cocoon

Some conclusions were made on my solo journey from Omaha to Des Moines tonight. I found myself in that dead zone, where the only musical options were unfamiliar Dolly Pardon songs or Delilah's sweet talking. I chose Delilah, and was reminded of that time in seventh grade when my friend Seneca and I called in for an all encompassing dedication to several boys we called out by name, who were in the process of breaking our hearts. We requested Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself For Loving You", and waited anxiously all evening for our request that was never granted. I noticed Delilah has relented to edgier offerings, Maroon 5 for example, which seemed oddly wrong.

Facing the unexpected gift of a kid free week, I pondered my familiar initial feelings of loss and panic and 'missing', before the week had even begun, which is always sprinkled with delicious feelings of excitement and possibilities and sleep, luxurious sleep, and reading and doing whatever I feel like. About 47 minutes into my journey I decided that the former kind of guilt is a wasted emotion, and I cranked up the Eurythmic's "Sweet Dreams" and passionately sang along with Annie. Hold your head up! Movin' on. Keep your head up! Movin' on.

Christmas was lovely and truly fun and happy for me and the kids. Of course we missed Skip, do I need to say that? Despite that empty chair, we had a wonderful time preparing for it and reveling in the actual day. Several friends who know my affinity for short lived crafts and art projects asked if I made any gifts this year. Not really, was my answer, but we did make some fun little things for around the house and Cedahlia and Ronan made gifts for each other, utterly secretly; one with great enthusiasm, and the other with bribes of watching two Batman and Robin original TV series episodes on youtube. Here is his favorite. Inspired by the monagrammed mug tutorial here, I decided to just hand over the special marker and let them do what they wanted for each other.

I love how Cedahlia drew all over his, even a special surprise inside. Ronan drew his most careful capital C, and then a tiny face of a cat, signed his name and BOOM, he was done. I also made several birdcages for teacher and friend gifts, and you can find the tutorial here. I plan on making a huge one, with lots of those delicate little birds, to hang above me in my sunroom/sewing/art/reading /but really we will just call it the 'office' when Skip gets back/ room.

My super talented sister also got me hooked on making scented rice packs, which the lavender ones have been awesome for warming up and putting in with the kids when they go to bed. Although, recently Cedahlia has complained hers smells like pee? And it oddly does, but I'm blaming it on microwaved rice?

On Christmas Eve Day, we found ourselves completely ready for the holidays with nothing but time on our hands. We played outside in the snow, and after the kids fashioned themselves some snowchairs, we brought out hot chocolate and I read them a Junie B. Jones book....but only made it two chapters before my jeans clad booty lost all feeling and stuck to the shovel 'chair' I had settled onto.

                   

I have loved these past couple weeks of holing up in the house by 4:00, and baking and crafting and reading to the kids every night. I expect more of it in the dark, slow months to come, and while I typically dread them, it is my intent to make it as worthwhile as possible. There are pillows to be made, and murals to be painted on Ronan's wall, and books to continue like this one that I love, for how the male author of 100 years ago is able to make me completely relate to the heroine.

While I drove tonight, my thought process went something like this....tomorrow I need to go to the Y, then clean the house and maybe I could even get Ronan's wall painted and for sure I want to sleep in first though, and read my book and I should probably take Toby for a long walk, and also I would love to hit up some Christmas sales and I also need to finish sewing my dress for New Year's and along those lines, I haven't danced in so long....I wish we had Zumba at our Y, and maybe I should check out some dance dvd's from the library and bone up for New Years with Katherine and Georgianne, so I don't resemble Tina Fey in Date Night. Ahh, but who am I kidding? As long as my friend arrives from Florida to find a clean bed and fresh towels at the foot of it, I don't *have* to do anything at all this week. I will probably end up cocooning myself up in a way that is so pleasant and self indulgent, that I will look back at this week with wonder and envy of myself.

littleness

Recently I've taken to sending the kids out to get our mail. Our block has the distinction of collective mailboxes on the corner, an inconvenient remedy to a dog phobic mail carrier a couple years back. This task thrills them, and I watch from our porch as they scurry to the box and negotiate who will put in the key and turn it. Each time I send them, I say "Don't let the mail spill all over!". And each time, they reach on their tippy toes, feeling their way through the box, inevitably spilling the mail I've let pile up for a few days. It makes me smile but a lump also forms in my throat, as I watch their little bodies hunker down, frantically working together to collect the scattered papers and bills and junk mail that have wafted around them.

