Things I'm Thinking

Everyone is in bed. It’s just me and my cat. I typed that and looked at it, and I think maybe it sounded a little pathetic. Especially since my cat is ignoring me right now.

Ashton is still sick. I really need that boy to go back to school. My mother in law has been bringing me all his work so he won’t fall behind. Trying to cram three days of 1st grade schoolwork into a few hours has again proven to me my wisdom in deciding not to homeschool. I was homeschooled- and God bless the women and men who do it, my mother and friends included. But I know my limitations. Every time I watched him erase an “h” until it was perfect, every huff and sigh and muttered, “This is BORING”, every repetition of 11-7=4, created an ungodly wave of impatience in me, until I wanted to huff and sigh right along with him. My son is smart. Incredibly so. But with that goes a perfectionism inherited from my perfectionist family- which is fun to laugh at on the sidelines, but not fun to sit through for three hours.

Tonight I had a guitar lesson for the first time since I was 17. At that time I was the singer in a band (that sounds so snazzy, but it was really just a little local thing... and also it sounds like Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da), and I practiced chords until my fingers bled, anxious to show the guys that I could hold my own. After the band, I put the guitar down and never picked it back up. When Jeremy started “liking” me, the first thing that got my attention was him changing my guitar strings for me. He didn’t tell me he was going to do it, he just took it home and changed them. Melted my heart a little. We’ve been together for nine years- tonight was the first time I ever really sat down and made him show me some chords. I don’t know why it took me so long. But lately I’ve really been wanting to write songs again. I don’t know where I’ll start. I guess with G,C, and Em, and a “one two threefourfive” strum. Jeremy actually told me I had to practice them. I hope he doesn’t think this makes him the boss of me.

I got a new pair of Toms today. If any of you have read my elephant blog, you’ll understand why these made me squeal.

My elephant appreciation has grown rapidly over the past year. I want to go out and buy a bunch of black and yellow and orange just so I can wear these everyday. Well, actually, I already have a bunch of black. So now I just need the orange or yellow. I love Toms. I love that one person with a passion is making such a huge difference. If you haven’t heard of this organization, go check them out. Every pair of shoes you buy, buys a pair for a child in a third-world country.

These are the things I’m thinking of tonight. Little random pieces that I guess I felt needed to be recorded.

Oh also, I’m watching Antenna TV. I never knew until recently that there was a spinoff of Three’s Company, called The Ropers. It is so awful.

That is all.

Just Like A Man

It’s been a rough two weeks for my poor boy, Ashton. As I’m writing this, I just realized that I rarely blog about him. I guess Atleigh just sucks everything up in her larger-than-life, look-at-me, can’t-live-with-me-can’t-legally-put-me-up-for-adoption-personality.

Ashton, as oldest, and the only boy, already has a hard life. Or so he says. He doesn’t have his own bathroom. He has to watch Tinkerbell and Princess movies. There is no one to race cars, play baseball, or pretend to be Superman with. Even the cat is a girl.

To top all that off, he’s inherited my analytical, introspective brain. So instead of accepting his fate like a trooper, he broods about it, grumps about it, and comes up with all types of hypotheses about how different things would be if 1.) Chloe had been a boy. 2.) Atleigh had been a boy. 3.) Paisley had been a boy. 4.) Mom went to work instead of Dad. 5.) He had his own room/bathroom/house.

I suppose all of this is neither here nor there, in reference to his rough two weeks. Just more hardships to add onto his 7 years. Two and a half weeks ago, Ashton broke his thumb playing volleyball at Awanas. With a BIG ball, as he has been faithful to inform me. I still haven’t figured out what kind of ball it was, if it wasn’t a real volleyball. I took him to urgent care, where they x-rayed, splinted, and wrapped said thumb. He missed two days of school.

Three days later, over the weekend, he came down with some sort of sinus infection. Although he wasn’t feeling terrible, school rules are strict when it comes to fevers. He missed another day of school.

This past Thursday, I took him to the pediatric orthopedist for a follow-up (he left school early), and it turns out, the splint and ace bandage hadn’t been doing a lick of good. Not that I was surprised- he is 7, and it’s impossible to keep him still, even on threat of a crippled left thumb. The splint gave him way too much wiggle room. So, they casted it in a brilliant shade of red, gave him some stickers, and sent him on his way. On Friday I sent him to school with a Sharpie, and he arrived home flushed with triumph at his instant Megastar status, and his cast so covered with tipsy lettered signatures that there was hardly any space left.

