Month: April 2007

Plop, Flush, Sob

Today, I found myself in the church bathroom standing next to my 4-year old daughter as she rubbed a fist into her eyes to stop herself from crying.  And then, from inside the stall, we heard the toilet flush and she burst into fresh tears because inside that toilet was the hot pink plastic ring she wore on her thumb to church.  A few minutes earlier, while using the toilet, she dropped the ring with a plop into the toilet.  

A church lady brought her to me and explained that the ring was in the toilet.  I said, “No problem.  I’ll get it out.”  She said, “Don’t you want some gloves?”  I said, “No.  I’ll just use this straw.”  And then I got a plastic fork, too.  Germs, schmerms.   

But we were too late.  The toilet stall door was closed and as we stood waiting to fish for the ring, we heard the aforementioned flush.

She cried and cried because, of course, the ring was long gone.  I did wave a plastic straw in the blue water, just for effect, I guess, but it was hopeless.  We hurried to the Dollar Store which had no rings, though we did buy five bucks’ worth of consolation junk.

Later tonight, at Fred Meyer, I thought I’d check to see if they carried plastic rings for little heartbroken girls.  The lost ring came from a game called “Pretty Pretty Princess,” but I found the game at Value Village, the thrift store.  But hope propelled me down the toy aisle at Fred Meyer and there I found plastic treasure:  the very game in question.

My daughter will be so thrilled tomorrow morning when she finds not just one replacement ring, but five plastic rings with matching plastic necklaces and bracelets.

I wonder if she’ll remember the lost plastic ring in the flushing disaster of 2007?  I know I will never forget her devastated face when she heard the flush of the toilet.  And now that I’ve came up with replacement rings, I can stop feeling guilty for laughing just a little inside at the absurdity of it all.

Saturday: Books and a movie

I consider it akin to a miracle when I open my eyes in the morning, peer at the clock and realize it is 8:35 a.m.  Even though I escorted my 4-year old to the bathroom at 4:00 a.m. and spent a couple of minutes rocking her, a night with only one interruption and a wake-up time after 7:00 a.m. is a delight and also more proof that I have very low standards. 

What’s lovely about my youngest child reaching the age of 4 and a half is that she no longer demands that I rouse from bed at an ungodly hour.  She didn’t sleep through the night until she was eleven months old.  My twins used to wake up every morning between 5:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. which is just wrong on so many levels.  My husband had mercy on me in those long-ago days and would wake up early so I could sleep longer.  He rocks.

Today, after “sleeping in,” we finally got moving after 9:00 a.m.  My husband went to get donuts (around here, Saturday is called “Donut Day”) and I showered.  While still in the shower, the phone rang and my daughter, the self-appointed phone-answerer around here, brought me the phone.  I asked the woman on the phone if I could call her back.  I was sure she could hear the showering water, but she told me later that she did not.  (I wonder if talking on the phone in the shower could electrocute me.  Anybody know?)

My husband has learned after many years together (almost 20!) that I require some time alone each week for optimum mental health.  Back when the twins were babies, I had a local friend who had given birth to three kids in three years.  She told me that her husband set her free for six hours each Saturday . . . and I remember being so jealous and wondering why my husband didn’t understand that I needed six hours away each Saturday.  As it turns out, he just needed more time to understand.  Also, when I was gone for six straight days (my longest absence from home ever), he experienced what it’s like to be stuck in a cycle of satisfying the needs of four kids hour after hour, day after day. 

Now, he really understands, even more than he did before. 

So, he doesn’t make me grovel and beg.  He just assumes that I will leave the house and I will stay away as long as possible.  Which I do.  

Today, I went to three thrift stores where I mainly bought books.  I love books with an irrational love, with an addictive love, with a love that cannot be satisifed with a library card.  I also saw the worst movie in recent memory:  Perfect Stranger with Halle Berry and Bruce Willis.  Horrible screenplay, silly dialogue, inconsistent characters, awful acting, stupid plot, ridiculous dialogue . . . only the popcorn was good!  Save your money . . . watch it free on television in five years.  (How can a woman who is so beautiful make such a lousy movies?)

Yes, I watch “The Real World.”

So, when you feel completely overwhelmed and so tired that you think that a nap at 7:00 p.m. is a good idea, you might be getting sick.

That partly explains my previous post about motherhood making me tired.  As it turns out, being sick also makes me tired and thus, for the past two days, I’ve been slogging through my life with a head full of wet cement. 

No Retreat, No Surrender the movie But it’s only a cold.  And I’ll feel better soon.

I do have to say that watching MTV’s “Real World” cheered me considerably tonight.  Brooke, one of the young women on the show, completely lost her mind and went berserk with crazed grief and anger because her roommate, a cute boy whose name escapes me, insulted her behind her back. 

She finally confronts him (in a bar, where all confrontations ought to take place for maximum drama, I guess) and he repeats the insult to her face.