Because they have developed a great need to be within inches of me at all times,  this one minute respite puts things in perspective for me, and I am reminded of their 'littleness', and I feel more compassion. To borrow a phrase a friend recently shared, I feel as if I am nursing them again, and even the dog sometimes (don't ponder that for too long), as I can't step away for a moment without someone desperately needing attention or a drink or for me to brush their almost seven year old teeth for them(!). It's suffocating at times, and I recall those early baby days, fertively stuffing chips in my mouth, chunks falling on my infant's head in an attempt to nourish myself a bit before they devour me. Only now I stealthily wisk myself into the office/sewing room/getaway to check facebook or lose myself in delicious artsy/foody/crafty blogs before they boing back to me, giant amoeba that we have become. It's the moral equivalent of putting on my oxygen mask before assisting others.

As Christmas approaches, I am always torn with things I wish the kids wanted versus the plastic-y, commercial-y, junk-y things they indeed do want. desperately. Last year "Santa" (ahem) really dropped the ball when he purchased beautiful, well made hand puppets and wooden marble track sets and open ended art supplies. Cedahlia couldn't shake off her disappointment for at least 9 months, and I've had to come to terms with this. Now, we celebrate Jesus here and know that His birth is the true spirit of the holiday for us, do I need to write a disclaimer? I'm not writing a devotional here. If you know me, you know I love Jesus. We also love presents and I am still occasionally struck with that amazing *Christmas-y* feeling. Do you know what I mean? It may be when walking at night on a particularly jazzed up street, with the lights and snowflakes, and anticipation. Or sometimes just watching claymation movies with hot chocolate I remember and briefly feel that chill I used to get as a little girl. I love that magical feeling and I want my kids to experience it too. Life begins to suck pretty quickly, like say around 10 or 11, so for as long as I can bring some sort of magical whimsy to our lives, I am going to do it.

When I was 8, my dad braved the elbowing, viscious crowds to get me a Cabbage Patch Doll. If you don't understand the depths of love this act confirmed, watch this. If I recall correctly, they all came with cool, unusual names. I promptly renamed mine with the sensible choice of 'Maryann Kay'. This same year, Dad also made me my very own dollhouse, which was, and remains, totally awesome. It traveled around with me for over a decade, residing in various storage units before finally being passed on to a very happy 4 year old girl.

This is me as a lovely 8 year old girl of the 80's. When I unpacked the dollhouse in 2006, the toilet still contained tiny bits of toilet paper, as well as brown paper turds.

 

This is how the nuclear family of the 1980's chillaxed amongst their shag carpeting.

She always commands me to leave when she really gets to playing. I understand. I did those voices too.

In my dreams, Cedahlia and Ronan long for faceless dolls made of corn husks, and wooden marbles and play silks that they're supposed to be endlessly entertained by. I know better. This Christmas I plan on blowing their minds with all the glitzed up, plastic nonsense they can handle.

blessings

My 100 year old house just got a winterizing makeover! My church small group took me under their collective wings this afternoon; leaves were blown up outta here...old windows were sealed up...the garage was organized and bikes tucked away...the sinkhole soft spot on the dining room floor was lifted from the depths of my basement. I will no longer take a tiptoeing detour when passing through that room- it is all so cozily wonderful.

