Here's hoping

Most random post, ever

2012-01-23T15:19:00.004-05:00

Let's start with this acknoweldgement: I know next to squat about Twitter.

Agreed? I admit, own, and fully recognize that I don't really get Twitter. So, OK? We can all accept this and move on?

OK.

But that's just the thing... I don't really get Twitter. And I think that I'm the kind of person that maybe really ought to. I'm not savvy enough to build a website from the ground up (are you?) but I'm savvy enough to use the interwebs to find my mother's long lost family -- and that was 10+ years ago, when the interwebs were still... webby. So I'm no Steve Jobs (God rest his soul) but I'm no idiot, either. I can keep up with the kids these days. I can Facebook and YouTube and Pinterest with the best of them.

But Twitter? I just never caught the bug. I don't use Twitter because I can't buy into anyone or anything in 70 characters or less. (Is it less? I wouldn't know, I don't use it.) I don't use Twitter because it's like walking into a room full of 20 different cliques, each with their own language and inside jokes and interests, and none of them particularly interested in having me join in. I don't use Twitter because I don't think anyone is really listening, so much as they are vomiting whatever comes to mind about the lastest trending topic. I don't use Twitter because it seems like the worst part of blogging - every idiot has a platform, just like this idiot does right now - has been given an express pass and a front row seat to my mind.

And I just don't need that kind of mental clutter in my life, you know?

So why should I use Twitter? Obviously it's the current Next Big Thing, but for the life of me I Just Don't Get It.

#anyonecaretoclearthisupforme?

I don't have colon cancer

2011-10-04T10:03:00.005-04:00

I had a little scare a week or so ago.

Now it's safe to say that it doesn't take much for me to have a little scare. When you've lost both parents (not to mention far too many friends and colleagues) to cancer, you tend to scare easy. Plus I work in a hospital where any and every freaky thing becomes suddenly and completely plausible: A head injury from hitting the rafters as you fall from the top of a barn? Steel rebar through the brain by way of the mouth as the result of a car accident? Second and third degree burns to the inner thighs, chest and face due to a fire in the cockpit of the plane that you were flying your mail-order bride around in?

All true, my friends. All true. (Sometime I'll have to tell you about Casey, the oppositional teenager who played Russion roulette and didn't exactly "win," if you know what I mean. Oh, Casey... you taught me a lot, buddy. Like how you shouldn't put a plastic spoon in the mouth of a boy with a tonic bite reflex, and how it's OK to tell my patients not to call me a bitch.)

Anyway, I've seen a lot. Nothing really shocks me anymore because anything, and everything, is totally possible. So when I started to have some concerning symptoms it was completely rational to conclude the inevitable:

I must have cancer.

But I don't! I don't have colon cancer! The good doctor checked it out yesterday with his very own eyes (and his very long endoscope) and even in my Versed-induced fog I heard him say it: Totally normal. Everything is fine.

HALLELUIA!!!

I feel better today than I have in weeks. Maybe the celebratory doughnut(s)and the good night's sleep had something to do with it, but mostly I think it's the knowledge that I don't have colon cancer. It's not just an amazing relief, it's energizing. It makes me feel like everything is possible, maybe even if it isn't. More than possible, actually -- like I owe it to myself to try. Try what? Try everything.

As I was thinking about this today I started wondering if my reaction is disproportionate to the situation. After all, it's not like I've had questionable blood tests or inconclusive scans. No, I've just got a bad family history, one scary episode, and a catalogue of tragedies that belong to other people. So maybe my elation isn't justified? Or maybe it's just out of scale? I don't know. Would my relief/excitement/joy be greater if there was "real" cause for concern? Certainly. And what about if I'd actually had cancer and beat it? I can't imagine the jubilation.

Seriously, I can't imagine -- and fervently pray I never know.

Here's what I do know: Right now, today, I DON'T HAVE COLON CANCER. And that is super-fantastically amazing. Phenomenal. Blessedly wonderful. A cause for my most favorite prayer of all:

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!!

Amen, amen, and amen!!!

And as a little PSA, let me just say that if you are 50 or older, or have a history of colon cancer in your family, you owe it to yourself and your loved ones to HAVE A COLONOSCOPY. Yes, the prep blows (literally and figuratively), but you won't be sorry. Early detection can save your life -- and your colon! Take care of yourself! Lots of people out there love you... and if you're actually reading this, I'm probably one of them.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2011-08-09T20:05:00.004-04:00

It is already August 9th. That may seem like no big deal to you but for me it was Independence Day about two hours ago so you can see how the freaking rapid progression of time has me reeling a bit. Mom always said that the older you get the faster time passes, and she was right.

Sara starts school next week. REAL school. Can't-be-late, no-calling-out-for-a-quick-trip-to-Vegas*, gets-to-eat-peanut-products-again REAL SCHOOL. On the one hand I'm in a little bit of denial about this. I am not really ready to hand over my sweet little girl because I'm pretty sure what comes out on the other side of REAL SCHOOL is an independent young woman. And God help me, I am so not ready for that.

But honestly I'm also a little excited about it. It thrills me to watch Sara learn something new, catching that precise moment when she makes a connection and another whole world opens up for her. Hearing her first cry, watching her first step, and seeing her face light up when she realized that "thpot begins wif an eth, like Thara!" were all equally gratifying for this Mama who wasn't entirely sure she could gestate the girl without thomehow thcrewing it up.

It helps that I am truly, deeply, madly in love with our new school**. I'm not joking, I kind of want to have another kid just so we can send him there. It is a safe, lovely place that gives me faith not only in the promise of education but in the power of people banded together for a common cause. It's tremendous. I'm sure you'll hear more about it in the months and years ahead.

And then, of course, there is this: Autumn -- God's reward for a summer well-sweated -- is but six short weeks away. There are those of you out there who shudder at this, and to you I say I'm not even the tiniest bit sorry. Summer in Indiana, and particularly this summer in Indiana***, is a beast. I do not miss it when it's gone although, admittedly, by mid-February I do find myself full of false memories of the glory of fireflies and tire swings and fresh juicy peaches and I while away hours and days pouring over the Burpee catalogue convincing myself that this will be the year I perfect my garden. (Sadly, this was not the year.) But autumn! Autumn brings clear crisp air to wash away the oppressive heat and trees blazing with color to brighten the hazy sky. Football. Naps in a sunbeam. Walks through crunching leaves. Comfort foods. Costumes and parties and plans for the holidays, apple-picking and pumpkin-carving and popcorn with cider. I love fall-time.

Mom also used to warn me about wishing my time away, and the older I get the more I understand what she means. In all honesty, I'm a little superstitious about even thinking "I can't wait until..." So I'm going to hedge my bets a bit and say this instead: I'm so excited about what's to come. There is so much to look forward to that instead of finding the time rushing by I intend to savor it. To enjoy every minute of it. And then, when the time has passed, to look back with a thankful heart on a long, sweet season blessed with growth and change.

Surely Mom would approve of that.

*OK not really Vegas, but maybe a trip to Uncle CJ's lake house.
**Name withheld on the off chance that you're a stalker.
***And we didn't have anything on the poor folks down South.

9

2011-05-29T13:20:00.001-04:00

Today I am thankful for:
Sand-covered five year olds
And their Papas who build sand castles with them
Rest
Sunshine
Cooling breezes

8

2011-05-25T22:06:00.001-04:00

Tonight, I am grateful for
Dodging the storms
Witnessing Sara's achievements
Grace, grace - amazing grace
Rob
Possibilities

7

2011-05-11T22:17:00.000-04:00

Tonight I am grateful for:

a new office (with a window!)
air conditioner repair guys (even when they're late)
Rob's new schedule
an enjoyable project at work
icy cold water

6

2011-05-09T21:30:00.001-04:00

Tonight I am grateful for:

productive conversations
happy kids
a new routine
online grocery shopping
exercising my body

An attitude of gratitude

2011-05-07T18:49:00.003-04:00

You may have noticed a trend on this here blog lately.

I've started an admittedly cheesy but entirely worthwhile habit: Spending a couple of minutes every night recalling a few things from the day for which I am grateful. This is not an even remotely original idea and if you really must know I got it from someone I heard on Oprah.

That's right, Oprah. I mean the woman must be doing something right, don't you think?

So anyway -- it seemed a good idea to me, this notion of purposely reflecting back on the good rather than the bad. I mean dwelling on the negative is a no-brainer, something I can fall into like a soft leather easy chair: comfortable, familiar, inviting. My mind lands there almost in spite of itself but I really have to wonder why, because it certainly doesn't do the rest of my body any favors. Knots in my stomach, a clenched jaw, tight shoulders, and a headache every night are not exactly the way I like to wrap up my day. But that's just what I've managed to do on more nights than I care to remember.

The interesting side effect is that I find myself a lot more mindful all day long of the many small things for which I truly am grateful. A particularly funny response from a three year old, puffy white clouds morphing across the sky, a freshly swept floor, an unexpected note from a friend -- all of these things really are fantastic if you think about them. All those little joys there for the taking, but only if you take the time to appreciate them.

Right now I am filthy, covered literally from head to toe in dust and dirt and pollen, but I couldn't be happier. It's my merit badge for a day well-spent, enjoying the sun and the breeze with my family and working the earth to finally realize years of dreams for this home of ours. I'm hungry after a day of working in a way that my desk job doesn't allow, but I'm thankful. The physical effort is a gift to my body. I'm tired, but I'm content. These weary bones have a cozy bed and soft pillow to crawl into tonight and are sure to get all the rest they need before another day begins tomorrow.

I'm filthy and hungry and tired, and couldn't be more grateful for it. What a blessing.

5

2011-05-07T18:46:00.003-04:00

Tonight I am grateful for:

a new visitor to our feeders
beautiful new flowers in our landscape
an unexpected sunny, cool day (perfect for planting!)
an entire day spent with my family: Rob, Sara, Pants
living in a neighborhood where I can hear church bells ringing
good neighbors with great kids (perfect for Sara!)

4

2011-05-05T21:12:00.001-04:00

Tonight I am grateful for

cooperative hair
successful new recipes
tiny green leaves in the garden
glimmers of teamwork
the gift of another day

3

2011-05-04T23:28:00.003-04:00

Tonight, I am grateful for

a peaceful day at work
easy laughter
long-awaited answers
peanut butter and crackers
five-year-olds, especially the crazy one I live with

2

2011-05-03T22:20:00.003-04:00

Tonight I am grateful

for music and how it moves me

for the end of this very long day

for sunshine, no matter how brief

for the excitement that (still) comes from watching (yet another) front roll in

for the chance to learn a little more about living, every single day

1

2011-05-02T23:26:00.002-04:00

Tonight I am grateful for:

time set aside to breathe

laughing under a blanket with Sara

a simple dinner

my warm bed in a chilly room

the sound of the rain on the roof.

Psalm 13

2011-04-20T16:23:00.007-04:00

I have had a very blah day. I was not at all productive at work -- don't tell the boss, but other than attending a couple of meetings I'm not sure I can recall anything I did today that was of real consequence.

