backup

Weeping in a Best Buy is not a scenario I ever aspired to be in, but there I found myself today.

I’ll back up.

Three and a half years ago, our laptop died and with it went all of our data. We did not have an external hard drive at the time, and this was before I uploaded hundreds of pics on facebook and other online locations. These past years I have toted that old Dell around with us, always hopeful that one day when I wanted to cough up the dough, a computer wizard could retrieve all the videos and pictures from those pivotal years. In a sense, I felt like I still had all those memories in my back pocket and it was just a matter of taking it in somewhere and putting it all on a disc.

Last week I took the laptop in to a recommended computer store, and was told after a cursory look, that it would be no problem to retrieve any data on it. Four days went by as I dreamed of looking at all the videos I could recall; Ronan in his snug little retro car footie jammies at 18 months, bouncing up and down to the beat of a band down the street while we sat on the porch of the missionary house…Cedahlia at 2, laughing her head off each time we put Mr. Wendel down the slide at a park in Omaha….Newborn Ronan snoring loudly on my shoulder after feeding him- I whisperingly begged Skip to grab the camera and preserve what I knew was one of those moments that would make my heart swell forevermore...all of our pictures from when we lived in Minneapolis, Omaha, BoysTown, Hawaii. I have a terrible long term memory. Legitimately, there is something wrong with me. Often I am embarrassed when a friend or loved one recalls a shared experience in detail, and I have *nothing*! I only have certain scenes vividly preserved in my head, and most often they are because photos have jogged them.

When I stopped in today anticipating The Backup Disc, Mr. Just Rolled Out Of Bed Computer Wizard sheepishly told me  that he had ‘read the notes wrong’ and that in fact, the drive was completely ruined and after trying three different avenues, there was no chance of retrieving anything. I was heartbroken. It takes a lot for me to cry, but I cried on the way to the car….while in Campbells getting those sugary gummy bears I had happily promised Ronan before the bad news…and then while at Best Buy where I immediately headed to purchase a 1TB Passport. Ronan just watched my struggle curiously and said ‘Oh. So this is what you look like when you cry?'. I explained to him why I was so very sad, and he told me to just ‘look at the pictures in your head when you are feeling sad about it’.

Desperately I wanted to see my kids as babies again; to hear their sounds, to see their baby faces in the hopes that more would come flooding back to me. What is it about photos and videos that trick us into believing that *then* everything was better, perfect even? The moment we decided to capture Cedahlia playing in the shore at Onekahakaha Beach, while 7 month old Ronan scooted off the towel to eat sand; was that pure happiness, sheer joy? If I’m honest, I have to admit that those were some of the most tumultuous times of our married life, our professional lives, that back at 141 Alawaena Way awaited a half dozen angry, violent girls, my nervous eye tic going at a ridiculous rate. Yet, if I could just see that 30 second memory again, I know my heart would flood with nostalgia and longing.

I considered all these things today, as I wept for a lost baby Ronan and a lost toddler Cedahlia, barely realizing that they were right there beside me, begging to karate chop or read books. If someone documented my afternoon, it would be of me and the kids driving to two Pizza Huts before we found one that would redeem Cedahlia’s free personal pans from BookIt, and then me trying to get my hard drive figured out while they watched Alpha and Omega. Is today perfect and dreamy and something I will long for when they are sullen teenagers? Maybe?

Photographic memories are stealthily edited. Selective in the emotions they stir, they cut out the realities of financial hardship, painful distance between loved ones, sleep deprivation and being at the end of your rope with mothering. My heart is still aching over this loss, and I bet it will always squeeze with the realization of what has been lost to me and to them. But I do have to ask myself if I am trying very hard to enjoy the everyday moments here and now. Too often I am thinking of *then*...when they were tiny and life was pretty simple...or *future then* when Skip is home and we are a family again. Perhaps one day I will long for March 9, 2011 when it was drizzly and sleepy and we played with the stuff in our rainy day box and I ate most of the gummy bears while they weren't looking. Since no one is here to take a snapshot, I write about it and that works too.

tunnel vision

A thousand apologies for my long, unexpected hiatus from blogging. There is tremendous pressure involved with entertaining such a fanbase. I mean, I.have.thirteen.followers. It has been a heady time, this blogging escapade of mine.