When we worked as family teachers at BoysTown, we were required to take the kids to the churches on campus, so we rarely had the opportunity to attend our church off campus. A week or so after going through a devastating miscarriage, I was longing to go to our church and feel comforted and to worship as best I could in my fragile state. I went alone and got settled in near the back, and soon realized that it happened to be a Sunday where all the new babies were being dedicated. Watching a dozen families holding their tiny, pink infants on stage was like a fresh stab to my already broken heart and I wept silently from my seat. Soon after, the congregation sang Matt Redman's "Blessed Be Your Name", and while I was unable to sing, those words became more significant to me than I can express. I began to realize what it is to have a heart of thankfulness always; not 'for' the difficult stuff, but 'in' it. On that day, my heart was broken as only a mom's can be when her child dies inside of her, but I somehow understood that God loved me still and allowed this to happen for a purpose.

Today, over five years later, we sang "Blessed Be Your Name" and my thoughts were on how God gives and takes away, and how there is indeed pain in the offering of our praise. But today, more than that, my heart was full with the sun shining down on me. My world, with all of its unknowns and gaping absences, still felt 'as it should be', and I praised God for all of the people He has placed in my life to care for me and my family. 

I haven't had a dance party in my dining room for a good long time. Anyone?

boo

...as in, boo to war and the depravity of mankind and families being separated. As Skip is somewhere in transit, and the kids and I search our outdated globe for possible locations, I am surprised at my desperate desire to crawl back under my blankets right after porridge and hot cider, and shut out the world and sleep for a while longer. Which I do, while occasionally being summoned out of my headachey sadness by Ronan searching in vain for his ninja stars, and Toby disgustingly licking his butt while curled up behind my knees.

My heartache manifests itself in odd ways; yesterday Cedahlia's first grade class visited a retirement home in costume, which was fun and cute on the outset, but had a nearly crippling affect on me, that contrast between sweet, young life and oldness. She haunts my thoughts, the woman who was so clearly delighted at 75 children singing and reciting spooky poetry, while her body betrayed her with its twitches and jerks, causing the kids to steer clear of her. Sometimes when I am out and about and I hear a baby cry, my eyes well up and I have to leave the area. Desperate, needy cries that demand comfort and oddly break my heart.

In New Orleans last week our midwest niceness interfered with our sitting peacefully on a bench facing the Mississippi. I thought we should clap for the lone, not super talented gentleman, who sang along with his recordings. And lo, there he was right up in our faces, insisting he 'had a song just for us', which was probably entitled, "Now You Have To Buy My Crappy cd, Or At The Very Least Drop A Fat Tip In My Hat". His face mere inches from ours, giving special attention to first one, then the other, he sang and displayed his chew riddled teeth and lack of physical boundaries. I wish, oh I wish I had just snapped a picture right then, or at least snapped one of Skip's funny, uncomfortable smile as we endured our serenade. What I keep thinking about is his lack of charm, and under-the-surface anger and desperation. When Skip very gently declined on the cd offer, he was done with us and resolute.

Here is Skip standing firm on the no-cd-buying. I will cherish this picture forever, for the memory it contains, but also for how his butt appears to be fighting against the fabric.

My kids are very happy today, in light of getting a package from grandma yesterday and trick or treating with friends tonight, and my promises of raking humongous leaf piles solely for them to jump into. And so, at 11:00am, I am going to drag myself to the shower, and choose to rest in God's peace and be a non news watcher and do all the things that make my babies happy, because that's all I can do for today.

cold comfort farm....has little to do with my subject, but I love saying it

Today was the perfect autumn day for Jester Park, one of our favorite spots to peacefully spend an un- predetermined amount of time playing in the water, watching the bison and elk, and eating Pizza Lunchables which thankfully Ronan had the good sense to decide were not really even food. It was brisk this morning, and there was a bit of a power struggle over whether jackets should be brought along, especially when one had a skeleton outfit to show off, and the other just wanted to look pretty. As it turned out, even I was not dressed warmly enough, and for most of the time there, I silently shivered with my desire for a scalding, hot chai, and I nearly wept with relief each time the sun shone past the cotton candy clouds.