Saturday he started running a high fever. Sunday, when the fever was still hovering around 100º even with Motrin, I decided to take him back to urgent care, where they did chest x-rays and a flu test. The flu test was an ordeal in itself- if you’ve ever had one, imagine being 7 and completely unprepared. He broke my heart, telling me over and over that he “wasn’t crying, it just surprised him”, all while tears streamed down his face. They told me he had a “flu-like” virus, apparently a copycat that has been going around. It acts like the flu, feels like the flu, is contagious like the flu, and should be treated like the flu. Don’t ask me why they don’t just call it THE FLU. He'll miss at least two more days of school, or until he has been fever-free for 24 hours.

Anyway, we’re home now. Ashton is already asserting his manhood by growing up to be a terrible, whiny invalid. He writhes and cries, forces me to cajole, plead, and threaten until he takes his medicine, and generally acts in every respect just like a grown man of 32 (ahem, not that that’s his daddy’s age...).

Don’t get me wrong. I hate that he’s sick. He’s so pitiful, even in all his drama, that I just want to cuddle him (if he’d let me). But I’ve gotten to where I don’t know what’s worse- the high fever and the crying and squirming that goes with it, or the medicine that makes him feel just well enough to whine energetically.

I say all of this with the best humor I can muster. I love my boy, and I don't blame him for the way he's handling being sick. I suppose I should be proud of the great strides he’s taking towards maturity. After all, he’s acting just like a man.

Driving Miss Crazy

I’m not a bad driver. Really. I’m not. But when my husband gets in the car with me, I swear, it’s like I morph into a 15 year old in a Driver’s Ed class. He makes me so nervous. My white knuckled grip on the steering wheel amuses him. He’s a total antagonist. You would think after 9 years with him, I’d have learned to not let him see how he gets to me. But I suppose my thin skin is part of my charm. I guess it would be to an antagonist.

Here’s how a 10 minute drive to the mall goes with Jeremy in the car:

“Babe. Seriously. You’re a late breaker.”

“HOLY--!!! BABE. You almost hit that car.”

“Babe, why didn’t you just turn there?!”

“Speed up, speed up, put your blinker on! GO! BABE! Honestly, if I wasn’t here you’d still be waiting to get over.”

“You totally just missed like five parking spaces. I guess we’ll be walking.”

Don’t even get me started on parallel parking. I don’t even try it anymore. I just get out, hand the keys to him, and wait. It’s not like I can’t do it. I parallel park in front of my house all the time. But never with him in the car.

So yesterday, after the above comments, I got out of the car. I walked on the opposite side of the parking lot from him. And when I heard him tell Chloe, “We’re walking this far because Mommy missed five parking spaces”, I threw the keys at his feet and said,

“HERE. DRIVE.”

I’m never, ever, driving Miss Crazy again. I won’t be responsible for my actions if it comes to that. Who knows? Maybe a convenient side swipe on the passenger’s side? Perhaps an accidental finger crush in the automatic window. Or he likes adventurous car movies. I can pull a Fast and the Beyond Furious move on him, and toss him out on the highway. Maybe he’ll find a good driver to take him home.

If you read this, BABE, you know I love you. And from now on, I’d just really love for you to drive.

Mama's Girl

My mom is moving to Florida. Like, right now. As I write this.

In a way, it's like losing her all over again. Part of me feels like that 18 year old girl, striving to walk the tenuous tightrope between resentment and understanding. I’ve fallen off on both sides.

I’ve had a lot of practice being brave. Especially lately. But right now, I can’t be brave. I don’t want to be brave. I want my mama.

Leap

I haven’t posted anything for awhile. The truth is, I haven’t really known what to say; how to follow my last blog. A lot of things seem a little trivial in the aftermath. Real life kind of comes up and kicks you in the face, whether you’re ready for it or not. So, like real life, I’m just going to dive right into some things I’ve been thinking about the past few weeks, things I’ve been pondering.

Jeremy and I have finally started attending a church (BIG deal here, people, but one I won’t go into right now). A few weeks ago, the pastor asked us if we could allow God to put our entire year, 2011, into one word, what would that word be? What would our goal be? What would the sum of all our endeavors come to? This is the word I heard:

Leap.

That’s it. That’s my 2011 word.