She storms home, locks herself in the bathroom and weeps.  Her sobs turn into screams and soon, she’s marching through the house, scrawling a note on three separate pieces of paper (“You are the nastiest human being ever.  I will never trust you again.  Rot in hell.  Love, Brooke.”)  Then she strips his bed of sheets, strategically places the notes on the bed, knocks over a lamp and collapses in her closet, arms flung over her head, face blotchy with tears, her head on a stray plastic hanger. 

She’s gasping and crying when her friend, Colie, comes in and asks, “Are you okay?”

Brooke says, “No!”

Then Colie asks what happened and Brooke says that she had a conversation with the boy roommate.  She sits up, runs her hands through her hair and blurts out, “He said I have a double chin!” 

Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  (That’s me.)  Cry.  Cry.  Cry.  (That’s her.)  

“I will never trust him again!  Why does this always happen to me?”  And she sobs into her hands.

And I burst into laughter. 

Perhaps this means I’m cruel, but it also means I’m old and I know that a double chin is nothing to cry about.  In fact, in the grand scheme of things, a double chin is the equivalent of stepping on a pebble with your bare feet–you might flinch but you don’t limp or break your stride.  I only wish that having someone notice my double chin were the worst thing to ever happen to me.

What hilarity.

Re-entry Blues

Fatigue pulls at me, grabs me around the shoulders and tries to wrestle me to the ground.  Stress tightens the tendons holding my muscles to my bones.  Sleep eludes me because my 4-year old daughter checks throughout the night to see if she can sleep with me.  When I consent, she coughs into my ear for hours.  (She has a little cold.)

A week ago, I laced up my walking shoes and followed a downhill trail to railroad tracks.  The dappled sunlight, the scent of blossoms, the sound of burbling water accompanied me on my exploratory walk.  The squirrels darted around tree trunks, startling me.  A blue jay hopped along, erratic and beautiful.

Today, my meandering has turned into forced participation in a marching band.  I’m back at work, keeping beat, following directions, sweeping along and being swept along by the demands of the parade route.  No time to deviate, no time to explore inviting shops, no left turns, no right.  Just march, march, march, keep the beat, bang the drum, eyes ahead, just another mile, or twenty, must keep time, right, left, right, left.  I’ve exchanged my walking shoes and my thoughtful solitude for the clumsy rhythm of this rag-tag marching band and we do not have time to stop, to sit, to rest, to be quiet. 

I’m cut into tiny little pieces, boxed up in tidy squares.  My brain contracts, shrinks to fit the little world around me, the world of dirt clumps on the floor, socks rolled in to balls and crumpled napkins stuck on dirty plates.

Motherhood makes me tired.

The Resurrection’s Coming

I was so focused on preparing for my conference that I forgot that Easter was coming.  In fact, on Tuesday at the Mt. Hermon post office in California, when I spied an Easter-themed metal mailbox decoration, I thought it odd that this out-of-season item sat in the post office.  I noticed like you might notice a Halloween jack-o-lantern in July. 

And then, with a jolt, I realized Easter was coming.  Ready or not.  I’d forgotten that Easter was coming, even though I rose early on Palm Sunday and climbed to the top of Mt. Hermon, even though I had worshiped in church on that Sunday morning, a lump in my throat growing in response to the majesty of the music and the painful beauty of the words to the hymns.  

Not until I returned home, though, did I realize how utterly unprepared I was for the holiday, the holy day.  It’s not as if we join the commercial fray and purchase big gift baskets for our kids and insist the teenagers wear suits and shiny shoes to church.  Our celebration is simple and practically gift-free.  I bought my daughter an Easter dress last year at Marshall’s on clearance ($13) and I bought the boys new knit shirts with collars.   

But Easter is not Easter without a ham and chocolate Easter bunnies, so over the past two days, I’ve purchased provisions.  I boiled eggs, figuring we can dye them tomorrow afternoon, better late than never.  I invited my mother and my sister and her family over.  I tried on outfits and settled on a black dress with flowers.  I hunted for a pair of acceptable tights to match my daughter’s dress.  I baked lemon bars.

Tonight, as I drove home, the skies opened up and hard rain fell.  Darkness spread over the landscape and I thought it might have been a night like tonight, that desperate night so long ago when Jesus’ friends and followers feared the worst and hoped against hope that the dark night wouldn’t last forever. 

And after that black night, a night without stars and without joy, the women rose early–having slept badly, if at all–and hurried to the tomb, hurried to serve one last time and found that He was gone.

He was risen.  Christ is risen indeed.

And the sun rose again.  The Son rose.  

Creativity and Dirt

Here is what I found when I checked on the kids in the back yard today.  He’s reading.

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Later, I found the two youngest kids reclining in the makeshift hammock.  “Shhh!  Pretend you’re asleep,” he said to her.

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Then, still later, I investigated a pound-pound-pounding noise and found my oldest son excavating a hole under the sidewalk.  At this point, I said, “Why do you need to dig a hole?”

He looked up at me and said, “Mom, we’re boys!” 