Comfort: I've been thinking about it ever since enjoying the Greenwood Elementary Family Movie Night, for which the students had voted Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Maybe because I saw it so much as a kid and into adulthood, I find that movie to be so comforting and familiar. I imagine Charlie's hair smells like dirty sheets and hard work, but I forgive the little guy, because he was born into a tough situation.

My relationship with God is what provides me the real comfort, particularly on the random, paranoid night when my mindset is not *if* someone breaks in and assaults me, but *when*. I stare down the door just waiting for it, but then I remind myself of many, many verses and promises of God's protection and grace, and I eventually fall asleep. The comforts I'm describing here are the purely human ones; chai with an extra shot of espresso....being holed up in the house during a snowstorm with all family members accounted for, and the kitchen stocked with food...spending time with long time friends who really, really 'get' me...

Right now Skip is super uncomfortable, and I suspect he is looking forward to our New Orleans rendezvous perhaps even more than I am. For now I send him travel magazines, candy corn with peanuts, dark chocolate, (though he says he doesn't want unhealthy stuff) fallen leaves from our front tree, drawings the kids have done, photos...And I am most looking forward to the comfort of sitting across from him in a couple weeks, drinking chicory coffee and mildly choking on the powdered sugar dust of the beignets at Cafe Du Monde.

     In the meantime, however, I'll just have to check this guy out from the library.

                                      Oh, Mr. Wilder. You were a genius.

I would love to hear what creature comforts are to you? Don't censor yourself either. I won't shy away from telling you that I know I've had a really deep sleep if, and only if, upon awaking my hands are bent and curled backwards and awkwardly around my hipbones. I really should ask Mom if that was an infant position.

cojones

Sometimes three days sans children creates too much time for reflection. I've been thinking of what a wimp I am. And no, I am not saying that in an adolescent, attention seeking way. This week marked the dreaded 'communication black-out', which means Skip and all the other soldiers turned in their cell phones for a couple weeks, which means I can no longer do my dependent texts about everyday newsy stuff, or perhaps things like, "Where is the cordless drill? ....and how does one use it?". Or, perhaps the occasional, inappropriate comment that I hope he is reading in the midst of generals and other military leaders.

I am such a girl. Growing up with two brothers and an always present dad meant never having to mow the grass or do any home maintenance whatsoever. This summer I was expertly taught by a friend, and I am fully capable of mowing. However, now a couple other friends are wonderful about making sure it is done for me, for which I am so grateful. One less thing on my plate. Saturday I awoke after a 10 hour sleep, ready to tackle the disgusting, moldy caulking around my bathtub. I ripped that crap out with vigor, while wearing my nightgown and Japanese robe, and maintaining a hearty game of fetch with Toby. When it came time to load the caulk gun however, I faltered. I literally spent more time trying to figure out the contraption and may or may not have googled 'how to load caulk gun', before I broke my pride and called my neighbor over. As it turns out, puncturing the inner seal with a bobby pin, in lieu of a 10 penny nail...it doesn't do the trick. Even if one doesn't know what a 10 penny nail is, or where to find one, it still needs to be located and utilized. When the job was all said and done, I lacked the satisfaction I expected. I sulked on that rainy, cold day. I decided my friend was right in saying A.S. Byatt's new piece,  The Children's Book was esoteric. After moving on to Anne Lamott's Imperfect Birds, I found myself horrified and nervous about my kids someday being teenagers with teenage issues. I had to do what any 35 year old lonely, grumpy woman does in these scenarios; I curled up with my dog and took another nap for lack of anything else I felt motivated to do.

