Oh yes, I’m still here

You’ve probably been picturing me like the little Dutch boy with his finger stuck in the dike, holding off impending disaster by plugging my heat pump leak with an index finger since last Wednesday. But no, that’s not it.

Wednesday afternoon I walked my kids over to the neighbor’s house, came home to curling iron my hair, dot some makeup on my aging face and pull on some black pants. The sun warmed the air with half-hearted strength. Summer is ending. I wore a sweater.

Cars jammed the parking lot, even though I had arrived twenty minutes early. I joined a line that snaked across the asphalt. I had no idea why I was standing in line nor did I ask or speak to the couple in front of me, even though I knew them and I’d just spoken to the woman earlier in the week about becoming my daughter’s preschool teacher. After some minutes, a man appeared on the steps above us and announced that due to the length of the line, we were invited to just come inside and sign the guestbook on our way to the reception.

I walked up to the front row and sat between my husband and my friend. She said, “There are no tissues to be found in this church!” and I opened my purse and handed her three. My husband patted my knee.

The funeral celebrated the life of a father–almost exactly the age of my own deceased father who was born fourteen days before Jeff’s birth on September 15, 1942–husband, grandfather and friend. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from tearing up, but this strategy failed completely during the congregational singing of “There is a Redeemer,” a song written and recorded by the late Keith Green.

By the time we sang, “When I stand in glory, I shall see His face . . .” the lump in my throat convulsed and burst into a sob. I couldn’t catch my breath and then I held my breath on purpose, thinking that I could prevent what Oprah calls “The Ugly Cry” if only I didn’t breathe. As the music flowed, I remembered that I had to breathe and that breathing would keep my heart beating in rhythm and if my heart continued to beat I would not collapse in tears, never to stop crying again.

So, I told myself, “Breathe,” and I did. I gulped in air, bit my lip and gathered my composure as the song ended.

Why does music unravel my soul?

The Last Patrol film

My husband spoke eloquently about his friend and I understood for the first time how deeply this loss affected him. When Jeff’s children spoke, I could hardly bear it. I felt their loss as a daughter who lost her own father, and yet I rejoiced with them because their father had lived his life with such joy and with a lack of regret, unlike my own father.

I did not speak at my own father’s funeral, nor could I have managed. I admired these three grown kids who loved their father freely, who embraced the love he gave them. I also listened with some envy–their father lived 18 years longer than mine did. If your father is still alive, if your mother is still alive, be grateful. I had my own father for only 24 years.

Two of his children sang and again, I cried. By the time the slideshow ended, showing picture after picture of Jeff with his family through the years, my three tissues were wet wads, useless.

When the funeral ended, I hugged the widow and then I had to hurry home to my children. Life resumed, regular precious life.

The rest of the week has been unremarkable, as life does after a crisis. A second repairman came to look at the heat pump and fix what the first repairman had been unable to solve in two visits. I helped the young moms of the church paint the nursery. The ceiling hole remains and we are reduced to sharing one bathroom with its inadequate showerhead. I’ve taken baths again which reminds me of college when I had no choice; the entire girls’ dorm only had bathtubs without showers.

I’ve taken my daughter to the pool where she swims in near solitude. The summer crowds have thinned. Everyone has abandoned summer for fall, even though the calendar offers us a few remaining summer days. I’ve been cleaning bedrooms, vacuuming happily with my new vacuum cleaner, worrying a little about the school year, neglecting my own mother, planning a birthday party for my daughter which will take place on my dead father’s sixty-fifth birthday.

I’m drifting in a swirl of sorrow and monotony with spots of joy here and there like lumps in a batter. This is life and as happens from time to time, I am painfully aware of its rushing current which drags some of us out to sea and some of us to shore, while most of us bob in the waves, feeling no current, but only motion.

And my email box is stuffed full and I can’t seem to catch up.

Rotten day, part 2

So, where was I?  Oh yes, I was telling you about my water-spurting heat-pump.

The repairman returned yesterday to fix the problem.  Obviously, the drain is not draining.  I suspected a clog somewhere in the line.  The repairman’s solution to this problem was to jam a plug of silicone into the overflow drain hole.  (He couldn’t find a clog anywhere.)  I said, “Well, what happens now if the drain is clogged and the water overflows?”  “Oh,” he said, “The water will just flow out from all sides of the unit,” as if that would somehow be better.

