Dramatic happenings

My phone rang at 9:00 a.m. this morning and I answered in a semi-conscious haze. My friend, Linda, said, “Oh, were you sleeping?” At least I think that’s what she said. It’s always embarrassing to answer that question because sleeping past 6:00 a.m. is a sign of a deficient personality or a character flaw. However, I am excused because my daughter was up half the night throwing up. Nevermind the fact that I loathe mornings and never willingly wake up before 9:00 a.m. (though I do unwillingly wake up by 8:00 a.m. every morning).

My daughter complained last night that her forehead and stomach hurt. I love how specific she is–she never says, “My head hurts,” but only, “My forehead hurts.” She threw up in the sink last night before bed and I optimistically hoped the worst was over. It was not.

However, a stomach virus in a five year old is so much easier than a stomach virus in a baby or toddler. Throughout the early dawn hours, she’d call out, “Mom, I threw up in the bowl!” and I’d shout back, “Good job, honey!” and go back to sleep. Am I a terrible parent? An inhuman monster? Perhaps. I did get up with her throughout the night. The worst happened while I was away though, last night at 10:20 p.m. when she woke up and threw up on her pillow and bed. My husband had to deal with chocolate pudding vomit in her hair–he left the bed mess for me to handle after I rushed home.

I wish I could relay to you some of the drama occurring in my life, but I cannot. Suffice it to say that there have been a lot of tears (not mine) and shaking of heads. I can tell you that Saturday morning I had to be at a Science Fair at 8:00 a.m. with my son, that my husband resigned from his job (he starts another on July 1), that two of my kids have vomited, and that another boy appeared at my doorstep (bringing up the neighbor total number of boys to 14).

I have put away the mayonnaise jar four times today, even though I personally don’t eat mayonnaise.

I have a lot to say for a Saturday

Yesterday, my husband and I took the children to their great-grandmother’s funeral. As funerals go, this one was a marathon which reflected the marathon 102-year life she lived. My daughter insisted on wearing her pink Easter dress and was a bright spot in the sea of somber clothes. Afterward, she wanted to see her great-grandma lying in the white casket. My daughter gazed at her great-grandma for a long time. A spray of spectacular flowers sat on the closed part of the casket while my grandmother lay in repose looking surprisingly well considering she was 102 years old and lifeless.

Also, I noticed she wore coral lipstick, which was the only time I’ve ever seen lipstick on her. That shade did not suit her at all, but what did they know? They should have gone with something that had plum undertones.

Grandma wore a pink Easter dress that my mother picked out. My mother’s face reflected her terrible grief. At the age of 65, my mother has become motherless.

My boys dressed in their best clothes and didn’t complain about going to the funeral. They sat quietly, even though the service dragged on for ninety minutes. (Four speakers, a choir, a soloist, congregational singing and a Powerpoint presentation.) My daughter declared it the “most boring” thing ever, but she also behaved well. She and my 10-year old both wanted to view Grandma after the service while the twins chose to go immediately to the lobby instead.

So, yesterday was a long, emotionally draining day. Before and after the funeral, I worked, finally finishing my shift at 10 p.m.

* * *

This blog is not a comprehensive dissertation about my life as a mother. Believe it or not, I leave out large chunks, including most of my life prior to my blog. You don’t know about how we adopted our twins, nor about how we parented them when they were young. I am not at liberty to share much of my life since my life is intertwined with the private lives of other people, just like yours. I cannot tell you much about my childhood in deference to others.

On occasion, I pull back the curtain and reveal some shameful truth about my failures as a parent and about my children’s perception of me as their mother. It’s risky, but I choose to share snapshots from time to time. I want to remember these moments–especially the ugly moments because in memory, these will be the brightest days of my life. Selective memory has a way of blotting out the blemishes and mistakes we make. (And I love the way most of you support me and make me feel not alone.)

So, when I post something here that is unflattering to me (usually) and my children (on occasion, though they are not completely identifiable), I am already fully aware that we are imperfect. I consider my own flaws in the glaring spotlight of self-flagellation and when other people turn their flashlights upon the dark corners of my soul, they’ll find nothing that I have not already illumined and examined with a microscope. I know how I am failing as a mother. I know the errors I’ve made. I know my personality and how my personality clashes with other personalities in my household. I can catalog the many ways I’ve failed my children as a mother, a role-model and as a person.

