, for two reasons. First, I've gone into trigger-alert mode ... for traveling back to PA means traveling back in time, to the place of our nightmare. I felt this way last year too and wrote about it, finding that I'm feeling pretty much the same way but thankfully feeling blessed that the emotions are not quite as strong as they were last year. Healing is definitely occurring, thank God for that. Yet it's still going to be hard this time around, no doubt about it -- seeing the same roads, the same sights, the same stores, the same everything that we lived. Thankfully we won't have to see the church -- that would be torture, driving by that structure and recalling everything that happened within. I wish there was some kind of pill I could take, to simply wipe all of those memories out of my brain. I don't want to think about those people, those events, those shattered dreams. But our medical trip back to PA will indeed put it right back into my face, with no dulling pills to swallow. It's so hard to let it all go, to put it all behind.

On top of that emotional ride, I'm also starting to get nervous about Grace's foot and what the doctor might say. Now back to the weirdness of this tale. As the nerves are starting to brew, I get two hits on my blog from other moms of clubfoot kids -- two! What are the chances of that? Right during this same time where I can't get "clubfoot" out of my mind? Both moms were great, kind, empathetic, and supportive -- cool. I don't know anyone going through this so it was neat to feel connected in some way. And yet ... I then crossed an imaginary line into discovering too much information. There were links to other websites, to learn more about clubfoot and what's involved, what's to be expected, and so on. Unfortunately ... I kind of freaked.

One extremely informative site called Six Feet was unbelievably detailed, put together by a mom who needed a site years ago and never had one. Cool, I thought. Very helpful. But as I read, the Mama-Guilt kicked into full gear, especially when talking about the shoes, and statistics, and how crucial-vital-imperative it is that your child wear those shoes, no ifs-ands-or-buts. Many parents think they can relax when the child is "out of the woods" at age two or three, believing the foot looks OK so all is well, where as the statistics shake you up, with super high percentage rates of relapse during this oh-so-seemingly-comfortable phase ... yikes. I had been very upbeat and positive going into this home stretch before the appointment; now I'm scared silly. I look at her little foot constantly. Is it curved more than usual? Is it dropping when she walks? Does it feel tighter than usual? Is she doing this, or that ... ugh. Drives you crazy.

Is it horrible to say that I kind of like being a little ignorant? The more information I get under my belt, the worse I feel. Some folks feel encouraged by gathering facts and information, and that's great; apparently it doesn't work so well for me. I have no idea what to expect on Monday -- will she need a cast? More surgery? Or nothing at all? Prayers are appreciated, my friends -- for the emotional baggage opening up on this trip as well as the medical needs. Yes, it's been a doozy of a week, slugging down this heavy cocktail. But we'll get through it ... we always do. That's what grace -- and Grace -- is all about.

A Boy Never Really Grows Up (Or: Don's Contribution Today)

Last night Don and my oldest brother, Steve, went to a free concert down along the Hudson River somewhere to see the Smithereens. It began at 7:00 p.m. (what does that say? No more midnight gigs for these aging rock stars, or their aging fans), so Don left work a few minutes early, zipped home to change and pass around kisses and hugs, then charged back out the door. He got home around 10:30 p.m. or thereabouts, all smiles and energy. Apparently they had a really fabulous time -- right in front of the stage, talked to the guys afterwards for a while, got autographs and pictures. Unfortunately I just couldn't muster up any enthusiasm; I nodded and "hmmm'd" and "ooh'd" while I continued to read my book as he retold the events of the evening. I don't know anything about the Smithereens. I had no desire to go to that concert, and even if I did I had to stay home with the kiddies anyway. Fine with me. I had checked out a non-husband movie from the library -- "Mona Lisa Smile," a girlie version of "Dead Poet's Society," with girls instead of boys, art history instead of English literature, same snobby prep school venue, but not nearly as good as the Robin Williams' classic -- and had a fine evening all on my own.