Okay, though.  His solution made no sense, but I foolishly accepted his shaky explanation that the water came out of the overflow hole because it shouldn’t have been an open hole anyway (it has been open for 9 years, however and I’ve never had this problem) and how in most homes, it’s capped off.

Did I mention that my husband came home and switched vehicles because an indicator light came on in the van?  After paging through the manual, I discovered that a tire is under-inflated.  Minor in the scheme of things, but annoying nonetheless.

I did not want to go to the pool yesterday . . . I feel like there is so much I need to do around house (housework, for instance, or cooking dinner) and how can I do that while sitting at the pool?  But a mom called me and asked if my kids were going and they wanted to go and so I took them so they could play with her kids.  Because I’m nice like that.
We came home to discover my new vacuum had arrived.  (Ordered through Amazon with gift certificates and free shipping!)  I was so thrilled that I set about vacuuming immediately.  I was just finishing up when I looked up at the ceiling in the family room and said to myself, “Self, that spot sure looks weird.  I wonder if it’s wet?”  Then, I stood on the child-sized rocker, pressed on the spot and punched a three-inch hole into the ceiling with my fingers.  Yes, it was wet.

My husband walked in and I escorted him over to see the hole in the ceiling.  Lucky for us, we have friends who can cope with these sorts of situations, so he called Mark.  Soon, I was answering Mark’s questions.  He told me, “Have your husband cut a hole from ceiling joist to ceiling joist,” and I had to interrupt to inform him that not only do we not have a saw, we don’t know what a ceiling joist is.

He sent over his capable, twentysomething son to cut a hole in my ceiling.  Josh felt around and said it felt like the drain pipe from the shower was dripping.  I said, “Is that a job for a plumber?” with dread because I remember the last time the plumber came (bye-bye four hundred and fifty dollars), but Josh said, “No, it’s probably a dad job.”

So, fine.  Not really, but what can you do?

Fast-forward an hour or two and I’m riding my exercise bike.  “Mom!” a voice calls from downstairs.

“WHAT?!” I say.

“Mom, you’ve got to see this!”

“See what?” I say.

“Water is coming out from the radiator.”  (That makes me laugh that he calls it a “radiator” because I have no idea where he got that term.)
I run downstairs, find a waterfall cascading from all sides of my heat pump.  I rush to the laundry room to find a towel, but of course, for once, I have finished washing, drying and putting away all the towels and so none are handy.  I grab for old cloth diapers, yell at the kids to find towels, and panic, but only a little.  I realize that the stupid little silicone plug needs to come out so the water can drain from one place, not from all over.  I dig it out with my fingertips and water shoots out as if I’d turned on the tap.  I call for a container while grabbing two glasses sitting on a nearby coffee-table.  (All this excitement is happening in the twin boys’ room, which is in the space that used to be a garage years and years ago.)

My son returns with a big Rubbermaid container and the water is now contained.

Except for the big puddle on the floor, which has yet again seeped into the carpet.

Let’s review:

1)  Flooding heat pump with mysterious clog lurking in its bowels.

2)  Hole in ceiling caused by leaking shower.

3)  Screaming 4-year old.

4)  Indicator light on in van.

It could be worse.  So I’m not complaining, mind you.  I’m just enumerating.

Grouchy, me, yes, why?

Seriously.  This was a rotten day.  No, even worse.  It was a Rotten Day, intensified by the fact that I haven’t had a “day off” in about a million years due to circumstances in our lives.  So, my disposition is a little less sunny than usual.  (Ha ha ha ha . . . that’s funny because you’d never say I have a “sunny disposition” under any circumstances.)

Okay, so the guy came to fix the heat pump.  He was here a few days ago, fixed it and still, it continued to leak water all over the floor.

The water seeped into the carpet and the carpet mildewed and has stunk up my whole house.

This makes me cranky.

The 4-year old will not stop SCREAMING.  The older kids will not stop provoking her and tattling until I was to reach my hand into their mouths and pull their lungs out through their esophaguses.  (Esophagusi?)  And the neighbor kids come over in shifts and they also cause the 4-year old to let loose a blood-curdling scream.  Or ten.
Oh, I have more.  But right now, I have to go.  I’ll be back.

Even more answers

Tess asks:  Do your kids eat what you eat or do you have to prepare separate meals for kids and adults in your household?  Any suggestions for kid friendly meals?