Where have I been, you ask? Well, I struggle every year around oh, say January 5th. I enter a tunnel. Try as I might, I cannot seem to scratch my way out of it. I can see the pinpoint of light at the end of it, which is called something like February 22nd, but it's a vigilant fight to keep crawling. Is there anyone that lives in the midwest who does not have this struggle on some level? If so, my hat goes off to you.

In an effort to stay sane and moderately active, I made myself a list in January, of projects and social engagements, and forced my way through it. And you know what? It actually worked! These dark days have gone relatively quickly, and here I am enjoying my new cd immensely and reconnecting with the world again. I gladly admit that I also allow myself time to be down, and stay in bed more than I should, and say no to people and things and to grumpily eat a whole bag of 'sweet heat' popcorn that causes serious, um, let's just chalk it up to a bad decision.

With the help of my sis in law, Ronan's room is now a tribute to his hero, Peter Pan. The walls have been painted 'charted voyage' blue since this photo. My sweet boy asks me to pray each night that he will 'dream about flying', and he fervently believes that pixie dust is real and effective and plans on asking for only that, come next Christmas.

I also painted my bedroom. That day I was feeling pretty confident, despite the fact that I hadn't painted a wall in several years. The thought was "if I'm just really careful, I won't have to tape off". Fast forward to now, when people come to visit and Ronan likes to give them a tour of my room and show them the 12 inch by 4 inch pool of dried periwinkle on the carpet. It felt good, rolling along on the walls, balancing the very full tray in my left hand while standing on my tempur pedic....surveying my work every so often....a sense of accomplishment with each stroke....and then I noticed that the tray had been cascading paint down the side of my bed and onto the carpet. Awesome. After some panic and self hate, I googled ways to try to clean it off carpet, but ended up saying 'screw it' and I went to bed, leaving the tray and brush and roller in plastic Target bags for the many, many days it took me to face my failure. It's all good now though, and I love the headboard I made this weekend. Can't show you a picture though, just in case Skip ever reads this. I want him to be surprised when he comes home.

On a sidenote, staple guns are inspiring and a new, super sharp utility knife is a dream! A dream, I tell you! I want to find things to cut, just because.

I made a big birdcage and have plans to make a modern, all white one for my sister's new house.

                                             
For Valentine's I made the kids each a heart pillow from this tutorial. Cedahlia loved hers, and it's newness made the top of the symbolic totem pole of her 237 stuffies. Ronan was teetering on the verge of handing his right back to me. It's Ok. He is his own man, and he likes guns and swords and that is about it.

                                              
In the past couple months I have grown to love the Y Pump classes at the YMCA. One day I needed to get some cardio in and was feeling kind of sassy and risky and decided to try a step class for the first time ever. It was, perhaps the most humiliating 45 minutes I have endured as an adult. That wall of mirrors. That awful choreography with  spastic arm motions. The instructor happened to be Erin Kiernan, a local news anchor, and she really took me under her wing, sensing my struggle with lack of coordination. She stood by me for far too long, willing my body to fall into line with those ridiculous, complicated 360s around the stupid step. Afterwards, while I waited for the shameful flush to retreat from my face, I thought about the last time I did 'aerobics'. It was 1986, in a church in small town Wisconsin. Our little private school did not have a gym, but it sure did have a dimly lit, windowless sanctuary where our teacher could pump out uplifting Christian anthems while we kicked our way around the pews, cullottes whipping a frenzy around our knee socks.