I’m pretty sure that I’m not an inhuman monster and my son told me the next day, “I overreacted. But you should be easier on my brother.” My other son apologized repeatedly for his behavior on the day in question. However, my children see me only from their teenage perspective, just as I only saw my parents from that angle when I was their age. I thought my dad was much too strict with me. I did not understand. I judged him with teenage harshness. I think that’s part of growing up, of separating.

So my children judge me, too. They’ll understand more when they are older. I hope they will grow to understand me as a human being. I hope they will forgive me for the mistakes I make. I allow them to speak freely to me, probably because I was muzzled as a child, unable to ever address my parents honestly. I was much too scared to tell them how I felt about anything they did or said. We did not talk in our family. When I was home, I went to my bedroom and locked my door.

My children are living in a different type of household and even though I do not relish backtalk, I’d rather have my kids argue with me than shove their thoughts deep inside to fester. I spend almost every moment of every day at home with my kids. My boys have been doing school-at-home for four years and I don’t think that longing for a regular period of kid-free time every week is a failure. In fact, if you’re an introvert like me and being with people drains you, you know well that unless you have solitude, you will wilt like a plant without water.

And don’t even get me started on the nature versus nurture conundrum. (Hint: Nature wins.)

I do consider every comment I receive here, especially the ones that sting. I try not to be defensive, because there is often truth even in the hurtful things people say. So, please, continue to share your thoughts but do remember that you don’t have the whole picture, all the facts nor a complete understanding of my private life. Such is the nature of blogs.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Edited to add: This is not in response to any of the published comments on the last entry. So do not fret.

Grit

This is the kind of day I had:

* My husband turned on the television at 6:43 a.m. to check if the SNOW had caused a school delay. Uh, snow? Hello? The daffodils are in full bloom! I potted plants in my new pots outdoors! Snow at this time of year in the Pacific Northwest is unacceptable in all ways. (No school delay, either.)

* I realized early this evening that my teeth felt so weird because I forgot to brush them today in my haste to scurry to my computer for my shift which began at 8:00 a.m. Yes, people, I work in my bathrobe from time to time. Especially on Thursday mornings when my shift begins a mere eight hours after my night shift has ended.

* The phone rang with irritating frequency today, including one guy who called on behalf of a candidate for governor. When he finally took a breath after four straight minutes of talking, I told him, “He will get my vote but not my money. Bye!” in a cheery voice. I hate those phone calls. [Note: Many of the phone calls were from my husband.]
* That is all.

Teenagers are lucky to be alive. . .

Honestly, I don’t think I’m a bad parent, or an “inhuman monster” as my son declared today. He was furious with me for “bullying” my other son, his twin brother. Nevermind the fact that the twin brother had repeatedly spoken to me disrespectfully, refused to do his work and interrupted my instructions with comments like, “I don’t care!” and “I’m not going to do it.”

Finally, at my wits’ end, I dialed the phone and said to my husband, “Please, just listen to this.” And then I repeated the instructions to my son while holding the phone between us. I said, “Please write down the formula and then do the work.” He said, “Okay.” Then I said, “Thanks,” to my husband and hung up.

And then, out of his father’s hearing, my son started up again, refusing to do his work, arguing with me.

I dialed again. This time, my husband spoke directly to my son who began to cry.

All this because the boy refused to write down the formula, plug in the numbers and solve the problem. Four problems, to be exact.

Teenagers make me long for the days of tantrums and diapers. Teenagers make me nostalgic for the days of spilled sippy cups and plastic toys all over the floor. Teenagers make me view their toddlerhoods through the gauzy film of selective memory. Ah, they were so cute! Even better were the days before they had language and all they could do was cry. Crying seems preferable, after a day like today when my teenager told me in no uncertain terms what he thinks of my parenting.

I excelled as the parent of twin babies, twin toddlers and twin preschoolers. However, just to keep the universe in balance, I fail miserably as the parent of twin teenagers. At least that’s what they’ll tell you.

(I’d like to resign now.)

Staying alive

My jet-setting to New York and California has left me befuddled. I can’t quite catch my breath, nor mop my kitchen floor. My tax paperwork sits on the counter while it should be at the post office.

The children have no sympathy for my angst. They want me to help them with their schoolwork and to create a delicious dinner plan every night. I find wet towels on their bedrooms floors. They cannot understand my crabby impatience. I hardly understand it myself, even though I know myself so well. A lack of solitude has sucked me dry.

Friday will be my grandma’s funeral. Saturday my 10-year old son participates in a Science Fair. Sundays are always busy and then another week begins. Do you see how I am already preoccupied with next week? That’s because this week is already jammed full with work and school-at-home and the regular stuff that crowds into a family.