Answer:   If my kids choose not to eat what I’ve cooked, they have the option of eating healthy cereal or a sandwich.  For the most part, I don’t cook anything separate, though I modify food to suit my diet.  For instance, if they are having soft tacos, I’ll turn mine into a taco salad.  They might have soup with bread, while I only eat the soup.  They really love pasta with red sauce and I do not at all, so when I cook that for them, I make myself something separate, but simple.  (For instance, I’ll have a plate of cooked vegetables sprinkled with feta cheese or something like that.)

My twins were extremely picky as young children, but now that they are 14, they eat almost everything and in vast quantities!  I have discovered that they’ll eat any number of casserole-type dishes and soups cooked in the Crock-Pot.  My younger kids are not so excited about those kinds of meals, so they’ll eat alternate foods (cereal, cheese, sandwiches).  My experience with my kids has taught me that they will eventually broaden their palates and eat vegetables and fruits.  I never make food an issue with any of them, figuring they’ll outgrow their pickiness–or not.  Either way, why fret?

(My daughter has the oddest preschooler eating habits . . . she likes tuna out of the can, strawberries, kidney beans, green beans and all kinds of things that my other kids never ate at that age.)

Pam asks:  So…is there anything you regret in your parenting? Or your marriage?? Is there something you can say you’re really proud of, in your parenting? Or in your marriage?

Answer:  Parenting regrets?  I regret teaching my kids by example how to overreact and how to respond to each other with a voice full of irritation.  I regret my imperfections, I guess.  But I do not regret the major choices I’ve made with regards to parenting.  I don’t regret choosing to stay home full-time with them, nor do I regret any school choices.  I think I’ve done a pretty good job focusing on what really counts and overlooking what doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
I can’t think of much I regret in terms of my marriage.  In my early marriage, I tended to assume responsibility for things that weren’t my problem.  (He’s mad?  Must be because I’m an awful human being.  That sort of thing.  Now I figure he’s having a bad day and that it has nothing to do with me.)  I do wish I were more naturally affectionate–and I’m sure my husband wishes that, too.  I tend to be a really super self-sufficient and self-contained sort of person, which sometimes leads me to assume my partner is the same.

I am extremely proud of the stability of my marriage.  Never in twenty years has either of us mentioned or considered divorce.  We both came from broken homes and entered our marriage determined to make it last forever.  (And when you  do that, you figure out a way to make it the best experience possible.)  We really like being together and are very compatible in most ways.

More answers

Jennifer asks:  Um, if you could be any animal what would you be?

Answer:  When I was a child, I automatically answered “a lion” because I loved that mane of fur.  Now, as an adult, the question is so much harder to answer because I am aware of lifespans, the drudgery of finding food and the danger of being hunted by someone higher on the food chain.

I think I’d choose to be a rat.  Rats are smart and cute, if you overlook that whole disease-spreading tendency they have.  They are also so hard to exterminate, which has to be a plus, if you’re the rat.  They can go almost anywhere, climb anything, explore nooks and crannies.  Yes, I think I’d like to be a rat.

Written with tears

The past week has left me weary with the sort of fatigue that even a good night’s sleep fails to solve. We drove up last weekend to spend time with some friends from college, but my husband had to drive back through notorious Seattle traffic that night because he had a funeral to do the next morning. After the funeral, he again navigated the Seattle traffic and arrived in Bellingham at about dinner-time. All told, he spent about fifteen hours driving back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

When we returned home the next afternoon, the red light was blinking on our answering machine. A friend from our church was in critical condition at the hospital. My worn-out husband responded with, “I have to sleep for an hour,” and did so. Before his nap was over, another phone call came, reiterating the message about our friend in the hospital. And so, with meetings and church business sandwiched in between, my husband began sitting vigil at the church with the man’s family.

Here’s the story as I know it. I think the details are accurate.

Our friend, Jeff, went outside last Saturday to do yard work. He came in after fifteen minutes, complaining of exhaustion. He’d suffered from shortness of breath all week. His wife took him to the doctor because something just seemed off. The doctor x-rayed his chest and said, “Friend, you have pneumonia. You’ll have to stay in the hospital a few days until you feel better.”

The night, his wife kissed him good-bye and said she’d be back after church Sunday. But Sunday morning she called the church music director and told him that she couldn’t sing the solo as scheduled. “I feel like I need to go back to the hospital,” she said.

When she arrived, a nurse blocked her way from Jeff’s room. And then the nightmare began. Sometime between her departure from the hospital and her arrival that morning, Jeff’s body crashed. The medical team revived him, but his heart was beating dimly. He’d been intubated. He was no longer conscious.