I hate days like that. Time is far too precious to waste.

Unfortunately during the drive home "blah" turned to full-on grouchy. I spent time thinking about all the things I'm waiting on that just aren't happening. Like what? Like moving on from my current job and all of the day-to-day BS that comes along with it. Like Rob moving to day shift and us living in a normal rhythm, just like the rest of the world. Like getting our yard landscaped (enough with the rain already). Like getting the laundry done and put away, and not having my closet annihilated by a five-year old.

I am not a patient person. My impatience has bit me and my little family in the butt before though, and so I've spent the last three years really trying to get better about it -- and I have, honest and true. But right about now, with at least some of the things mentioned above, I feel like enough is enough. I'm singing David's song:

How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, O LORD my God. Give light to my eyes,or I will sleep in death; my enemy will say, "I have overcome him," and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

Overwrought much? So OK, maybe that's exaggerating things a bit, but in all honesty I do find myself waking every morning and sitting on the side of the bed rubbing my eyes, asking "how long, Lord?" This is nothing new, just a remix on an old classic. When my parents were ill and life was, admittedly, much harder than it is now I cried myself to sleep every night asking "Please, God: how long, how long, how long?"

It was a very long time.

Maybe that's why I'm feeling discouraged now. Because we've been chasing things for months into years, but day after day it's just more waiting. And as I believe I've mentioned already... I'm not a patient person.

At least there is good news, and trust me I'm looking for that a lot right now. As it turns out, David's song doesn't stop there. It goes on, and he closes it like this:

But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the LORD, for he has been good to me.

I believe this. I know it is true. I KNOW it. I know that good will come from waiting.

I'm just really, really bad at it.

Kindergarten roundup

2011-04-13T21:03:00.006-04:00

Waiting really blows, especially when it's a wait for an answer that you have no control over.

Yesterday the answer finally arrived in a skinny little envelope. We didn't even need to open it, but we did anyway just to confirm the obvious:

Thanks, but no thanks.

Learning that Sara didn't get a spot at the school where we had hoped to send her was disappointing to be sure. Despite a lot of early apprehensions on my part I really fell in love with the place, and I hate that she won't have the experience of growing and learning there.

Let's be honest: Rejection sucks. No matter what the reasons may be, it doesn't make you feel good when someone stacks you up against the crowd and says hey, thanks so much, but we'd really rather go with someone else. The fact that it's my kid? Oy. Even worse. Sort of an "It's not you, it's me" for the kindergarten crowd.

But I've figured out that what's really bothering me has little to do with the rejection and everything to do with the reality that in just a few short months I am sending my kid out into the world. And that scares the crap out of me. She's still so little, and naive, and small. Truth be told, I really don't ever want that to change.

I had hopes that we could start out with baby steps, in a place where it felt safe to leave her. Because she's my girl! My only one! How am I ever going to turn her over to a bunch of strangers, to fend for herself in a sea of kids she doesn't know? Really, someone tell me -- how in the hell am I going to do that?

I am not ready for this, not at all. I wonder: Did my own mother ever feel this way? Did she ever stop feeling this way?

Lordy. I am going to be one hot mess. Consider yourself warned.

Opinions, please

2011-04-06T21:24:00.003-04:00

I nearly forgot my Blogger login. That's sad.

I've come down with a strain of Unabletowrititis, which is related to, but behaves differently than, it's better known cousin Writer's Block.

Let me sum up.

I love to write but am uncertain about why I do it. My writing is personal, but not of the "dear diary" variety; I put entirely too much effort into it for that. I wonder who would be interested in reading my thoughts because I myself am not at all convinced that they are original, engaging, well-formed, or eloquent. In fact more often than not it seems to me that what I write is more like talk therapy between my laptop and me and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure that kind of thing should be open for public consumption. So I tried for a while to take up a more disciplined approach to it all, working on ideas that didn't focus on something too personal. And that was OK, but it didn't do it for me. It was hard, and I thought my posts were boring, and in the end I don't think it sounded like me, either.

Is any of that important though? Should writing always have to do it for you? Or should it be hard for the sake of being hard (or something like that)?

But still I love to write. And to make matters worse I actually want my writing to connect with other people; it's not enough for me to create something only to turn around and lock it up again because I haven't figured out anything better to do with it. This is not to say that I have delusions about being the next Elizabeth Gilbert or Anne Lamott, but surely there is some in-between place? Some space in the ethernet where writers can connect with readers without having to pimp out Clorox products or maintain a pithy Twitter feed?

So, peeps -- this is my question to you: Does your writing have a point? And if you don't write, do you think that what is written for your consumption must have some sort of objective (entertaining, inspiring, instructive, whatever)?

Or should I just shut it, write what I wanna write, and let the chips fall where they may?

Diving in

2011-03-08T23:27:00.007-05:00

So I started reading Bono: in conversation with Michka Assayas tonight. Bono is a character that I've always been a little ambivalent about. You know, he's kind of sexy in that intelligent rocker sort of way but also a little off-putting in his in-your-face approach to saving the world (or at least Africa).

Don't get me wrong, I didn't lay awake at night contemplating my personal relationship with Bono's place in the world. But he has always been intriguing. Plus, hello, I am a child of the 80s and who didn't love The Joshua Tree, right? So after a friend shared this link, which excerpts the book in the context of Bono's thoughts on God, Jesus, faith, and grace, my curiosity was piqued even more.

Which brings us to tonight. And much to my surprise, here is how we've started:

"...To be serious for a second, I thought I had gotten away from my father's death. I thought I had escaped lightly into busyness and family. I've always considered myself good at wailing - "keening" we call it in Ireland. But, as it turns out, I'm better at other people's tragedies. There's no obvious drama in the slow extinguishing of a well-lived life to a common scourge like cancer, but it had a dramatic effect on me and seems to have set off some kind of chain reaction."

Lordy. And I'm not even into Chapter 1.

So I think Bono and I have a lot more to discuss than just thoughts on God and Jesus and faith and grace. I also think he's going to be a lot more eloquent about it than I could ever be.

There's no obvious drama in the slow extinguishing of a well-lived life to a common scourge like cancer, but it had a dramatic effect on me and seems to have set off some kind of chain reaction.

Amen, Bono. Amen.

Something I never want to forget

2011-02-08T19:17:00.003-05:00

Sung by Sara, during a Tuesday night bath in February:

Deck the halls with lots of jolly

Fa la la la la la la la la

Tis the season to be careful

Fa la la la la la la la la

That's it. Isn't it?

Insomnia

2011-01-21T20:47:00.003-05:00

I couldn't sleep Monday night. I was tired and had to get up & moving early the next morning for my staff meeting, but I just lay there: tired and awake, a hostage to my racing mind.

That really blows.

It was the meeting that was keeping me up, actually. You see I had this fabulous idea to add something to our agenda, a short "sharing," if you will, to help do some team building (we could use it -- 2010 was rough on us) and staff development. Anyway, the point of this new agenda item is for each staff member to talk briefly about one thing that has shaped the way she approaches patient care. These stories are often funny, just as frequently heart-wrenching, and always meaningful. We all have a story, and story-telling is one of the best tools for teaching and strengthening relationships, so I am all for it. But since I'm the boss, and since it was my idea, and since we had never done it before... I had to go first.

If you know me at all -- and I suspect you do if you're actually reading this -- it will take you no more than 2 seconds to determine what, and who, I was going to talk about.

And.... your 2 seconds is up.

The truth is that Mom's illness was, among other incredibly crappy, shitty, sucky things, a huge learning curve for me. Let's just say that all those things I "knew" about talking to sick, scared and overwhelmed patients & family members -- like how they are overloaded with information, and are in shock, and have different priorities than we do, and don't care how smart we think we are -- suddenly and vividly made a whole lot of sense. Because it really is all those things - plus denial, and anger, and desperation, and heartbreaking sadness.

I can have a conversation with a young clinician about how all of that is true, but through the filter of my mom... well, it's nearly impossible. And I knew it would be, which is why I spent three weeks not thinking about what I was going to say only to lay awake the entire night before trying in vain to come up with some sort of clinical script to get myself though.

Would you like to know how it went?

Well of course you would. It was agonizing. I apologized for the inevitable and did the ugly cry before I even started, and wondered the whole time if I was making any sense, sending any kind of take-home message that my staff could try to internalize for that next hard conversation with the parents of a fragile, failing baby. I desperately didn't want to sound preachy or patronizing, and suspect I succeeded because it's difficult to sound anything other than pitiful when you're sobbing. I noticed some of them tearing up, some of them a little uncomfortable, some of them sympathetic. One of them, a friend who went through a very similar experience with her brother shortly after I lost Mom, actually clapped for me. But all of them heard me -- at that, at the end of the day, was the point.

It was just the train wreck I had anticipated. Later that night I told Rob about it, explaining my tossing & turning from the night before and wondering out loud when I'll be able to talk about that time without it feeling so fresh. I sometimes wonder if that time will ever come. I hope it does.

I hate those nights I way awake chasing my thoughts. I never catch them and the race always leaves me exhausted the next day. My only consolation, at least this time, is that my story might help shape the way our therapists think about care. To remember that behind the diagnosis isn't just a patient but a rush of emotions, and that our roles as caregivers start where these families really are -- not where we need them to be. To understand that when it's all said and done, the very best clinical skills are absolutely worthless unless they are coupled with the insight and compassion to honor their fears and and hold each of their hearts in our own.

It's hard work we do, but we are blessed to do it.

Let me tell you about happiness in a cookie

2010-12-22T15:34:00.004-05:00

I'm just saying: OH. MY. STARS.

First, start with your favorite sugar cookie recipe. Any one you like. I like this one:

I'd share the recipe with you, but Betty's not talking.

To your recipe add a little twist in the way of orange. Orange zest would be the BEST, but I didn't have any oranges, so I used orange extract.

How much? I don't measure. Surely you knew that about me already -- right? But if you just must have some guidelines, I'd say about 1 tsp zest or 1/2 tsp extract. Maybe more, maybe less. Hey look: I'm no Ina. And you're not paying for this little piece of genius, so just work it out. You'll be fine.

I am not a fancy cut-out sugar cookie kinda gal. Oh, I'd like to be, but let's face facts here for a minute: As I type this I have five baskets of laundry upstairs that I'm not doing and several kitty litter boxes I'm not asking Rob to clean out. I may or may not have had clean underwear to put on this morning (too much information?), and meal preparation for the last couple of weeks has been strictly optional. So -- I'll drop these cookies, thank you very much. But I'll use my grandmother's fancy cookie scoops to do it. I'm not a barbarian.

Once your orange-spiked cookies are done make sure they're fully cooled. I accomplished this by making mine about two weeks ago and parking them in the freezer.

Works every time.

Now comes magic time. Make yourself some frosting, starting with 1 stick of melted butter. Mix in some powdered sugar, cinnamon, and a little half & half (milk or water would also do but come on -- you've already got a stick of butter in there). Stir until you have smooth, velvety, cinnamon frosting.