There is half of me missing. Or, at least an appendage feels absent. I am walking around functioning, but hurting and nothing is quite what it was. Marrying as young as I did means moving pretty much straight from your parents home, to the safety and assurance of your husband, with in my case, only a brief stint of autonomy. Of course I don't regret marrying at a time when I still looked 12 years old. However, besides just the 'missing', and the particular sadness of doing those once shared daily rituals alone, I know that I have hid behind someone who could protect me and do all kinds of unsavory tasks for me. Last month I got the oil changed for the second time myself. I know!! The guy cautioned that my tires were all at 32, but the manufacturer recommends they be at 40. Did I want them to fix that? Absolutely not- No Thank You! No one is going to rip me off or take advantage of my gender. Weeks later, I have no earthly idea what that tire talk was all about, but it felt good being assertive. (?)

I need to put on my big girl panties. This I know to be true. Having a couple days alone was therapeutic in many ways, and I am all for taking a solitude day, a day to silently feel like a martyr and get it out of my system and move on. Do you ever feel sick of yourself? That's where I am at. I'm done wallowing for a while, ready for a new week full of challenges and opportunities, and hopefully not any house/car/medical issues for a while.

My little chickies are tucked in their beds, and some narcissistic sewing awaits me.

Fill In the Gap

Cedahlia’s second soccer game was yesterday, exactly during Ronan’s which necessitates me to run back and forth to try and catch both. Her being in soccer stirs up all kinds of angst and buried insecurities, for me, for her. She is clearly the only one who has never played before and is clearly the weakest link. I am so proud of her for doing it and for obediently running alongside her teammates and staying involved, even if she never really goes for the ball. I am torn with the desire to get out there and physically do it for her, to embody her and kick that dang ball when it bounces right up to her little pink and white cleats. I want to slip inside her 6 year old self and get aggressive and score a goal and make her feel like part of the team. She is silent as she sits on the sidelines, kind of nervously and boringly drinking all of her Powerade and not watching the plays on the field. I cringe as I see her coach try to hide his reactions when she has a chance to contribute and she hops around like a baby gazelle, running and then giving a little happy, oblivious kick as she comes to a stop. He calls out things like ‘Come on White, get defensive’, which means absolute gibberish to her and mostly to me as well. Her jockish little teammate named Mia yells at her to ‘fill in the gap, FILL IN THE GAP!’ and I want to charge onto the field and yell ‘I quit. WE QUIT!’. But I don’t because she doesn’t quit and I can’t teach her to quit when it’s uncomfortable and hard. I want her to learn that being physically active feels good, that there is a sense of accomplishment when a team works together, and that following instruction and practicing actually helps you be better; at soccer, at anything.

I was never part of a team as a child, although there was that one summer when I vaguely recall being forced to play softball. I don’t recall my parents staying for practices, I don’t recall games. I just vividly remember a moment when the coach yelled out to me to be the ‘shortstop’ and I kind of jogged out in the general vicinity of the field and stood lost. What is a shortstop, for goodness sakes? How would I know that unless someone had shown me?

After the game, I asked Cedahlia if she knew what ‘fill in the gap’ meant, and she did not. I asked her if her teammates were nice and what did they talk about on the sidelines? She said they are nice. She did not say that they yelled directions to her, that they shoved her into the area they understood she should be standing in, waiting to be ‘offensive’. I saw those things. Did she not feel it the way I did, clenching up and desperate to stuff her back into my womb?

Cedahlia is missing Daddy, and says so less than I actually observe the missing. She is reluctant to go to school and cries because she doesn’t know her words and writing like the other kids, and had to miss the My Little Pony movie because it took her so long to list all of her classmates names because she didn’t know which were boys and which were girls. She cries because she does not know her numbers. She does not, and this has been a source of anxiety for me. My six year old is stressed out and feeling not good enough and not smart enough and not *enough*.

Fill in the gap.

I am trying. As Ronan snuggled sweatily into my lap to watch the last few minutes of her game, all of these thoughts were swirling passionately in my mind. He looked up at me and said, ‘Who were you before? Were you just a lady?’

Who was I, indeed. Who am I? Or more to the point, whatever I am made of, I hope I can do this year well.