Here’s the thing:

I’m not much a leaper.

There are a few cliches surrounding the word “leap”:

Leap of faith.

Leap into action.

Look before you leap.

I’m much better at that last one. Trouble is, I spend so much time looking that the chance to leap passes me by. I’ve never had a problem with that. Like I said, no leaping here.

I told my friend recently that I can’t run or jump because I have weak ankles. We kind of made a joke of it, laughing at me pitching forward, almost falling on my face. It’s so nerdy, having weak ankles. Like I should be on a track trailing after a bunch of cheerleaders, wearing my glasses and a royal blue sweatband.

That’s my image of myself. I can’t leap. I have weak ankles.

But I’m determined. I’m tired of sitting opportunities out. I have a few ideas of the things I’m supposed to be leaping towards. So if, in the next couple of months, you see me doing things that might not seem to make sense in the real world, things that seem a little out of character for me, here’s a head’s up:

I’m not crazy. I’m just leaping.

Wordless

For the past five minutes I’ve sat and watched my cursor blink at me. My brain has been on overdrive. My heart has been numb. And my spirit has been weeping.

What do you say when tragedy strikes? That’s the question that has been passed around these past three days, when a dear friend lost her precious baby girl after only six days on this earth. “I don’t know what to say”, is what I’ve heard, and said myself, at least fifty times in 72 hours. I finally answered myself yesterday.

It’s not that I don’t know what to say. It’s that there are no words.

None.

Just a speechless keening in my spirit; a wailing, a grieving that can’t be expressed. There is no sorry big enough in the world.

Then, last night, during one of my many wide awake moments, with tears coursing down my cheeks, words came. They came tumbling one over the other, like salt water through a crumbling dam. Words like:

                  Angry.

Rage.

                         Trust.


      Confused.

       Comfort.

Betrayed.

                       Heartbreak.

    Hope.

     Weary.

  Bitter.

Faith.

           Resentment.

Sorrow.

                             Mercy.

      Lost.

                        Peace.


If you expected me to wrap all this up in a neat, anecdotal package, I’m sorry to disappoint you. There’s nothing neat about this. I don’t understand. I don’t have answers.

The only thing I know is that He’s big enough to handle any word I can throw at Him.

Deep Breath

I had planned on complaining today. I had a hectic morning. My house is in shambles, my kids didn’t want to get out of bed (not that I can blame them- I didn’t want to get out of bed either). Ashton spent 30 minutes sitting in front of our gas heater instead of getting dressed. Atleigh screamed at me for pacis, apples, juice cup (or, as she says it, shewscup). And in the midst of this, I was packing lunch, signing homework papers, rushing out to warm up the car, finding shoes and coats and blankies.

I spent the 10 minute drive to the school compiling a list of the things I hate the most about today: the cold, the stalling kids, my itchy left eye, the everyday drudgery of my life.

Then my sister texted me about a song she had been listening to, one we had discussed a few nights ago. I had the CD in my car, so I turned it to track 13. After repeating it three or four times, I felt a little better. I little like a martyr, suffering for the sake of a higher calling, but better.

When I got home, I took the girls' coats from them, threw some waffles in the toaster for breakfast, fed the kitten, all with a sense of patient disappointment in my fate. Suffering for a cause.

Then I opened my fridge, and saw the gallon juice jug my 7 year old son had wrestled onto the top shelf all by himself. Don’t ask me what it was about a gallon of juice that turned my attitude around. But it made me stop rolling my eyes and actually use them to look around me.

I saw the dollhouse my girls have been “cleaning” with baby wipes, pretending to be little grown-ups.

I saw the pictures that Jeremy and Chloe colored of each other: Chloe’s of Daddy picking flowers (for her), and Jeremy’s of Chloe dressed as a Princess, riding a horse to a faraway castle.

I saw all the groceries I just bought yesterday, the ones that Ashton helped me put away, so proud to be useful.

I heard Atleigh tell me “Thank you” so sweetly when I gave her her breakfast.

I saw all of Ashton’s little Star Wars figures perfectly arranged in a battle scene, good clearly aligned against evil.

I saw Jeremy’s three guitars scattered here and there, tokens of the wonderful, tender-hearted psalmist I married. And I remembered that one of those guitars was a gift from the mother of Jeremy’s best friend, and one he would give anything to be able to give back to that friend.

And I took a deep breath- another gift I’ve been given.