And soon, April will arrive, all bright and shiny, and then, my twins will turn 15. They are already counting down the days.

How is that possible?

Gooseberries remind me of you

My grandmother died last night. She was 102 years old. My telephone rang this morning and when I saw my mother’s cell phone number I knew this was The Call. Just last night, my mom had stopped by to deliver my birthday gift (from January).

My daughter sat on my bed in front of me while I answered the phone. I was in the middle of combing out her blond ringlets. My mother told me directly, “Last night Mother died.” At least I think that’s what she said. At these life-altering moments, I seldom remember the exact words.

I hung up the phone and said to my 5-year old, “Great-grandma died last night.”

“Oh,” my daughter said, “She’s going to miss me.”

We’ve talked about heaven all day. I can picture my grandma falling into the arms of my grandpa. They were married 61 years when he died on their anniversary nineteen years ago. She has missed him so much. I am so happy that she has finally crossed the threshold into eternity.

I was dry-eyed, curiously unemotional today, though as I bought new flowers and pots for my yard, I couldn’t help but think about my grandmother and her lifelong love of flowers. Rhododenrons remind me of her–she had two giant bushes outside of her back door and my siblings and I lost many bouncing balls inside those shadowy branches. Calla lilies and gooseberries make me think of her, too. As does laundry hung out to dry.

I remember how she sewed me clothes when I was a child. (Always orange and rust-colored, to complement my brown eyes, I guess.) A few years ago, she gave me her treadle sewing machine. I cherish it, even though I’ve never threaded it.

I remember with some lingering mortification, how she taped closed the M&M jar when I wouldn’t stop pilfering those candy-coated chocolates during a childhood stay at her humble home.

I remember her brushing my hair with a stiff hairbrush under a running faucet in the summertime heat. I remember the yeasty rolls she baked and the step-stool she kept in her kitchen where I perched to watch her work. I remember the way she washed dishes–she filled one side with soapy water and the other with steaming hot water. The washed dishes were submerged to rinse in the hot water. Then, always, always, wiped dry with a cotton dish towel.

She never wore a pair of pants in her life, always a dress. If you stopped by during mealtime, she’d have on an apron. I only saw her feet bare once in my whole life and that was when I spent the night with her. Until she was very old, she’d never cut her hair, but wore it twisted up in a bun. She sold Avon when she was younger. Her house always smelled like roses.

I cannot imagine a world where my grandma does not live in her tidy house with her organized drawers and labeled boxes in every closet. I cannot imagine living in a world where my grandmother doesn’t mention my name in her prayers every day. She held my hand to her heart only eleven days ago. I hold her in my heart forever.

Good-bye, Grandma. I’ll see you in heaven. Tell my dad I miss him.

We miss you already.

Home, Sweet Home

My friend, Mindy, picked me up from the conference yesterday shortly after 1 p.m. I’ve known Mindy since college when she used to have dirty laundry piled waist high in her room. I’d be amazed because Mindy would emerge perfectly coiffed and gorgeous from her haphazard room, like a three-tiered wedding cake popping out of a hurricane.

Mindy drove me to gaze at the ocean and to watch surfers catching those legendary California waves. On a distant rock, we could see the lumpy bodies of sea lions at rest. What a beautiful place.

We spent some time at her house, catching up on news both new and old. Her husband–also a friend of mine from collect–arrived and we laughed and chatted some more. I also met her almost-18 year old daughter (we are getting old, all of us with our children rushing toward adulthood).

Then, we went to In-and-Out Burger, that famous California fast-food restaurant. I give two-thumbs up to the burger, but alas, the fries disappointed me.

Somehow, time slid away from us and suddenly we were frantically checking the clock and I was saying from the back seat, “So, are we close to the airport?” I wasn’t really that worried until Mindy said, “Well, if you can’t check your bag, we can always send it to you.” Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that I might board the flight without my heavy orange-red suitcase.

We arrived without a minute to spare (literally, the woman said, “One more minute and I would have said, “No.”). It was 6 p.m. and my flight left at 6:33 p.m.

I used my fluffy hair as a shield so that my seat-mates wouldn’t think of talking to me. After six days of talking to strangers and vague acquaintances, I dreaded making any more small talk. (I am not talking about the Mt. Hermonistas, my three new BFFs you can see linked on Annie’s blog. Oh, and check out the video she posted. We find it hilarious, but maybe you had to be there? I make a brief appearance, so if you ever wondered what I sound like, now’s your chance! Click here.)