Amounts again? People, people, people... I. Don't. Measure. Pay attention! But if you insist (and you seem to be insisting), I'd guess ~2.5 cups of powdered sugar and ~1 TBS of half & half. Mix the sugar into the butter til you have something that looks like dry/crumbly cookie dough, then add the liquid, a little bit at a time, til you have bliss. Sweet, blessed, cinnamony bliss.

Do not -- and I really cannot emphasize this enough -- do NOT slather this all over your body. You'll be tempted to (and your husband might really love you for it), but if you do you won't have enough for the cookies.

About 36 of them, to be precise (because I know you're all about the numbers). You'll have enough of this perfection to generously frost three dozen two-inch cookies. You might even have a little left over.

And what you choose to do with the excess is strictly between you & your spatula. I'm just sayin'.

First, do no harm

2010-12-01T09:38:00.007-05:00

You always hear about "Mother-love." They never tell you about "Mother-guilt."

As anyone who's done this for, oh, about 5 minutes can tell you, the truth is that motherhood is all about the love and all about the guilt. For me it started even before she was born, the day I was so sick and called the OB to find out what I could take for a little relief. Given the green light for an antihistamine, I took the approved dose only to find, much to my horror, that not only did it make me a little sleepy it knocked poor Sara completely on her teeny-tiny ass. Evidently the "Warning: May Cause Drowsiness" message applied not only to me but to my normally acrobatic fetus as well.

As I'm sure you can imagine I suffered through every subsequent head cold without benefit of pharmaceutical relief because, after the terror subsided (no movement? for over an hour? by SARA?), the guilt set in. "First do no harm" may be the physician's motto but let me tell you, Hippocrates' dear mother had to have come up with it because doing no harm is about the greatest achievement a mother can claim.

I know now, and probably knew then, that I hadn't really "harmed" Sara. But that didn't stop me from feeling like I did, or from feeling the guilt that comes along with doing something that hurts your child, even when it's unintentional. Mother-guilt manifests from all sorts of things: The sharp words spoken in frustration, the book unread because of exhaustion, the birthday party unplanned because you just don't have your act together. None of these things, in the long-run, are game changers; Sara won't remember the night I just didn't have it in me to read Pete the Cat, nor will she likely require therapy because I relented and actually bought a cake for her fifth birthday. From Wal-Mart. (Don't judge -- their chocolate cake is the best I've ever had, and though I am bitter about that fact, there it is.)

Enter the balloon.

Sara came home from her visit to Pennsylvania with a balloon. It was from Nana. Heart-shaped. Pink & purple. With Tinkerbell. Can you imagine anything else as wonderful for my five-year-old Sara-fairy? Me neither. But all though the drive to preschool this morning I had to tell her to keep the balloon down so I could see out the back of the car. Over. And over. And over and over and over. A block away from the school I had finally had enough and, out of frustration, let her know that if she couldn't keep the balloon out of my way it would be gone. For good.

And don't you know, for that last block she managed to keep her beloved Tink balloon under wraps. Crisis averted! I parked the car and gathered her gear. It's a cold and blustery day today, with the first snowfall of the Christmas season, so I braced myself and told her to get ready. I did an enthusiastic count down so we could make a quick exit: Ready Sara? Three! Two! One! Let's GO!!

Did I mention that's it's blustery? No, really -- very, very blustery?

You can see where this is going. I opened up my door and stood by hers while it slid open. She hopped out and just as I clicked the button to close her door the balloon -- her much beloved balloon -- was sucked out of the car. It had blown half a block before I registered what was happening, and was all the way to 46th & Illinois before I realized it was too late. There was no way to rescue Tink.

She tried to chase it, then turned to me in a panic. And then the tears came. Sobs, acutally. Real, honest-to-gosh tears and heaves of loss. You'd think Nana herself had blown away with the cold December wind.

I just let her cry it out. Because what can you do? I can't tell her it's no big deal, or that it's OK, or that she's going to be fine (even though all of these things are true). The fact of the matter is that from Sara's perspective it is a big deal, it isn't OK, and that she's not going to be fine. I'm not about to tell her that she's wrong to feel what she's feeling, so... she sobbed. All the way into school, and taking off her coat, and putting away her lunch, and washing her hands.

As for me? No tears, just plenty of guilt. Guilt because we argued about the balloon all the way to school. Guilt because I threatened to take it away. Guilt because I didn't anticipate it's escape. Guilt because I couldn't stop the wind, or move with the speed of sound, or freeze time long enough to allow us both to run after it, another crisis averted.

Motherhood is just a series of these events, small moments of little to no consequence -- certainly to me, and ultimately to her, too. But today, while December's icy wind turned my daughter's tear-streaked face a cold, raw red, Mother-love once again met up with Mother-guilt. My heart broke for my sad little girl and I all I could do was let her feel the loss, because sometimes letting her feel the pain is doing no harm. Sometimes, what seems to be the worst really is the best you can do.

And that is the truth about motherhood.

Amen and amen

2010-11-22T09:57:00.003-05:00

It doesn't take much to make you realize how lucky you've got it when you sit down at a table with a friend, face-to-face, who is struggling just to get dinner on the table. Makes things very real, very fast.

So here it is: I have been blessed in this life with many wonderful things that I take for granted every single day. I have a reliable job. I have a pantry full of food. I can send my kid to preschool and can even consider making sacrifices to send her to private school -- in other words, I have so much that I'm actually able to give things up. I might have to wait until the next paycheck to buy those new shoes I want, but I can buy them. I can go out for a night with my girlfriends and know that this splurge, just for me, won't have a direct - and negative - impact on my family. I have health insurance and, more importantly, I have my health. I own the roof over my head and the car sitting on the street in front of it. I can buy plants and flowers to grow just because they're pretty, then have the audacity to complain about breaking a sweat to care for them. I have more opportunities than I can begin to imagine, then let fear keep me from taking advantage of those that are staring me in the face.

I know God. I know that He is here, with us and in us. I have no idea how He works, why my life is overflowing with comforts while others' are overflowing with hardship, but I do know that He is equally present in both. He is a great and wonderful mystery, and I am blessed to live in a time and place where I can not only say that, but I can write it for all the world to see. The small things that I can do to help someone are not nothing but they sure do seem to be when compared to the unimaginable things that God can do. And so while I sit and wonder how I can begin to help make a dent with the real-life, day-to-day struggles of just one family I am reminded that my offerings have to be matched with my prayers, and a hope that God will become known in their lives and hearts. Not for the sake of salvation but for the sake of hope and peace.

Look: I've had hard times. We all have. And though I'm certainly guilty of doing so in the past, I'm no longer in the business of saying who has it better or worse in this life. What I want to do - no, what I need to do, is learn to live in the knowledge of my blessings rather than the frustration my desires. I need to meditate every day on the needs of others and craft a life that is designed to help meet those needs, no matter how big or small. I need to live a Thanksgiving life rather than celebrate a Thanksgiving holiday.

Heaven help me.

Amen.

True confessions of a frustrated soccer mom

2010-11-17T23:00:00.003-05:00

Newsflash about me: I just might, maybe, have some self-esteem issues. Kinda like you, and you over there, and you, too -- that's right, I see you back there. The one with the Sally Hansen Creme Bleach and Palmer's Skin Therapy Oil.

Oh wait a minute. That last one is me.

But anyway...

It was one of those mornings today when clean, wrinkle-free clothes were at a premium and I didn't seem to have the time, inclination, or raw materials available to pull together a particularly polished "look." And I didn't really care so much because I knew that today I wouldn't be seeing any patients, families, doctors, or co-workers except for one, and she & I would be holed up for the day in a work room on an abandoned Methodist psych unit. Awesome!

So I had made peace with my fashion fate as I headed out the door with Sara in tow, bound for another fun day at preschool. When we arrived I gave myself a quiet pat on the back for running late, as usual, because it avoided the crush of other younger, hipper, cuter moms and the awkward small talk required as the kids line up for their obligatory hand-washing routine. I parked in the lot across the street, my dad's old oversized, fleecy shirt repurposed as as a sentimental cool-weather jacket but, sadly, really rounding out my sad-sack appearance. I mean really. It was a What Not to Wear moment, and I knew it.

We got to the gate just in time to meet up with The Mercedes Mom. I've seen her lots of times during morning drop off and she has always annoyed me. Here's why: She drives a brand-new (ridiculous and ostentatious) Mercedes SUV. She weighs about 110 pounds. She always - always - wears spandex. Tight, and, at least this morning, very short spandex. She carries big, expensive designer bags and wears more makeup (to complement the spandex, I suppose) at 8:30 on a Wednesday morning than I did on my wedding day.

Certainly these are all very reasonable reasons for me to pass judgment.

Today she was also talking on her cell phone, carrying on an intense conversation about shaving something that I hope, I really really hope, was a family pet. I opened the gate for her & her daughter and didn't get the acknowledgement that I didn't expect to get (so no disappointments). We trekked up the walkway and got to the door, and as I stood on the stoop I paused for half a second, just to see if she would reach for the handle. She didn't and, still unsurprised, I opened the door & held it for her.

Me, in my dad's old oversized fleecy shirt and pants with the button missing (oh, I didn't mention that before?) waiting on Mercedes to wrap up her conversation so we could get inside & make our way to the hand-washing station. Paints a picture, doesn't it?

Even as I stood there I had this flicker of recognition: She wasn't expecting me to wait on her, she was just talking on the phone.

But a little bit of insight has never stopped me from hanging on to bitchy suppositions so I trudged in, marveling at that scrap of spandex barely covering her ass while simultaneously cursing myself for the sloppy shirt and overdue eyebrow maintenance. We got inside and passed a couple more of the Moms-I'll-Never-Be: proficient at small talk, sipping on their Starbucks and in absolutely no hurry to get anywhere. Sara walked ahead of me in her typically oblivious way, too engrossed in the ish on the walls and the conversations around her that she forgets to stop and hang up her coat and book bag in the hall outside the class room. I called out to her, and Mercedes Mom looked at me.

"This is Sara?

Yes, yes it is.

"Oh, well hi there! I'm Charlie's mom. I called your house and left a message for you a week or so ago. Charlie's having a birthday party and we wondered if Sara would be able to come."

Oh. I'm sorry (nervous laughter)... we're pretty bad about managing the voice mail in our house.

"Who isn't these days! I would have e-mailed everyone but the office didn't have the list together yet. Do you think Sara can join us?"

(relieved) Well, when is it?

"Saturday."

Ah, well unfortunately she won't. We'll be in Pennsylvania this weekend.

"Oh... that's too bad. We'll have to get these two together some other time then. I know Charlie would really like that."

We walked into the class room, and just like that, all my assumptions evaporated. The skinny, rich, uppity bitch ended up being the friendliest parent I've talked to at Sara's school. I didn't feel judged at all for my shaggy hair ( I'm a little overdue for a cut) and dingy tennis shoes. She was completely normal (well, except for maybe the spandex -- no joke, I'm talking SHORT) and her hair, now that I looked it at, was kind of a mess too. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Turns out, I was the bitch. I was the one with the ugly attitude which, tragically, perfectly complimented my hot mess of an outfit and minimally maintained, unwanted facial hair. It was me, not her, that I couldn't stand.