Both Steve and Don asked if I would post these cell-phone produced pix on my blog. I'm feeling gracious. Here they are. And that's the end of this post. (I am glad they had a good time).

A 5,000 Year Old Puzzle Solved (Or: Who Needs Jigsaws When You've Got Stonehenge!)

Ground-breaking news in the history world -- looks like archaeologist Mike Parker Pearson put the last piece of the puzzle in place, solving the mystery of Stonehenge. That's pretty huge, if you think about it. Archaeologists have come and gone over the years, each supporting their own theories of what the mysterious, massive structure meant. Is it a hospital? A place of sacrifice? A place of worship? Is it Druid? Celtic? Roman? Well, according to MPP, none of the above. It goes back even farther than that -- try 2,500 B.C.

I watched the 2-hour documentary about this discovery the other night, and I was absolutely fascinated. It reawakened the archaeologist-wannabe in me, and I drooled over each word, each reenactment, each theory, each discovery. Stonehenge wasn't a solitary structure, but rather was linked to another wooden circular structure about a mile away. The wood, of course, is long gone, but the post holes are still there, placed in a nearly identical pattern as the famous stone monument. And not only that, but MPP and his team uncovered an entire village nearby, which would have housed several thousand ancient people, gathering there twice a year to celebrate both the summer- and winter-solistice. Life and death -- honoring both. Wood and stone. It's really extremely fascinating. Here's the link if you're into this kind of thing like I am. This is a page in the history books being written, folks. It's cool to be a part of it.

But what really blew me away was the timeline involved. As Don and I were talking about it, my mind started whirling, dates and events and people falling in place along my mental history line, and discovering that these ancient people were not Druids, Celts, or Romans, but rather contemporaries of ... Abraham! How weird is that? Ancient Biblical characters mesh with the builders of Stonehenge. That was really incredible to me. But then I posed a question to Don:

How in the world did they get up there? The British Isles are a long, long way from Palestine ...

He smiled and laughed a bit. Good question, right? He made an interesting point -- ancient Hebrews really didn't care about that stuff. That wasn't their purpose. Nor is it the purpose of the Bible (the Old Testament in particular) to serve as a history book. "And while Abraham and his family traveled to Canaan, there was a sect of pagans to the north, called Britons, and they henceforth commenced the building of a massive stone structure ..." Nope. That wasn't the point at all. But it does pose an interesting question -- one that, I suppose, goes all the way back to Neanderthals and Lucy and the first homo sapiens and Adam and Eve ... A whirling, twirling historic blur.

Faith kind of plays in a role in this sort of thing too. History (especially Biblical) and science so often intersect, causing some concern among Christians. I find it all fascinating, but some are genuinely alarmed by this intersection. This can be pretty controversial stuff. Don recalled a moment during his days as a restoration carpenter, working with one of his colleagues named Fred, an Amish guy (or was he Mennonite? Amish, then Mennonite? Whatever -- picture a typical Amish man complete with hat, beard, and dark clothes and you've got Fred) who worked with the company for a while. Don once asked him what he thought about dinosaurs, and Fred scowled. "God put those dinosaur bones into the ground to fool us," he said. "There's no such thing. It takes faith to believe that." Interesting. I wonder what Fred would say about Stonehenge?

Wherever you fall in the spectrum, this sure is great stuff. Time to add that to my list of places to visit some day.

I've Crossed Over (Or: Girls Will Be Girls)

Wow. I've done it.
I've officially crossed over, into the realm of ...

Girlie-hood.

I decided to paint my toenails, as I often do throughout the shoeless summer. I selected a nice shade called "Silver Plum" and set to work. It wasn't long until Grace was by my side, curious.

"What's that, Mommy?" she asked. I told her what I was doing.

"Oh! I want that too!"

I think I surprised myself a bit when I quickly decided to indulge her whim. Why not? It'll be cute. I chose a different, fun shade for her, a pale silvery blue called "Sky," and we switched seats at the kitchen table. I picked up her little foot ... and stopped.