A trip to Minneapolis to see good friends...a pampering, weekend retreat for chaplain families...a surprise box of music and handsewn birds...treats dropped on my doorstep... a massage as a gift from friends...my brother in law fixing my house from falling asunder.....a marble mortar and pestle from Afghanistan for all the *cough* cooking I do....never worrying about shoveling....seeing my little girl come out of her shell as a 'dancing bear'...Isaiah 43:1-4....knowing Skip will be home on leave next month.....these are some of the many blessed ways I get through the darkest days of winter.

girl on a wire

Day Five of being home sick had given me ample time to think and decompress from the holidays. But only slightly so, as I haven't actually gotten up to do anything useful, like take down the Christmas decor or find designated space for the new toys. I have had some good, long, catch up talks with a few friends and also spoke to Skip this morning, which was great. We had all been feeling pretty disconnected over the holidays, try as we might. Last night Cedahlia (poor, coughing every 12 seconds child) lay in her bed, with Ronan on his makeshift mattress on the floor beside her. What began as a slumber party two months ago has developed into a nightly co-habitation, which I think is so sweet. I overheard her grumpily and sadly say to him, "Everything feels different. It's like we never even had a Dad." It has been five months since they have seen him, and now that the fun of the holidays is past, she appears to be battling that post Christmas slump adults often have, though hers is more complicated.

Within a few conversations this week, the book War, by Sebastian Junger, has come up and been highly recommended reading. I am on the fence about whether I want to check it out. My conundrum is this: while I am highly aware of the issues regarding deployed soldiers and their daily struggles, I do far better managing life here when I bury my head in our own, easy, comfortable American sand. I am balancing on a wire, with my husband and many friends in harm's way every day, and Christians being slaughtered  for simply loving their Creator on one side, and living a quiet, predictably wholesome, Midwest life on the other. I am not naive or in denial; I would say that I know too much about the ugliness of the world. Long spurts go by without any news watching or reading....and then I find myself glued to the recent articles about self immolation or Nigerian Christian babies being hatcheted upon their mother's backs. I ask Skip about injuries because he never offers up that information, and I am told IEDs have been more prevalent than ever, resulting in many concussions and traumatic brain injuries. So then I am back to sword fighting with Ronan, who imagines himself to be Peter Pan, while my mind races with all kinds of imaginary and very real violence that is happening to our soldiers at that moment. I think of next fall and how Skip doesn't have a job lined up and then I read this and I try not to feel sick. Reducing troop strength means reducing active duty, while Guard and Reserves take up all the slack and have far more frequent deployments. This is not mentioned in the article.

It is bizarre to live this life; looking boringly around my living room and thinking up things to do to make it more interesting. New pillows! A new lamp to replace the one Toby knocked over repeatedly until it eventually died. Only, I can't decide on the lamp because I want it to fit in with the rest of the room. Only I want it to be contemporary, with maybe a blue lampshade. Yes, blue! And I was fully prepared to spend $150 on custom framing an Afghan tapestry today, except that was my estimate, and the framer's estimate was double that. Then, page through the mail and watch Ronan read the magazine about starving children and I explain again to them, how many children have nothing at all and a special peanut butter can help them live much better. Peanut butter on a biscuit, that I throw away because my kids have had enough and it didn't taste that good without a generous slathering of honey. I vascillate between wanting to simplify my closet and give away 90% of it, and then hear the siren call of post holiday sales and think how I really could use some basic tops, couldn't I.

In these dark, winter months what I most wish I could have is simple: the kids lovingly tucked into their beds at night, Toby curled up on the couch, and Skip and I watching a movie probably a guy movie that I concede to, eating bad snacks and just being there together in the same place. I also wish that the world was peaceful and that everyone loved their children tenderly and no one was hungry or hurting. But that is a fantasy. At least I know that when my best friend returns, Tron:Legacy will be out on DVD and I will gladly watch it with him and two pints of Hagen Daz that we pass back and forth until our stomaches ache slightly.

postscript: You may wonder whether Skip reads this? I wonder too. I don't think so, and perhaps this will be better to read when he has safely returned, so he can sit and read my angst, while I read his war books in the comfort of our little nest.

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.