And so Jeff lingered between life and death for four more nights and three days. My husband spent every available minute the hospital, buying food and offering comfort, until Jeff’s kidneys shut down and his heart beat its last beat. He was 62, I think.

He left a wife, grown children, some grandchildren and a giant circle of friends and acquaintances.

Last Saturday, he went out to do some yard work. Today, I believe he’s running in heavenly fields, basking in eternal daylight. I will never cease to be shocked by the sudden ending of life. At least with birth, you get months to get used to the idea of someone new. Even with some warning, I never get used to the finality of death and the loss of someone dear. We spend most of the days of our lives living as if we have an infinite number of days to frolic and work and squander time. And then the days run out for someone–what? so soon?–and we stop for a moment, until we forget again that our days are limited. Each time someone dies, it’s a stunning shock all over again that life on earth is limited.

On Sunday mornings, I hurry into church without my lipstick on, cringing as I’ve just noticed that my children have chosen pants too short, shirts too shabby and shoes that don’t match anything. Always, as I pull open the heavy wooden doors with stained windows and rush inside a minute or two behind schedule to teach my Sunday School class, Jeff scans me and my unkempt kids and even though I try to be invisible most Sunday mornings, he says from his seat in the entry-way, “Good morning, Mother,” in a voice brimming with wry amusement. He never let me slip past without this greeting.

But now he’ll never say it again and I can’t tell you just how much I’m going to miss him.

This is a mommyblog, right?

My daughter at the pool: “Mommy, I did a can-opener on the diving board!”

She just discovered the delight of jumping off the diving board after a summer of hesitation.  Now, she’s working on tricks, one of which is the “cannonball” which she mistakenly thinks is called a “can-opener.”  (She wears a life-jacket since she hasn’t pass the pool’s swim-test, but she has taught herself to swim this summer.)

Answer Number Three

Sarah over at the Anchored Nomad asks several questions: What keeps you motivated in the dieting/healthy lifestyle game?

Answer:  An awareness of the price of overeating, namely, that eating too many Oreos means I have to wear fat pants.  No thanks.  Also, blogging about it keeps me on track.  (You know, over there.)

Question:  What has been the most difficult age to deal with as a parent?  (please, no “they’re all equally difficult in their own ways”, that answer gives me nightmares)

Answer:  I have to say that I really did not enjoy my twin boys when they were 11.  Perhaps this was only because that was our first year of doing school at home, but I remember it as being quite unpleasant.  I prefer them as teenagers, I think.

Question:  Did you dislike living in Michigan as much as I do?

Answer:  I might have handled living in rural, northern Michigan (way way up there) better if I’d had the Internet then.  I felt very isolated and the winters were so very long.  My twins were 19 months old when we arrived and five years old when we left and it was tough being in an isolated area with them.  (The mall was two hours away.  The grocery store was thirty minutes away.  The airport was four hours south of us.)

Question:  Who would play you in your own version of The Preacher’s Wife?  (assuming it’s not Whitney Houston)

Answer:   Huh.   I have just wasted a good five minutes staring at my wrinkly hands–hey, when did that happen?–and pondering this question.  It can’t be someone too skinny, too brunette, too pretty, or anyone with sharp elbows.  I have no idea.  Any ideas?

Answer: Number Two

Angie from All Grown Up? asks: What do you miss most about eating whatever you want before you started dieting?

Answer:  Well, I guess I miss eating whatever I want.  But you probably mean what do I miss eating?  I miss eating a lot of pizza in one sitting and I miss eating potato chips out of the bag.

But there are so many more things that I don’t miss.

I don’t miss having nothing appropriate to wear because I outgrew my clothes.

I don’t miss the tight waistbands on my jeans that made me want to unzip them and put on pajamas during the day.

I don’t miss being invisible in public.  It’s weird that the bigger you are, the less people look you in the eye and acknowledge your existence.

I don’t miss feeling stuffed with too much food.

I don’t miss my feet aching every morning when I first stood on them.

I don’t miss being out of breath walking up the stairs in my house.

I don’t miss hating myself.

I don’t miss being embarrassed to see old friends who knew me before.

I don’t miss ugly clothing, chosen only because it fit.

I don’t miss my double chin.

I don’t miss being the fattest woman in the room.

All in all, I don’t really miss eating whatever I wanted . . . because the cost was so high for that momentary pleasure.