It just so happened to be her right foot. Her clubfoot. It's chunky. It's shorter than the other. It's very wide. It turns inward a bit. It's curved in shape, toes included. Everything is in tact. It's just ... different.

I looked at that chunky little foot in my hand for a few moments, really looking at it. When Grace was born, we knew what was waiting for us, and I couldn't bring myself to look at that foot during that first day of her birth. I avoided it. I looked at every other part of her beautiful self, except that foot. I realized that I still don't really look at it, unless it's out of concern. Is she walking OK? Is it turning inward too far? Is she walking on the ball of her foot? Does the heel touch the ground like it should? Is her leg that noticeably thinner than the other?

But that morning I held that little food in my hand and really looked at it. I then looked up at her face. She was beaming, all smiles. She has no idea ... nor do I want her to know. I don't want this to stop her. It certainly doesn't have to. But I've read far too many stories of grown-up folks who struggled with a clubfoot -- women who hate themselves, men who are embarrassed, those who haven't worn a pair of shorts in decades because they're ashamed of their skinny leg, those who suffer from chronic pain. Is this what's in store for my little girl? It breaks my heart sometimes.

But in that moment she had no pain. She had no idea. All she saw was Mommy holding her foot, ready to paint her tiny toenails. When finished, she danced around the house, informing me she was now Cinderella.

My twinkly-toed princess.
I squeezed that chunky little foot, and kissed it.
She giggled.

My Own Miranda

Northern Exposure
Season Five
Episode Fifteen
"Hello, I Love You"

"It looks like a fine winter's morning out there at the 63rd latitude. Jack frost is tagging up those window panes, hot java, english muffins, locked and loaded. The word on the street is that the Tambo-Vincour addition is due to pop out and see it's shadow mañana. From the safety of the womb to the bright unknown. Hey little one, you got 843 expectant aunts and uncles out here all queued up for a little koochie koochie koo." (Chris)

Shelly Tambo-Vincour is about to have her baby any day now. In fact, she's two weeks overdue and is scheduled for a C-section in Anchorage. At first she's nonchalant, then increasingly anxious about the whole ordeal -- whether her little baby will like her, and how her life will change forever.

On the scheduled day of delivery, Dr. Fleischman walks into the bar, informing Shelly that it's time to pack up. She's not ready; she hasn't even given it any thought. Joel gave her until 4:00 p.m. at the very latest. She drooped.

She shuffled out of the bar and made her way over to the laundromat. There she sees a little girl, about 5 years old, playing with Barbies. Shelly warms to the little girl, talking "shop," recalling her own days of Barbies, clothes, and accessories. When she's about to leave, she asks the little girl her name: "Miranda," she said. Shelly is floored -- the same name she plans on giving her own baby.

Shelly is puzzled. What are the chances of meeting another Miranda in Cicely, Alaska of all places? She decides to go back to the laundromat to talk to the little girl some more. Instead, she meets a pre-teen, full of attitude. They chat, Shelly connects, and once again discovers this girl's name is Miranda. Shelly is stunned. This is no longer a coincidence.

Later in the day, she finds an excuse to return to the laundromat. The young girls are gone, and now she sees a beautiful young woman, ready to hit the road, on her way to the Dallas Cowboys' cheerleader tryouts. They have a heart-to-heart chat, and Shelly now knows who she's been talking to all day. Miranda. Her Miranda. She's been given a gift of sorts, seeing her own little girl in different phases of life. She's overjoyed and, finally, she's at peace with her future. All of those unknowns, all of those fears, are now gone. She knows everything will be OK.