UGH. I have such a long, long way to go. So with clean laundry in the closet and Sally Hansen waiting by the sink, tomorrow I'll make another stab at it. Here's hoping a little extra effort on the outside is just a stepping stone to a whole lot more effort on the inside.

(But I still retain the right to feel bewildered by the spandex. Because.... come ON.)

A PSA about homemade bread, a la the Pioneer Woman

2010-10-24T12:17:00.013-04:00

I hope Ree and her chaps-wearing Marlboro Man don't come after me for this. After all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

As I've mentioned before I am in love, love, love with Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day. Aside from the week we were gone for vacation, I can only think of a few days here & there when we didn't have dough ready & waiting in the fridge because I use it for everything: fresh, hot loaves to eat with dinner, pizza dough and pita bread are a few of the ways I've put the Master Recipe to use. And since we rarely (OK never) seem to polish off the entire loaf in one sitting I've started cubing up the leftover bread, tossing it in a zip-top bag and putting it in the freezer to use later. They make AMAZING croutons for soups & salads -- all you have to do is let them defrost for about 15 minutes then toss them in a saute pan with 2-3 tablespoons of butter & olive oil. Brown them on each side, toss with S&P and some garlic powder and Oh. My. Word. Sara and I could eat those by themselves for dinner & be perfectly happy. Or use them to whip up Ina's Panzanella and holy cow. That is some GOOD stuff.

But I digress. The reason for my ramble today is to provide photographic evidence of how easy it is to make, shape, and bake off a loaf of totally delicious (and really inexpensive) hot, fresh, homemade bread. This won't be a sandwich loaf with a soft crust & squishy crumb but a peasant-style bread with a crispy crust & chewy interior. It's awesome -- trust me.

Here's all you do:

First, get your hands on a copy of Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day and open it up to the Master Recipe (nothing by flour, salt, yeast & water, FYI). They'll have it at the library if you want to give it a test drive. But you'll want to buy it, I'm sure. Well -- I'm pretty sure. Maybe you're not as hard-core as me about your crusty breads.

This photo is from the first batch I ever made and since I had bread flour on hand that day I used it. Ever since then I've just used good old A-P and it's fantastic. (Maybe better? Hard to say.)

Toss all the ingredients into a mixer and stir until it's just combined using the dough hook. Or, you can just mix it all in the storage container you're going to use. I'm too lazy to mix that hard so it's the KitchenAid for me.

Remember, you're not kneading - just mixing.

Dump the dough into your storage container. Mine is a 6qt plastic food storage bucket that I picked up locally at Zesco. (It looks pretty much exactly like the one from King Arthur Flour that they suggest in the book; they've since switched to this Cambro set from Amazon. But hey, it gave me an excuse to go to Zesco and that's always alright with me.)

Set the lid on top but don't seal it up. Let the dough rise til it doubles in size or flattens out on top, then put it in the fridge. Keep the lid set loosely on top.

That's it, friends! You've got dough ready & waiting for you any time over the next two weeks. And the longer it sits in the fridge the more sourdoughy it will taste.

When you're ready to bake, pull off a piece of dough about the size of a grapefruit and form into a round loaf. (Instructions on flouring the loaf are in the book so I won't go into details here but it's not rocket science, people. If I can do this, after 20 years of failed yeast bread attempts, anyone can do this.) Let it rest for about 20 minutes or so, then preheat your oven.

Just before you put it in the oven find yourself a good, sharp knife. I use our, um, BREAD knife. Wusthof, FTW!

You're going to make some 1/2 inch slashes in the top of the loaf. This will pretty it up (and do some other important baking-related stuff, I'm sure).

On this particular day I went for the scallop design. Nice, huh?

Now you're ready to bake. You'll notice I've let the dough rest on a cornmeal-dusted pizza peel. OK, it's not a pizza peel. It's a really lovely cutting board we got as a wedding gift. But I'm cheap & it works just like a peel so there it is.

Anyway, it's time to slide the dough into the oven and onto the preheated baking stone. Yeah, a baking stone. You know you've got one somewhere. And if you don't you can find one pretty inexpensively online. If you're dying to try this but don't want to find/purchase a stone, that's fine! Your bottom crust may not be as crispy as it gets on a stone but it will still work if you use a regular baking sheet.

As soon as you get the dough on the stone pour about a cup of water into an empty sheet pan set in the oven. This will make steam and that's what's going to give you this:

A gorgeous, crispy (but not tough!) crust.

As you can see Sara was ready to pounce on this beauty right after it came out of the over but it needs to sit for a bit before you slice into it. In full disclosure, we can never wait as long as they suggest. Because fresh, warm bread slathered with butter? Yeah... we're all over that at our house.

If you haven't already you should absolutely give this method a try. It's so simple, so inexpensive (after those 2 or 3 initial purchases) and SOOOO good. You'll love it!

Coincidence? I think not.

2010-09-20T00:41:00.004-04:00

So, I'm wondering:

Let's say you've got some ish that you're dealing with. Kinda unflattering, kinda yucky, kinda wish you didn't feel the way you do, but... there it is. This little slice of you that is irrational and ugly and contrary to who you are.

(Except of course it's not at all contrary to who you are because hello! there it is.)

But anyway, you're wrestling with the ish, trying to make peace with it so you can send it on it's merry way, acknowledging the unflattering/yucky/irrational/ugly business that's camped out in your gut so it can have it's say before you summarily dismiss it. Whatever; you want it gone.

Oh, but a funny thing, life! Seems everywhere you turn the ish-trigger abounds. Left, right, up, down -- there it is! It might even be taunting you a little bit, late at night when you think you're safe from it but uh-oh! Looky-looky, there it is again. And so I'm left wondering:

Am I being ambushed by the ish because maybe I'm supposed to realize that it's not going to be so easy to let it go? Maybe I'm supposed to accept that some things just are what they are and I don't have to like it... but I do have to live with it. Graciously, even.

Or maybe, some things in life just suck. And lemme just say, that would really annoy me.

I've hit a rough patch in the writing-as-therapy exercise. Not sure what to do... plow on and see where it takes me, or set it aside and pick it up when some of the ish-dust settles. We shall see. But it seems I'm derailed every time I take to the page (as it were). Either the words aren't really me, or I'm interrupted, or I'm not actually addressing the big pink elephant in the middle of the room.

Blergh. This post sucks. Sorry, internets.

Me, Chapter 7

2010-09-13T20:20:00.004-04:00

I meant it when I said I was going off the grid for awhile. I've been doing some fairly undisciplined writing, most of which I not suitable for any kind of public consumption. Let's just say the content is a bit "rough." But here's this, another rough ramble that it kind of sums up what all this writing is about. You know... if you're interested.

I’m beginning to believe that writing may be what saves me. I don’t even know what it’s saving me from – unless it’s myself, which is quite possible. I might even go so far as to say “likely.”

I find that although my mind pushes away the thought of sitting down “to write,” probably because it requires some sort of actual discipline to do it, my body actually craves it a bit. It’s almost as though I can feel myself taking in a deep Sun breath while my fingers, clickety-clicking across the keys, exhale all the toxic crap I’ve been harboring inside.

Is that a little too out there for you?

Well, I don’t know what to tell you. What I do know is that inside these formatted, 12-point Cambria walls I am entirely myself. I’m not anyone’s Mother or Manager or Therapist or Wife, I’m not a Sister or Aunt or Niece or even a Friend. While I’m not entirely certain about this I might even cease being Amy – because Amy brings a lot of baggage, you know. I think I’m just me. Just me, saving me from myself.

One word at a time.

When life gives you lemons, go for the club

2010-09-03T21:31:00.009-04:00

I had a really crappy week. I'm not kidding -- it was crappy. I could go into it, but really? There's nothing new here, just more of the same crappy-crap-crap that makes me wonder why.

Why what? Why everything.

About 2 months ago my right shoulder started aching. I figured I slept on it funny & didn't give it much thought. A week passed & it didn't get better, so I figured it was just tension (see above re: the crappy-crap-crap). Another week passed & I figured something was wrong with it, but what was I going to do? So I waited & waited, and after a month or so I was sitting at my desk at work and couldn't pick up a pen without crying. I figured a visit with the doctor might be in order. After a two week wait (because I don't know? Is pain when you lift a pen an emergency?) she finally saw me & said it was probably a muscle spasm. Advil & time would take care of it, and a massage wouldn't hurt.

I'm sure it will come as no surprise to learn that I didn't make it to the masseuse. BUT!

I did find myself with a new spasm, this time on the left, creeping in during an all-day meeting at work on Wednesday (crappy-crap-crap). By Thursday morning I was worried, and as of this morning I knew I was hosed. Heat doesn't help, but mass quantities of Advil do take the edge off.

You'll never believe this but there's actually a happy ending in sight.

But not before my near-apoplectic moment this afternoon, when I arrived to radiology for my 1:30 patient, only to find that the doctor (a bitch on a good day) who was scheduled for the same room at 1:00 hadn't even bothered to show up yet. Her patient had been sitting there waiting on her for 20 minutes, and my patient -- who had been at the hospital since early that morning just waiting for me to see her -- was also ready to go. So where the two patients I had to see after her. AND THAT WENCH WASN'T EVEN THERE YET.

Oooooooh doctors!!! They really piss me off sometime.

But then, in an unusual moment of clarity, I realized I had a choice: I could stew and let her make my crappy-crap-crappy week even worse, or I could have lunch.

Let me just say, the turkey club was delicious.

After that quick lunch I came back and much to my surprise the unapologetically late, bitchy pediatrician (oxymoronic, right?) was gone. My kiddo was starving and a took her barium-laced bottle like a champ. And before I knew it reinforcements arrived to take over the other two patients for me so I could go do my actual job for a couple of hours.

The things that have made this such a bad week -- my neck pain, my job, my frustrations -- are still here; as I type this I am eyeing my Advil bottle with equal parts lust and anticipation. But in that instant when I went for the club rather than a meltdown something happened. Some might say my luck changed, but I think there's more to it than that. I think my choice to be a better person than I wanted to be (more faithful, more loving, more gentle, more patient) was rewarded with what I really needed at that moment (simplicity, assistance, space, and ultimately a grateful spirit).

And that was very, very cool.

Survey says:

2010-09-01T22:03:00.004-04:00

Homemade detergent and vinegar "fabric softener" (with a few drops of peppermint oil) is a hit!

Seriously, I love it. Our clothes, towels, and sheets are just as soft as ever and don't smell overly perfumed. They don't really smell at all, except fresh. In fact when I gave Sara a hug tonight (or, maybe more accurately, when she put me in a headlock so I couldn't leave her room) I took a double-whiff. Her jammies just smelled... sweet. Clean. Lovely.

Tonight I did a little spot cleaning on one of Sara's new thrifted dresses. (Yes, I'll say it: Goodwill rocks when you're trying to dress a four year old fashionista.) Fels-Naptha to the rescue! This handy little bar of soap, along with Rob's special brew of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda for tricky stain removal*, rounds out our laundry room arsenal. I feel so... old school. : )

Speaking of soap, I've done some reading up on soap-making as well. I see vats of oils, lye, and frangrance in my future!