That explains it all.

Here it the hole before it reached the center of the earth:
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Shame and Joy

Shame:  I have yet to teach my 9-year old to tie his shoes.  Velcro has turned me into a negligent mother.  However, yesterday for the first time, he mastered riding his bicycle which has been a challenge for him until now.  (I take no credit for this at all.)

Joy:  Max & Ruby are back.  I can’t help myself.  I really love “Max & Ruby” and so does my 4-year old.  She completely identifies with Ruby. 

That is all. 

Mt. Hermon Christian Writers Conference

100_0380.jpgLast week, as you know, I was away at a writing conference at Mt. Hermon, California. 

There, I met my good friend and blogging-buddy, Barbara Curtis of Mommylife.net.  Here we are on our last night there, trying our best to look as thin as possible (she’s lost 75 pounds; I’ve lost 58): 

100_0376.jpgWe did spend time sitting side-by-side with our computers, too, because that’s inevitable when you are bloggers hanging out together. 

As it turned out, many of the 450 writers at the conference were also bloggers.  One night, we met together informally and shared our URLs and tips for blogging.  I attempted to leave comments in real-time, but I began to sound like a stalker (“I’m looking at you right now!”) and then I couldn’t keep up. 

But here is a list of bloggers who are also writers, that you may not have heard of (yet).  Check them out.

Real Women Scrap – Tasra Dawson
Relevant Blog – Mary DeMuth
maxgrace.com– Bill Giovannetti
Christian Work at Home Moms – Jill Hart
Larry’s Bible Blog – Larry Wilson
Spaghetti Pie – Tina Howard
Parenting Solo Devotionals and Hackberry – Doug Mead
Moral Movies – Dean Anderson
Laura Christianson
Writebrained – BJ Hamrick
Why didn’t you warn me? and Sometimes I feel like a piece of bologna – Pat Sikora
Happy Feet – Jon VonHof
Goddess Worship – Susy Fiory (who’s doing a Christian investigation of goddess worship)
Mommy Life – Barbara Curtis

(Next post, pictures of the Redwoods.  Stay tuned.)

Soon, I’ll be flushing the family toilets again.

Tonight is my last night here at Mt. Hermon.  [For details of my adventure last night with Barbara, check out her blog, Mommylife.net.  She wrote about our efforts to find the ocean (go west, young middle-aged women!).]  What fun I’ve had chatting with her and monopolizing her time  spending time with her.  We took a picture together tonight (which I’ll post in a day or two when I get home), but I’m afraid I’m having a bad hair day, so do not expect a Glamour-Shot. 

Aside from the professional networking and workshops, the stretch of days has refreshed me in a way that I hadn’t realized I even needed.  I’ve been able to think without interruption, read without the distraction of FOX News in the background, and jot down ideas in margins of legal pads that may someday work their way into print.  I feel more focused on my goals and on what I hope to achieve as a writer.  I feel a sense of stillness and hope.  And I’m even comfortable now saying, “I’m a writer.”  (After all, I have business cards to prove it.)

Anyway, tomorrow at 5:30 p.m., I’ll be boarding a plane, heading home.  I will be sorry to say good-bye to the towering Redwoods and to the beautiful campus here, but I take home with me a good supply of peace and nourishment, hopefully enough to get me through the pile of laundry I predict awaits me and the stinky kitty litter box which has most likely been forgotten in my absence.

I just hope someone’s been flushing the toilets while I was away.

I’m still in the Redwood forest . . .

What a beautiful place this is.  The skies have been blue, the mornings chilly, the afternoons warm.  Dogwoods are in bloom and lilacs are about to burst into scented blossoms.  This morning I woke up at 5:50 a.m.–(Reminder:  I am not a morning person)–to take a hike up to Mt. Hermon where a twenty foot cross stands.  The morning is dark at 6 a.m., (the better to not see those dark circles under your eyes), but by the time we summited the “mountain” (I use that word lightly because there was no year-round snowpack and we all know that a mountain is not really a mountain unless it has a glacier or two) . . . my goodness, what is with all the parentheses?  Anyway, by the time we arrived at the top, the sun was brightening the sky and as we stood in a circle, the thirty of us, praying, the sun rose.

And I wondered why I don’t get outside more at dawn.  (Answer:  Because dawn arrives very very early.) 

The schedule here would be grueling except that compared to being a full-time stay-at-home mother with school-at-home teenagers and a sassy preschooler and and half a dozen neighborhood boys traipsing through my house at all times (“CLOSE THE DOOR!”) it’s a breeze.  I could not be having a better time, unless, of course, I could eat cookies without turning into the Amazing Growing Mom.

I don’t have time to answer email while I’m here, but don’t let that stop you from emailing me.  I’m reading every comment and loving hearing from everyone.  Barbara Curtis is every bit as wonderful in person as you would imagine.  In fact, I’m heading to her workshop now.

And so, now I must sign off and run.  Be good.  Or if you can’t be good, be careful.