I watched this episode a few nights ago and it struck a chord with me. Part of it hit my motherhood nerve, watching this new mother embark on her own journey, bringing a new baby into the world ... all this right on the heels of my own chapter closing, having given away my baby things. But more than that, I appreciated this episode on a level that I never paid much attention to in the past, for I never had to -- this fear of the future, the unknown. That's kind of where I've been over this past year and a half, having no idea whatsoever where this journey is taking me. While I do know that the answer, for now, is "just wait," I'm usually OK with that. This is where I'm supposed to be, right now, and perhaps someday I'll know why. I'll see it within the greater context, the bigger picture. Usually I'm OK with that. But then there are those days, like Shelly, where I would love to meet my own Miranda, to see with my own eyes a quick, tangible glimpse that everything is going to be OK. I guess we all have that little part of us, no matter what our situation. We all want to catch a glimpse.

Shelly had Miranda.
I have my faith.
Still ... I do have that little part in me that wants to visit the Cicely Wash & Dry ...

Summer Vacation Check-In: On to Week Two

Don't fret -- I don't plan on writing a weekly update on how our summer vacation is going. But after last week's interesting revelations (about how my boy is wired, how I react, etc.) and squashing strange motherhood-fears, I was quite amazed at the transformation of the week, from the unexpected start to the equally unexpected finish. Things are looking up, I believe!

Of all the ideas poured over the phone from the crankings of my sister-in-law's sharp and creative mind, one in particular stuck in my head -- the idea of an activity chart. Aidan craves structure, so (as April suggested) just work with that. Don't play for him, but it's OK to set him up, get him started. An activity chart seemed like just the ticket -- enough structure for comfort, yet enough freedom within that structure to help him on his way. I brought up the idea to Aidan, who gleefully jumped into the idea-pool, surprising even me with his own creative workings. Ha -- he has no trouble with creativity when it comes to inventing the structure itself. I'm truly fascinated with this boy, let me tell you ...

So later in the week, we sat down together with pad and pen and wrote down all of the ideas we could think of. But first, before we pulled out the big guns, Aidan had another idea. "I'm big now," he said. "Let's make a chore chart for me." Oooohhhhh ... cool! So together we created "Aidan's Chore Chart," filling in the three chores he said he would like to be in charge of: feeding Jack breakfast, setting the lunch table, and feeding Jack dinner. So far, so good.

The creation of the Activity Chart was an activity in and of itself, taking up Grace's entire nap time, and proving to be a great bonding time for us. He got a kick out of the old Twister spinner, and since it's color-coded (red, green, blue, and yellow) he decided to match his chart to the spinner. It was a joy for me to watch his little mind go to work, and here's what he came up with, now hanging on our kitchen door:


Each color has four activities, (obviously) pertaining to the color blocks on the spinner. Since he's usually OK during the Grace's "awake" hours (you can't beat having a playmate), this Activity Chart comes in handy during her naptime, when he can't figure out what to do. He spins the spinner, matches the color to the chart on the kitchen door, and chooses one of four activities listed there. Pretty cool.

I had to laugh at the first try, though. After we finished the chart, Aidan was ready for his maiden voyage. He gave the spinner a big twist, and watched it land on yellow. He looked at the corresponding offerings, "hmmmmm'd" a bit, twisted his little mouth in thought, and then he said, "I think I'd rather have red. I want to play with my Hot Wheels outside." Hey, I'll take it. For the next 20 minutes he played happily and quietly outside with his cars, until Grace woke up from her nap. I actually got some laundry folded.

The Chart has been in action for the last few days now, with great success. Will it last? Who knows. But the last few days have been great -- limited fighting, great camaraderie (on all our parts), lots of play. I too have been trying to be diligent, interspersing my own "Mommy Time" into the mix, making sure I play with my kids, or at least involve myself in some way. On Friday afternoon, the three of us played Hullaballoo outside on the lawn, and actually had a pretty fabulous time. Aidan helped me transplant a few flowers, Grace helped with the watering (herself more than the plants, I think). Today is a new day, the start of our second week. I'm OK with the structure, knowing now what can come of it.