I am a convert. Now if I can just find a great, inexpensive way to make dish soap...

*Around here, Papa is also known as the Stainmaster... stains don't stand a chance if Rob's on the scene!

All's quiet on the western front

2010-08-30T23:19:00.003-04:00

Actually, we're not on the west side of anything. Oddly enough when I was a kid I once made my mother tell me if we lived on the "east side" or the "west side," even though we quite obviously live on the "north side." I was hoping for west and was very annoyed when she said if she had to pick it would be east. Funny. (To me at least.)

Anyway I haven't abandoned the ol' blog, just taking any meaningful thoughts off the grid for awhile. I don't suspect many people will miss it, but I do and maybe that's enough.

I'm doing some writing - actually a lot more writing, thanks to some feel-good hits from this page -- that is not for publication. Just making like Jacob right now, and it's probably best to leave that between me & Him.

Although I've found myself dropping the f-bomb a lot. That can't be good, right?

My how I do loves me some green cleaning

2010-08-20T22:04:00.006-04:00

I had no idea people really cared about my obsession with homemade cleaners, but lookey here -- a really long post about just that very thing!

[Disclaimer: I'm no expert and I wouldn't suggest you use any of these without testing them out on something relatively harmless first. But here's what I've tried and so far I'm happy!]

Bathroom cleaners

Start with:

1 cup white vinegar
1 tablespoon liquid soap (I like Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day in Lemon Verbena -- so fresh!)

Pour into a clean, empty glass jar*. Swish around to mix it together, then use as follows:

1. As a toilet bowl cleaner -- pour ~1/2 cup of the above mixture in the bowl, then add ~1/4 cup of baking soda. Enjoy the foamy show, then let it sit while you clean the rest of the bathroom. Clean with a toilet brush and flush. Done!

2. As a general purpose cleaner (I used it on porcelain, tile, painted wood work, faucets, acrylic tub, etc) -- Add 1/2 - 3/4 cup water to the remaining mixture and swish to mix. You could probably pour this into an empty spray bottle, but I just poured some onto a rag and used that to clean all my surfaces. Wipe down with clean water; be sure to dry off any painted wood surfaces and voila! Done and done.

Plain white vinegar is the shezizzle!

Fill your coffee carafe with water, topping it off with about 1/2 cup of vinegar, then run it through the coffee maker (without coffee, of course!). Flush it out with a couple of runs of plain water and you've just done a great job of cleaning out your coffee carafe and the reservoir.
I have read -- but not yet tried -- that vinegar makes the BEST fabric softener. I know, I know. Who wants to smell like a pickle? But here's the thing: the vinegar smell disappears as the clothes dry, leaving them very soft and residue/chemical free. What's that? You LIKE your freshly laundered clothes to have a pleasant smell? No problem! Just add a few drops (say 20) of natural essential oils to a gallon of vinegar. Add 1/2 cup of this in place of regular fabric softener.
To get sparkly, streak-free windows, spray on vinegar and wipe off with newspaper. Yes, newspaper!

I could go on, but why bother when this site has done it for me? www.vinegartips.com

Granite

There are some times (gasp!) when vinegar shouldn't be your go-to cleaner. If you've got granite countertops, you can try this recipe for a quick, inexpensive, natural cleaner:

Pour 1/4 cup rubbing alcohol into a spray bottle
Add 3 drops liquid soap
Swish to mix
Fill the bottle with water

There you go! Spray and wipe down to keep your granite surfaces sparkling. : )

Wood cutting boards

OK first -- you know you shouldn't be using your butcher block for preparing or carving meat, right? Right.

Still, even if you only use it for prepping fruits, nuts, veggies, herbs & the like, you've got to keep it clean. My fast & fresh-smelling solution is to cover the surface of the block in kosher salt (the only salt I cook with), then rub it in with a half of a lemon. I squeeze the juice in as I go so it doesn't get too dry. The salt acts as an abrasive and the lemon cleans & freshens the wood. Rinse with clean water & let air dry.

Furniture polish

FULL DISCLOSURE: I haven't tried this yet. But I think I will, one of these days!

To a spray bottle add:

1 cup olive oil (cheap is fine)
1/2 cup lemon juice

Spray a small amount on any wood surface then wipe til dry. I would be very careful not to be heavy-handed with this, as too much oil would get sticky and dirty very quickly. Still, might be worth a try on one inconspicuous piece to see if it works!

And hey, if you don't like it, you're all set to mix up a vinaigrette for dinner, right?

Laundry soap

Just mixed this up tonight & can't wait to try it! [This recipe is taken nearly word-for-word from Amanda Soule's website, www.soulemama.com.]

2 cups of finely grated castile soap
1 cup of baking soda
1 cup of washing soda (also called soda ash -- we found it with the pool cleaning supplies at Lowes!)
1 cup of Borax

Mix it together & pour into a container that you can seal tightly. Add 2 tablespoons to your laundry; depending on your water you may need more/less, so do some experimenting til it's just right for you. This won't get real sudsy, which is especially helpful if you have a front-loading washer.

For the love of it all, what more could she possibly have to say??

There are some great resources out there if you, like me, have been bitten by the green/penny-pinching living bug. Here are a couple you might look into:

Do It Gorgeously by Sophie Uliano. You can check out her website, too: www.gorgeouslygreen.com

Clean House Clean Planet by Karen Logan. I've not picked this one up yet, but my friend Hanne recommends it and she wouldn't steer me wrong!

The Backyard Homestead by Carleen Madigan. No, this isn't about green cleaning, but it's a crazy resource if you're into home growing/self-sufficiency.

www.soulemama.com by Amanda Soule. Amanda's website is not dedicated to green/economical how-tos, but she's had more than one post about just those very things (like the laundry soap above). An absolute must if you're into knitting/sewing, too!

Artisinal Bread in 5 Minutes a Day by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois. Alright, I've gotten completely off-track -- but only sort of, because fresh homemade bread is not only delicious, it's much less expensive than store-bought and you know exactly what's in it!

If you have any favorite books, tips, or websites I would LOVE it if you shared them in the comments section.

*If you don't already, I highly recommend that you start saving glass jars as you empty them -- pickle jars, mayonaisse jars, jarred fruits, jams & jellies, etc. Run them & the lids through the dishwasher and you've got free, environmentally friendly, reuasable/recyclable storage containers. I use them ALL THE TIME, for making & storing salad dressings, dispensing bulk items into smaller containers, storing left overs, mixing slurries, collecting spare change, saving buttons, mixing up cleaners... everything. In a pinch, I've even been known to throw my morning coffee in there when I haven't had a clean thermos available.

I remember when I was a kid my Aunt Lynne (hi, Aunt Lynne!) was the most far-out hippie chick I knew (love you, Aunt Lynne!) and I would always see her with jar after jar of sprouts and nuts and boiled eggs and God-knows-what-else. Probably carob, because I hated that carob, but she always seemed to have it. I always thought she was crazy with all the jars (still love you, Auntie Lynne!) but now I totally get it.

But I don't miss the carob. Not at all.

You know, like bats

2010-08-08T21:52:00.004-04:00

An actual conversation we had in the car on Friday night:

Sara: "Nanci, do you like witches?"

Nanci: Well Sara, I don't think I know any witches.

Sara: "Oh."

Nanci: When do you see witches?

Sara: At night. You know, they're nocturnal. Like bats.

[Long pause, while we process this newfound vocabulary]

Nanci: Sara, what does nocturnal mean?

Sara: You know, nocturnal - they sleep all day and play all night!

I have no idea.

Growing people -or- The pay ain't great, but the job security? Rocks.

2010-07-29T21:23:00.005-04:00

I don't know how she does it every night, but every night it's exactly the same: Sara battles the inevitability of sleep in a tangle of blankets and sheets, surrounded by an army of stuffed animals and hunkered down in a bunker of pillows. I'm uncomfortable just looking at her, but it seems to take a particular mix of quilted and down-filled chaos to get her settled in for the night.

And when she is settled (finally), I watch her give in. Her breaths get deeper, her mouth relaxes, her eyelids fight their own weight until they just can't outrun the fatigue. Whether it's her body or her mind, this is a girl in constant motion. Even to that last surrendering sigh her brain is processing, processing... Often times the last thing I hear from her is some seemingly random question or comment, coming to me completely out of context. But I've learned that she's just taking inventory of her day, tying up the loose ends and making sure she's put everything in order -- at least until tomorrow.

I love watching Sara sleep because it's the only time during the day when she is really, truly, still. It's the time when I can still whisper to her how much she is loved without her wriggling away, or give her kisses with her wiping her cheek complaining that I got her face wet. (Honestly, I'm not that sloppy. Really.) I usually look at her every night and wonder happened, how that tiny little thing I used to rock to sleep grew -- overnight, I am convinced -- into this... person. I mean an honest to goodness person.

How the heck did this happen? And did anyone ask me if this was OK?

Of course, it is OK. I mean that's what parents do, we grow people. If Sara wasn't turning into this fabulous, ulcer-inducing little person then I'd have really blown it, despite the fact that I'm not all that thrilled with how quickly we seem to be moving. It just goes by so fast, you know? My mothering of a baby is behind me, and I didn't even know those days were gone until suddenly I had a kid.

(A really freaking awesome kid, FYI.)

I think about the job of mothering from a couple of different perspectives now. Sara is only four and I can't believe how fast it's gone, and I worry that it will all fly by before I've been able to teach her everything she needs to know. I sometimes wonder what Mom thought about her own mothering, in those blessed moments of lucidity, when we all knew there wasn't much time life. Did she worry, too? Did she wish there was more time to teach us what we needed to know? Or do you ever really feel like you've finished the job?

That's the question I'd love to ask my grandmother, although I know I never will. She was 92 when she buried her first born, my father. And I wonder what she thought, whether at 92 she still felt like she was burying her baby, the little boy she grew into a man?

I can't imagine how it could feel any other way.

I once wrote a letter to Sara explaining how she would always be my baby. And that's still true. But now I find myself in the throes of really being a mother, of raising up a brave, strong, kind, independent (gulp), compassionate, beautiful girl. Today it's lessons on how to play nice when you don't make your favorite match in Memory; tomorrow it may be the calm reassurance she needs when her own daughter is lying scared in the emergency room, preparing for her first set of stitches.

So no, I guess I don't believe this job ever ends -- and I think that's pretty damn awesome. A lifetime of helping my favorite kid in the world be the best person she can be sounds like a pretty good gig to me.

Evensong

2010-06-28T21:25:00.005-04:00

Summer always seems to be my reading season - which is funny, because I always think of myself as a "reader," when the truth is I'm more of a reader-wannabe. Like so many things, actually.

But I digress.

Since I had the itch to read (it being summer and all) but no new books in the queue, I found myself staring at my sister's bookshelf one night looking for something good. I wasn't even all that particular, it just needed to be good. So when I ran across Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies again I cracked it open right away and set to reading.