But, my hair only worked for awhile and then a man on the other side of the man next to me said, “MELODEE?” And I said (with a feeble wave), “Yes, it’s me!” before turning back to my book.

So, I’m home. I had to work at 10:00 p.m. until midnight, then my daughter woke up at 6:30 a.m. to curl next to me in bed and talk, talk, talk. She’s such a hoot. I really missed her–and in fact, missed everyone. (Absence makes the heart grow fonder, it’s true. Although I feel no more fond of the cats or the litter box than when I left.)

Laughing with bloggers

Last year when I came here, I spent a lot of time sitting with random strangers at meal-time, asking them all about their projects, their kids, their hometown, and their backgrounds. I sat next to strangers during chapel time, singing harmonies with them. I met a variety of people–including one woman who wrote a book with a talking llama as a character (she self-published, how not surprising)–and I am grateful for that experience.

This year, I came knowing another woman, Linda, who had the amazing experience of landing a book contract with Zondervan after coming to last year’s conference. Since we met, she started the blog, Spilt Milk, which is also the title of her book (out in 2009). Linda, an honest-to-God-real-housewife-of-the-OC, and I kept in touch over the year.

Linda brought her friend, Sarah, another OC-housewife and newish blogger. She has a blog called “the best days of my life,” which you will want to add to your blogroll and read daily (she updates daily, imagine that concept). She has a room adjacent to mine–the first night, I could hear her cell-phone conversation as clearly as if she were sitting on my lap. I held my breath, hoping that she wasn’t about to tell her husband about this frumpy housewife she’d met who was a friend of Linda’s. Fortunately, she never mentioned my name, nor mocked me behind my back. Which I always admire in a person, non-mockery of me, that is.

Anyway, we have bonded over our mutual weight-loss (she lost 60 pounds and has kept it off–well, she put it back on when she had a baby, then took it all off again). She’s a runner, a photographer, a mother of 2 little girls and a superb blogger. We got up for a 6 a.m. walk up to the cross at the crest of Mt. Hermon. We rock. Also? We’re tired.

Finally, last week, I received an email from a blogger named Annie. Annie knows someone who reads this blog (hello, you know who you are!) and that person told Annie that she thought I might be coming to this conference. So, Annie emailed me and asked and after I determined that she was definitely not a big hairy serial killer, I invited her to join Linda and me at lunch the first day.

And the rest is history. The four of us have been hanging out in our free time (between workshops, classes and meetings). I have laughed harder this week than I have in a very long time. Plus, they haven’t heard any of my stories. What’s old is new again! I accidentally made Annie shake with laughter during a prayer in chapel . . . the woman praying rambled on and on, running down a laundry list of topics she needed to speak with God about, including a dizzying request to “help us expect what we ought to expect and to lay down our expectations when what we were expecting fails to reach our expectations . . . let us expect what it unexpected and not expect what is unexpected and expect expectations that you expect us to expect . . . “

At that point, I opened my eyes and gazed at the back of the woman’s head and thought maybe she needed a hard thunk to get unstuck but I was too far back to be the thunker and then I shifted my eyes to the right and saw that Annie was also gazing at the long pray-er . . . who was, at that point, broaching the topic of Darfur with God and I am afraid that we burst into silent giggles. Because sometimes you have to laugh in church. It’s a rule.

Oh, so, anyway, Annie is hilarious and also, she writes a blog called “taking a step, towards my dream.“

Last night in the coffee shop, I suggested that we need to start a critique group. And also, we need to find a pair of pants that will fit us all. (If you get that joke, thank you.) We also discussed the question of hobos and why our children all speak about hobos as if they’ve seen them down at the local train depot. Where are the hobos, we asked? We talked about their bandana-bundles stuck on sticks and then, incredibly, the next afternoon ran across a man at the State Park who carried a stick with a red bundle dangling off the end. He looked pretty much like a suburban hobo which caused a great uproar among us.

In my absence my husband has been dealing with dental appointments, a wedding rehearsal, a wedding, a meeting, teaching a college class, watching our four kids, buying a birthday gift for the neighbor kid . . . all while being sick as a dog. I had a cold last week, a mild, wimpy cold, and he has a nasty cold this week, the superpower of all colds. Poor guy.

Okay, well, if I were more coherent and if I weren’t in a dimly lit hotel room (wooden paneling from 1980, I think) standing at a rickety dresser typing this (there’s no desk and I can’t cope with sitting on a bed with a laptop–I am inflexible), I would pause long enough to come up with an astonishing ending to this post.