Didn't take me long to remember why it's been so long since I've picked this one up, because although it is good (very very good) the first section also leaves me a little raw, with all that talk of Death and Cancer. It's a bit much for this orphaned girl. But I plowed through and I'm so glad I did, because although Anne and I certainly don't ride the same political train I do find myself more or less eye to eye with her when it comes to spirituality. Namely, that I'm doing the best I can and thank God for the grace to get it wrong some times. Or, if you must know, most of the time.

I remember when Mom was sick and I had run out of rational arguments, absurd bargains, and desperate pleas, I took Anne's approach to prayer which amounted to nothing more than "Help." Every night: "Help. Please. Help." And although that didn't turn out quite like I had hoped I still pray that way today, particularly when I'm smart enough to realize that whatever it is I'm praying for is way bigger than I understand.

Big like, say, motherhood. Sara has created this nightly ritual, one where she has somehow convinced me that it's best for her to come lay down with me in my bed when it's time for her to go to sleep. And you know I'm sure there are a bunch of reasons why this is a terrible parenting move, but here's the deal: Before I know it she'll want nothing to do with me, so I'm taking it while I can get it.

On those nights when I don't fall asleep too, I often spend a few minutes just looking at her. It's the total Hallmark moment, right? I know, I know. I see your eyes rolling from here. But what are you gonna do? Hallmark makes a point, and in this case it's that time is passing far too quickly so I'm soaking up every last bit of her while I'm able.

My kid... my kid! I never knew. This head-over-heels thing is for real. She brings out the best and the worst in me (sometimes within minutes of each other). She makes me work harder than anyone or anything else. She makes me feel like Wonder Woman and like a complete idiot (again, sometimes within minutes of each other). I can never quite grasp that there is part of me floating around in there, in her DNA and in her memories and in her character. Honestly, how can that be? And as if that weren't enough? She loves me! Total, unfiltered, raw, honest love.

Holy smokes.

I think that God gives us children who are whole. Not completed, but whole -- like a brand new puzzle in a box, with all the pieces that fit perfectly together. We're bound to muck some of them up, but the goal is to keep all the pieces intact, and lock them together over time to reveal the unique, beautiful people that they are. David had it right in his psalm praising God's handiwork in the smallest details of our lives: fearfully and wonderfully made, known inside & out, crafted just as He planned.

And to think, it's our job to put the pieces together. Not lose any. Not bang up the edges too much by forcing the pieces where they don't belong. Not work out the easy parts and leave the tricky parts for someone else to deal with. Not chuck it all because it wasn't what we thought it was, or because it's just too hard.

Seriously y'all: HOLY. SMOKES.

So tonight, when I realized all of this and couldn't find the words I really needed to say, I asked God again: "Help. Please. Help." Help me keep her whole, fit together the way you've intended.

Help. Please.

Amen.

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-20T19:06:00.003-04:00

I love this picture. It's exactly how I remember my dad: laughing, orchestrating, always the host. Now don't get me wrong -- J.E. wasn't perfect. But he'd always be willing to admit it... at least after the dust settled.

Thought a lot about Dad today, sharing stories with family, and we always found ourselves laughing. That's not so bad, really.

Happy Father's Day, Papa-san. Thanks for the laughs.

Death by awesome

2010-06-15T07:52:00.004-04:00

My kid, she is killing me these days. I mean I know I don't love my kid any more than you love yours, and your kid kills you, too.

But that doesn't make it any less awesome, right?

Four and a half is great. She has so much to say and plenty of words to say it. She's funny. Actually, she's hilarious. She's crazy strong -- can a four year old have a six pack, cause I'm pretty sure she does -- and super busy. (SUPER.) And IMHO she's gorgeous.

Right now we're sitting on the couch together. It's the middle of June, hot and humid like August in Indiana, and she is sporting her favorite Christmas jams. Because she's four, that's why.

Sara would really like to type some letters for you now. "Are you finished yet Ma-MA?" So I'll leave you with this, from the girl who will surely be the death of me yet:

DANI

SARA

MAMA

PAPA

PETE

KELLI

JBHJK,NHGDJHUGVUGJHM,LLLLL;KKKKPOLP,KJM,l;,..../?/k,,knjjjjjhigtjhhhjg

Smiles

2010-06-05T08:50:00.006-04:00

Here's a picture of Sara with her BFF Liz, taken at the last day of preschool picnic yesterday.

I love this photo, taken by Liz's mom Sarah, because it's cute, of course, and because I know how much these two get a kick out of each other. Aside from real-live calls to her papa and many make believe calls to her Nana, Liz is the only other person in Sara's "phone call" queue -- in fact, on Thursday evening Sara "called" Liz to make sure she was going to be at the picnic today.

At the big event they sat together and crawled under the tables together and tried climbing the big old oak tree together, and when it was time to leave each of their papas held them up over the fence and they shared a big, sweaty hug.

(Did I mention it was a little muggy at the picnic? Yes, yes it was.)

But I don't just love it because it's cute. I also love it because that's my mom's smile on Sara's face. Her easy, crooked, honest little grin. I saw it a million times as I was growing up, and it hadn't really occurred to me how much I missed it until I saw it again in this picture. In fact, it might be one of the things about Mom that I miss the most.

It's really nice to know that that smile is back.

Hang on a second

2010-06-03T08:45:00.005-04:00

My blog seems to have gotten away from me. Small wonder -- most everything has gotten away from me these days.

I have friends who are planning on fun summers. It never occurred to me to plan a fun summer; I am too preoccupied by what isn't so "fun." They are traveling. They are taking their kids to the pool. They are going on vacations, going to the lake, sleeping in.

I am not. I am worried about... pretty much everything.

This isn't a woe-is-me post. Honest and true. It's just that in the last few days I've realized that time has sped past me and I'm not sure I have a lot to show for it. What would I say about the last year? Not much that's good.

What do I want to say about the coming year? Lots of things. I'd like to be able to say that the coming year was exciting, fun, happy. That I made good changes in my life. That I handled the bad (because there is always bad) with grace and faith and strength. And that most of all I really lived my life, rather than merely passing numbly through each day.

I need to work harder to finish those things I can't seem to wrap up. I need to make a point of letting go of some things. I need to plan to spend time with my friends and family. I need to remember that time to relax really, really is just as important as time to wash dishes, and pick up toys, and go to the grocery. I need to stop thinking about the future and get to it already.

I wonder if there's an app for that.

Tuesday night wrap-up

2010-04-20T19:19:00.004-04:00

It's funny, how long days are much more tolerable when they're spent with people you love (rather than people you manage).

It's bath time now, and Sara is very tired. She should be -- we had a busy, fun day that included a trip to Traders Point Creamery, lunch at a "rest-uh-rant," a shopping trip to Trader Joes (where the pint-sized cart was ~~manned~~ man-handled by our pint-sized girl), and some playtime outside with kids from the neighborhood.

I often ask Sara to tell me about her favorite thing that she did during the day. This helps me know what she's doing while I'm off at work and keeps me in the loop on preschool drama or Papa's (mis)adventures. I asked her the same tonight, certain I would know the answer. But I was wrong.

"Sara, what was your favorite thing about today?"

"Uhhhhh, right now."

"Really? Taking a bath was your favorite thing?"

"Uhhhhhh, yeah? I fink so?"

"That's OK. It can be your favorite. I was just surprised, because I thought maybe it was when the cow gave you a kiss, or when we went to lunch with Papa, or when we made popsicles, or when you played with Thomas and Abby, or something like that."

"Oh. Spending time wif you was my favorite."

Now, the water was running and she wasn't looking at me, and I was busy making sure that the bubbles were really foaming up for a super-sudsy bath. So I wasn't sure I heard what I thought I heard.

"What, Sara?"

"I said SPENDING TIME WIF YOU WAS MY FAVORITE."

Funny. Spending time wif her was my favorite, too.

My parents got married there, too

2010-04-14T23:05:00.005-04:00

I love Sara's preschool.

It's at a Presbyterian church in the city, in an old, established neighborhood bounded by historic homes to the east and the university to the west, but very near the heart of urban Indianapolis. We visited this church one Sunday. It's not wealthy and pinned down by generations of contributors, nor driven to grow like so many contemporary Christian congregations these days. It was a balance of young and old, brown and white, "have" and "have not."

Every morning that I drop Sara off I'm drawn to the place: A traditional red brick Colonial with white porticoes and a simple steeple over the sanctuary. There is a playground to the east, not especially modern or elaborate but endearing in its signs of use. The front of the church faces a wide, green lawn with flowering trees and bushes and a huge, sprawling oak that shades the walk from the street to the door. Tulips and daffodils and pansies, planted enthusiastically if not strategically, are going wild this time of year and provide Sara and me with plenty of excuses to stop and smell and ooh and ahh every day as we come and go. (Something about these flowers convinces that me they are really there for me and for you and for the people this church serves, rather than for the people who worship there.)

There is a picnic table under another large tree with benches that sag from years of use and countless church socials. The sign at the corner that speaks to the passing traffic frequently offers homespun announcements, like

"Our cod is an awesome cod"

promoting the annual fish fry or, most recently,

"Halleluia! Christ is Risen and we love our Bulldogs!"

a celebration of both the Resurrection of Our Lord and Butler's NCAA championship run. (And yes: In Indiana, during March Madness, eternal salvation and the hometown underdog's lead-in to the Big Dance do indeed command equal billing -- though to my relief Jesus did, at least, get top billing.) Just this week a banner reading RUMMAGE SALE APRIL 22 23 & 24 appeared, swinging between the trees and offering Sara an opportunity to read every letter and every number out loud, and ask me "Mama, what is dat fing after da free?"

As you get to the door you can see that the paint is chipping and there are patches of crumbling concrete. The latch to the door is fidgety, and Sara always struggles to open it.

Inside the church the walls are lined with the children's artwork, glitter and construction paper and inconsistently recognizable shapes stamped in tempera paints on paper plates. Jackets and satchels and rubber boots line the halls, and cubbies are neatly labeled. Today a yellow sign reading "It's a beautiful day today, come join us outside for a picnic!" was posted beside the door. The kids were scattered -- some at activity tables, some at a book reading, some at the costume box. Sara and I, late as usual, went through our morning ritual: drop off her bag and jacket, take out her lunch, deposit lunch in the fridge, and wash her hands (one pump of soap, three pulls for paper towel). Then hugs and kisses, and we're on our way.

At the end of the hall another kind of day care is in session, this time with a dozen or so elderly visitors who come to sit and chat and take their meals under the care of a local Catholic ministry. I often pass their room and see the volunteers and nuns caring for them and think I'd like to spend some time there, too. Maybe someday.

I learned recently that Miss Jeanie, the Wednesday morning gymnastics teacher, will sometimes take the children up to be with the elder care group. Sara explained this to me one night as she was going to sleep, telling me that they went to Seniors class that day and she was with her buddy, and they exercise together, and it's OK if someone drops a ball because it's tricky for everyone, so they just try again. (Yes, my heart did burst. Didn't yours?)