However. Sorry, no can do. But do check out those blogs. (Just don’t like them better than me.) Ha ha. Yes, I’m funny. (But, as my dad would say, “looks aren’t everything!”)

From the Redwood forest . . .

I remembered to bring my underpants.  And my contact lens solution and a pair of walking shoes.  I have a purse full of pens that I like.  My room is better this year than last–even though it’s “economy” and last year I paid for “deluxe.”  The trees are pink with blossoms, the daffodils are in full bloom, the trees have leaves and the sky was blue.

I came early to avoid the headache that would result from traveling in the morning in order to arrive by noon.  I arrived at the airport with time to spare, the flight was smooth, the shuttle efficient.  What more could a girl ask for?

Well, how about a television in my room?  I fear I will be unable to sleep in the utter silence.  I brought my brand new teeny tiny iPod which might help.  Tomorrow, the sessions don’t start until 3 p.m., so I will have the bulk of the day to relax and visit the Redwood park which is nearby.

Meanwhile, I left my husband at home to cope with our four kids . . . my daughter and her friend had a fun time this morning.  They stripped her bed so they could jump on it while holding a rather large water balloon.  Anyone want to guess what happened?  Oh yes, an exploded water balloon on the bed, on my daughter and on all the bedding.   I solved that  problem by covering the bed with bath towels so that when they jumped, they’d soak up some waters.

(Now there is a mothering tip you will not read in any magazine.)

My husband is super busy this weekend–he teaches a college class tonight, has a wedding rehearsal tomorrow and a wedding on Saturday.  I think someone else is preaching on Sunday.  I feel terrible for leaving him in the lurch, but he is so kind and supportive that he kept telling me not to feel guilty, to go and have fun and that I deserve to be here.

I sure picked a good one.

All right.  Well, that’s all the news that’s fit to print.  Coming live from the Redwood forest . . . good-night everybody!

Tomorrow–oh wait, today I’ll be in California

Last March when I went to California, I recall being eager and well-rested. That may or may not be reality, but this time, I feel a hundred years old and decidedly not prepared.

And here are some notes I must make before I forget.

My daughter’s first tooth fell out on Monday. She came downstairs saying, “My tooth fell out!” I responded with excitement: “Let me take your picture!” and she burst into tears. Losing that tooth scared her. I held her and rubbed her back and soon, she was okay. I said, “Where’s the tooth?” She had no idea. She’d been eating strawberries and . . . uh, I think she ate the tooth. Fortunately, she has only a rudimentary understanding of the tooth fairy, so we’re off the hook there.

Between work shifts on Monday, I drove 45 minutes up I-5 to wish my grandma a happy 102nd birthday. I wasn’t sure she’d even know I was there. My cousin welcomed me into her house and ushered me to the room where Grandma was stretched out on a brass-framed bed. The image reminded me of two things: a queen on her throne and a corpse in her casket. The bed was situated in the very center of the room, diagonal to the walls. It dominated the room. Thus, the queen-like image. But, oh, my poor grandma has aged ten years since I last saw her on February 1. Her eyes were half-open, glazed, her mouth gaped open. Her hands were folded on her chest. Her eyelids were sunken, her brow-bones prominent. She looked dead. Shockingly dead.

I sat and watched her. After awhile, an aunt came and touched her hands and to my utter shock, she responded. She asked who I was and I told her and her mind was right there. She knew me, held my hand with both of hers. She asked where my family was (at home since Grace had a cold) and we had a little conversation. I told her the daffodils are blooming–she always loved flowers so much. Macular degeneration stole most of her eyesight, but she has some peripheral vision, so she could tell when anyone came near.

I stayed for an hour and a half . . . it was such an unexpected surprise to be able to wish her happy birthday, to have her know me still, to have her warm, veiny hands hold my hand to her heart. I also enjoyed talking to my other relatives.

And now, I must go to bed. I wish I felt more prepared and less guilty.

Oh, I have to tell you this, too.

On my last three trips, I have lost my mind in various ways.

When I went to the mountains on a scrapbooking retreat, I forgot my underpants.

On a trip to visit friends from high school, I forgot my deodorant.

In New York, I remembered everything . . . except one day, I arrived at the office, noticed my damp armpits and realized I forgot to put on my deodorant.

I am just hoping to arrive in California with underpants, socks and deodorant in my bag. Everything else is just a bonus.