I love this place. It is a church in every right sense, at least from the perspective of someone being served by it. The sincerity of their ministry is obvious, whether it's in the chipped paint and sagging picnic bench or proud celebration of the local school or Sara's buddy at Seniors class. There's no pretense. Just open arms.

RUMMAGE SALE APRIL 22 23 & 24. If you find yourself there, take a look around. Maybe you'll see what I see, too.

Green (but not the good kind)

2010-04-09T12:10:00.003-04:00

We're having a pitch-in today at work.

Two of the girls who are here don't normally work on Friday. They've brought in their children for the festivities.

I'm so jealous that they are with their kids and I am not with mine that I have to stay in my office with the door closed.

It's not pretty.

Sunday night mind purge

2010-03-14T22:07:00.002-04:00

I'm sore.

From painting my kitchen!

Which reminds me -- cabinet delivery the week of the 22nd!

(Happy birthday to ME indeed.)

Have found awesome

(and by that I mean awesome)

pendant lights for the kitchen island.

I would show them to you

but there are only two in the world.

I won't even tell you which Etsy seller has them.

Yes, I'm a little paranoid.

Because they are AWESOME.

(Overselling them a little, maybe?)

My kid?

She is the shezizzle.

I'm not kidding.

And gorgeous, too.

Maybe God gave us all we could hope for in one child for a reason?

Um, I'm sore.

There is much to do and it is getting done.

YIPPEE!

Ugh, work tomorrow.

: (

(Sad face.)

Rob has been the uber-husband tonight.

Seriously:

He painted ceilings,

cleared and burned debris,

shuttled the Bear to & from houses whenever we heard

"POTTY! I gotta go to the POTTY right NOW!"

And then he came home and made dinner.

And did laundry.

Thanks, honey.

I definitely noticed. : )

Ooooh -- Law & Order playing from the queue.

Gotta love U-Verse.

A new baby Brenner tomorrow.

Such a lucky girl.

I love her already.

(Her mama, too.)

(Yes, yes, and her papa. And sisters and brother. The lot of them!)

The siren song of Law & Order is calling me.

Donk-donk.

I'm so sore...

Think

2010-02-25T14:03:00.003-05:00

The first thing I do every morning and the last thing I do every night is pray. It is a rote prayer, and sometimes I find myself laying in bed repeating it over and over and over – I’m not really sure I’m always aware that I’m doing it, to be totally honest. Many times I’ve even wondered if I can actually call it “praying.”

But I think I can. For me, this kind of prayer is like a soft-worn spot on a child’s blanket, that place they mindlessly rub against their cheek each night as they go to sleep. I imagine they do it because it provides some sort of comfort, a self-soothing technique that becomes ingrained in their bedtime routine. And if I think about it, that’s what my prayer times are like for me: they quiet my mind at night and prepare my mind in the morning.

There’s more to it that that though, isn’t there? I’m just not sure what it is. Like most things in my belief system, I take prayer on faith. And let me be clear: I don’t have a problem with this. I don’t require answers for everything (though I have certainly spent many sleepless nights crying for them), nor do I think we would be capable of understanding all the answers if we had them. So I will continue to pray because I am taught that it is right and good to do; I just know that it is more powerful than I understand.

I don’t want to be a desperation prayer – you know, the girl that begs and promises and pleads for some outcome that, at least to her way of thinking, seems right. I’ve done that. It doesn’t work. If it did I would be skinny and have three kids by now, and my parents would be here to see them grow. None of those things seem like particularly selfish things to ask for, but I’m beginning to suspect that I’m asking for the wrong things. Or maybe I shouldn’t be asking for “things” at all.

There’s a saying: Did you think to pray? And for me, 99 times out of 100, the answer is a regretful “No.” I wonder why that is? I wonder why the ritual of morning and evening prayers hasn’t translated into something more mindful and powerful? Why don’t I think to pray, before the prayer becomes yet another plea?

This business of belief… it’s a tricky thing. I’m just glad there is grace enough to usher us through the confusion of it all.

Name Game

2010-02-18T21:32:00.006-05:00

I have a thing for nicknames.

I ~~blame~~ credit my father (aka Papa-San) for this gift, a man who bestowed names upon nearly every one of our family members. And while this was always done with love {always} it was rarely appreciated. Punkin (that was me), Ceasar (my brother), and Spook (the sis) got off easy, considering my mom got stuck with Poopie (I don't even want to know). There was also one for Sara -- Silly Sally -- that's still known to be heard around these parts from time to time. I'm sure lots of you had your own, too (Eloise, Lainzo, Riot and the Wizards, I'm looking at you).

Historically my nicknaming habit was pretty much limited to the male of the species*: my brother, my husband, my guy friends, there were monikers for all of them. Blue Coat Man**, Spark, Jaybird, Estuarte, Tony Bologna – you all know who you are.

Then Sara came along. Sara Bear, Sara B, Bear, Beetle Bug, Bug, B, Huggabunch (I know; I don’t know where that last one came from either); she answers to them all. This is not to say she always likes them, as I was informed one evening while putting her to bed that she is NOT a bug, Mama! But what are you going to do? I am a nicknamer; she is the nicknamed. And so it goes, and so it will be.

But the king of all nicknames, the one who leaves them all in the dust, who earns new titles on what seems like a daily, if not hourly basis?

That would be this little fella right , here:

This is Tigger. Now that I think about it, my mom (aka Mama-San or, less fortunately, "Poopie") actually gave Tigger his name. And because you really have to know the guy to appreciate the accuracy of his many aliases, a little history is in order.

Tigger was one of four kittens, along with their feral mother, that Rob and I rescued several years ago. Because Fancy Mama (aka Fanciful One/Fantastic, the Fan Dancer) was feral we – OK Rob – had one heck of a time trying to round up the lot of them, as Fancy was hiding near a steam vent and we couldn’t exactly see them. Did I mention it was the dead of winter? In an ice storm? Under some sticky juniper bushes at work? And that she was actively birthing the kittens at the time? Ah, yes – well it was and she was, and it was quite an evening for everyone involved.

But luckily for all of us we could hear them, because Tigger started mewing… and never stopped. Thanks to this Rob was able to find them, rescue them, and save them from what would have been certain death given the elements that night. Tigger’s proclivity for mewing was actually quite handy over the coming weeks, too, since I used it to lure Mama out from wherever she was hiding to make sure she was eating and using the litter box. That Tigger, he had quite the reliable meow!

In fact, he still does. Except over time it has evolved into more of a robust whine than a meow, a grouse that we find more humorous than helpful these days.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, Tigger is our much beloved, incessantly mocked, most relentlessly nicknamed pet. In fact, he will respond to any of the following:

Tigger
Tigs
Tiggy
Tiggly-Wigs
Wiggles
Mr. Wiggles
Wiggler
Red Wiggler (the Cadillac of Cats)**
Wiggly-Woo
McFly
Lookin’ at the world through McFly’s eyes
Señor Rojo
Little Ginger-cat
Gingy
Butterscotch Puddin’
O.K.
The Riddler****
Chardonnay
Merlot
Rosè

and my all-time personal favorite:

Charles, the Prince of Wails.

We couldn’t be happier that Fancy, Tigger, and his sisters -- Daisy (Daisy Doodle, may she rest in peace), Maisy (Moo/Moodle/Maisy McMoo, the Mayor of Mootown/Mooses/Mooses Malooney Bird/MooYou'reNotSoSmart), and George (Sweet Georgia Black/Ubergator/Ubes/Dangler) -- came into our lives. They joined Pete (Peetle-eetle-eet/Pete’s a Pie/Sweet Pete/The King of All He Surveys) and turned our house into a fur-infested home. We just wouldn't have it any other way.

Whining... it's Tigger's super-power. (Pete's is halitosis/search & rescue, Mama's is shedding, George's is hissing and Moo's is, well... Moo is a sturdy girl.) What? Your pets don't have super-powers? I don't believe it. Cause our kitty's powers have saved them from many a scrape, and it all began with Tigger's very powerful whine.

Oh – and did I mention I make up songs for everyone, too? No? Well, then… maybe next time.

* Though not entirely, as my niece D/Bo Deedley/Deedles would be quick to point out.
** This one is so old I’m not sure I can take credit for bestowing it, though I was an avid user to be sure.
*** You’ll understand this if you, like me, are a fan of WKRP in Cincinnati.
**** By way of his ridiculously long tail, often curved into the shape of a question mark.

This post is dedicated to Aunt Pants, Spacy-Gracie-Rat Head, Sweet Georgia Black and Reginald*****, who have so graciously allowed our 22 collective feet to take up residence in their home for the last way-too-long. Never fear – the nicknaming won’t stop after we leave. I promise.

*****His actual, and only, name.

When she comes back down

2010-02-03T23:19:00.004-05:00

It's been a long week -- and yes, I realize it's only Wednesday, but I am tired. There is just not enough of me to go around (and this really is saying something). I have been behind on things at work, behind on things at home, too tired to be much of a wife or a sister or a friend. Definitely too tired to be much of a mother.

And I hate that. The irony is that the less of a reserve I have for mothering, the more Sara demands of me to dig deep & find a way. She's always been sensitive to the emotional currents running through our house, so I don't know why I'm always surprised when this happens, but there it is. I am tired; she requires more of me. What is there to do?

I don't know how this will all work out. Every day I can feel her becoming even more herself (as children have a habit of doing), pulling away from the four-year-old rhythm of "us" and creating her own syncopated beat. This is challenging, and hard (for both of us I would imagine), and comes at at time when I wish I was more available to give her the space and security to work it out. But that requires time and patience, and a thoughtful discipline allowing her to navigate new boundaries. All of that is hard work. And have I mentioned that I'm tired?

When Sara was a baby I used to sing to her all the time. Not really the traditional lullabies but the songs that I loved: Dixie Chicks, Nickel Creek, Alison Krauss, India.Arie -- like I said, not your traditional lullabies but they carried messages that resonated with me. This one was a favorite, and when I sang it I imagined our lives so many more years down the road; but I see that it's beginning even now. And I can't believe it.

So there's no time for tired, Mama. We've only just started.

When You Come Back Down (Nickel Creek/O'Brien & O'Keefe)

You got to leave me now, you got to go alone
You got to chase a dream, one that's all your own
Before it slips away
When you're flyin' high, take my heart along
I'll be the harmony to every lonely song
That you learn to play

When you're soarin' through the air
I'll be your solid ground
Take every chance you dare
I'll still be there
When you come back down
When you come back down

I'll keep lookin' up, awaitin' your return
My greatest fear will be that you will crash and burn
And I won't feel your fire
I'll be the other hand that always holds the line
Connectin' in between your sweet heart and mine
I'm strung out on that wire

And I'll be on the other end, To hear you when you call
Angel, you were born to fly, If you get too high
I'll catch you when you fall
I'll catch you when you fall

Your memory's the sunshine every new day brings
I know the sky is calling
Angel, let me help you with your wings

When you're soarin' through the air
I'll be your solid ground
Take every chance you dare

I'll still be there
When you come back down
Take every chance you dare,
I'll still be there
When you come back down
When you come back down

The long ride to preschool

2010-01-12T11:58:00.005-05:00

I'm not sure how my mind got there.

I was just driving from work to Fairview last week, undoubtedly thinking great thoughts -- so great, in fact, that I can't recall a single one of them. Most likely it had to do with work and some things that I expect to come to pass over the next 18 - 24 months. I'm not looking forward to these changes. In fact, they might be deal-breakers for me.

And this is where the memory of my great thoughts becomes quite clear. I remember coming to that conclusion -- that if what I expect to happen actually comes to pass it could be a deal-breaker for me -- and thinking "Boy, do you have a lot of nerve." How many people lost their jobs last year, and along with them their savings, their possessions, even their homes? How many people would fight tooth & nail for a good, secure job today? How many people are scratching to make ends meet, thankful for the paychecks they bring home to their families? And here I am, suggesting that a change in my work environment just might cause me to kick my career to the curb? Boy, I do have a lot of nerve.

I know all of that. And while I often grouse about my job I am thankful that I have a certain set of skills and talent that someone is willing to pay for. The income that my job provides is vital. I'm not going to chuck it all because I don't like the new logo or am irritated by the new company line.

But here's the rest of the story: Economic crisis aside, it has never been in my makeup to imagine that there could be something else beyond what is laid out before me. I work in a setting where, with my particular background, there are not a lot of different career paths to choose from. Early on most of us decide on educational versus medical tracks; once you've established yourself & developed certain areas of expertise, that's pretty much your professional lot. At least this is how I have experienced it and how I have observed it in the lives of my colleagues.

It never occurred to me that maybe I had options.

It never occurred to me that other people had already figured this out.

By now, I was out of the car and walking the path up to the church. The significance of my epiphany wasn't lost on me. It's pretty liberating to realize that it really isn't crazy to think about chucking it all. Lots of people have done it and been incredibly successful in the process. There must be a way, a method of getting from A to B to C that people follow. It's different for eveyone, I'm sure. But there have to be common threads.

But it wasn't until I got to the door that the bigger lesson (yes, bigger than the freedom to change your life's work) hit me: I have to make sure that my daughter doesn't get caught in my trap. I have to make sure that she isn't snagged by the fear of change and failure that has left me blind to the fact that I can reshape things. I have to figure out what it takes to be able to do this, and I have to be sure that Sara knows that her path is not a long road without turning, but a winding, hilly journey -- and the joy of life is in the bends and turns of that journey, not the comfort of a smooth, straight, uneventful path.

I'd say it's about time for me to buckle up and enjoy this ride. Wouldn't you?

Pour les oiseaux

2010-01-11T12:53:00.004-05:00

Rarely to I appreciate that walk into work on Monday morning, particularly when it is a frigid grey morning with the promise of more snow to come.

Actually, it’s fair to say that I never appreciate that walk into work. But today was different.

I have this thing about trees and birds – really, about all the things my mother and I spied outside our kitchen window. Birds, trees, plants, squirrels (except, of course, when they were on the feeders), the garden… we loved them all. Mom was no expert but she had logged hundreds of hours staring out of those kitchen windows and cultivated more than a passing interest in the life that was buzzing around our little microcosm of a backyard. We had the binoculars and the field guides, and plenty of time on our hands.

Now I’m the one with more than a passing interest. As I’ve been dreaming about our home and how it will look and feel, over and over again I am drawn to these things. I imagine crafting a boot bench using the sturdy, fat trunk of a tree we took down from the back yard, the rough texture and nutty color of the bark so appealing in its familiarity. I found this nest last summer that I have tucked away to display on our mantle, miraculously saving it all these months from destruction at the hands of my sweet girl. And every Pottery Barn catalogue I find in the mail these days seems to know that I’m eagerly preparing for our long-awaited move home, as page after page offers rugs and pillows and dishes and sheets that feature birds and trees and flowers. I could - without a doubt - go crazy if left to my own devices.

Luckily I got a freebie today, some performance art put together by God (I am convinced) just for me on this cold, weary Monday. I saw it as I approached the ED entrance at the hospital, a flurry out of the corner of my eye that seemed a bit out of place at that moment in time. A small, ornamental tree I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing that I can’t even tell you what it is – but on this morning, it was alive with dozens of robins, hopping from branch to branch and feeding on the small dark berries it produces. The bird's russet breasts looked just like those last leaves of autumn, stubbornly clinging to the tree; the fluttering of their grey grey wings caused the tree to sway like a late fall wind was blowing, though the air was almost still where I stood. And then, when I had decided that the sight of it was as perfect as I could hope for, I saw a squirrel perched on one of the slender branches, his body plumped by fat and fur and his tail pulled up along its back to help brace against the cold.

And with that, it was perfect.

If there weren't patients waiting I would have stood there and watched this picture unfold in front of me in spite of the bitter weather, and if I could have reckoned a way to capture the moment and bring it into our new home I would. But it was fleeting, as all the best things in life must be, and so I’ll just have to look forward to the next time that God supplies an unexpected joy like the one I stumbled across today. With open eyes I suspect I can find many of these small masterpieces. He does have quite a canvas to work with, after all.

Maybe that’s why Mom spent so much time looking out that kitchen window.

Garden porn

2010-01-02T20:00:00.006-05:00

I've spent hours (no, seriously) pouring over the seed catalogues: Burpee, Jung, Territorial, Johnny's. After dreaming about all the possibilities, then paring it down to something more realistic, then paring it down to something that actually might be realistic, I've landed on the following line up for this summer's garden:

Asparagus: Jersey Knight [in truth, this is still a maybe - not sure I have the space to dedicate. YET.]
Pole beans: Malibu [probably no bush beans, but if so: Soleil]
Carrots: Purple Haze and Baltimore
Popcorn (yes, popcorn!): Calico
Cucumbers: Diamant and McPick
Lettuce: Petite Rouge, Jericho (romaines), Victoria (butterhead), & Microgreen mix
Watermelon: Petite Treat
Onions: Copra
Spinach: Olympia
Tomatoes: San Marzano Gigante, Golden San Marzano (paste), Chocolate Cherry, Yellow Pear (cherry), Brandywine, Pineapple, Kellogg's Breakfast (heirloom)

With some obvious exceptions (lettuce, melon) these were selected with both fresh eating and storing/preserving for winter in mind. Depending on how things pan out I'd also love to try some potatoes. We've never done them before but it would be fun to grow some fingerlings to have around next winter. I'm also hopeful that we can do some swapping with a certain fabulous gardener friend that I happen to know.

If we have a successful year or two (or three or four), then I'm hoping we can branch out and try some other favorites: beets, broccoli, cauliflower, winter squash, cantaloupe, sugar snap peas... obviously, I could go on & on. But I won't.

Oh! And then there's the herb garden...

Basil: Aroma 1
Chives: from my mom's original stand
Dill: Dukat
Lemon Verbena
Sweet Marjoram
Oregano: Greek
Sage: Grower's Friend
Thyme: French

Hmm. That's still quite a list. But I have no idea what I'd be willing to part with.

We've also got some strawberries that we need to get a better handle on, and I'm dreaming of red & black raspberry bushes and blueberries as well, and who wouldn't love blackberries and grapes and an apple tree or two?

Some day...

Getting ahead of myself

2009-12-21T22:34:00.003-05:00

Today is Monday, December 21.

Just four days until Christmas.

I am not done with my shopping, and haven't even thought about wrapping, and have just a bit of baking/cooking to do. You might think that I would feel a little overwhelmed by all of this.

You would be wrong. The thing is, I have seeds on the brain.

More precisely, I have next year's garden on the brain. This is a phenomenon that usually sets in a week or so into January, when the dust of the holidays is long settled and that mid-winter funk starts to set in. The seed catalogues begin to arrive, and I spend hour after hour leafing through them, planning gardens and scheming about canning and freezing and preserving.

We will never have a big enough yard to fulfill these wild dreams of mine. (My dear husband should take some small comfort in this.)

I've been doing my best to stave off these cravings. After all, it's the holidays! I have a little girl who is VERY excited about Christmas, and Santa, and carrots for Rudolph! 'Tis the season! And while on the one hand I am not as overcome by the holidays as I have been in years past -- with the traditions and the merriment and the warm-fuzzy feelings -- on the other hand I am not as overcome by the holidays as I have been in years past -- with the rushing and the stressing and the why-didn't-I-start-this-in-October panic.

To me this feels like a year of transition, at least holiday-wise. This will be, to say the least, a Christmas like no other. The vestiges of the season spent so often with my parents have all but completely fallen away, and let me be quick to say: I'm alright with that. The traditions that are dearest aren't going anywhere. But still, it's all so different. A little freeing even.

Free to dream about seeds, and planning, and a summer spent working and playing in the garden with Sara; remembering how my father tended the plants and my mother put up the harvest, and then making our own way ahead. Maybe ultimately, that's really what I'm looking toward: time in the garden with Mom and Dad. A new season to celebrate with them.

Birthday blessing

2009-12-15T12:03:00.005-05:00

Happy birthday, Dad.

Today would have marked 75 years.

We mourn that you're not here for us to celebrate, but the truth is this--
you are happier where you are:

No tears or pain or sadness
No cancer to rob you of your independence
or grief to weigh on your heart.
There is only love and peace and joy and health for you now.
The pain and sadness is left for us
But we accept it, knowing that it will pass away from us one day, too.

Today would have marked 75 years.
Instead, you have eternity.

A birthday blessing.

Should you ever forget

2009-12-13T09:48:00.002-05:00

An editorial piece from the September 21, 1897 edition of New York's Sun, written by Francis P. Church. (You can also view it here.) It never loses it's relevance, and I look forward to re-reading it every year. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I do.

I'm a believer -- how about you?

----------------------------

DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Standing outside the fire

2009-12-11T23:07:00.005-05:00

I was chatting today with some friends from work about a girl I went to school with many years ago. The details of her story aren't really relevant, but the bottom line was this: She's doing something she's just not very good at, but she does it proudly and without any trace of doubt.

And at that moment I realized how that would never, ever be me.

I am my own worst critic. My dreams never seem to get off the ground because I'm convinced I'm not good enough to do whatever it is I imagine. There is always someone better, or more creative, or more talented, or better suited, or more experienced, or luckier, or prettier, funnier, faster, smarter -- whatever. Some of this self-doubt is in the genes, I'm convinced, but most of it is just me. Me & that shitty little voice in my head that is incessantly reminding me of my mediocrity.

Sad.

Sadder still is that I'm not really sure what to do about it. I guess it's some small thing to at least recognize it for what it is. But even as I praised my old classmate for doing what she loves, critics be damned, I silently reminded myself:

But I could never do that.

Remembering

2009-12-07T12:57:00.005-05:00

This morning while I was making breakfast I looked out the kitchen door & saw the year's first snow. I could not have been happier.

Four years ago this very day I looked out of my hospital room window and saw the year's first snow -- but that's not why I was so happy.

This is why I was so happy.

What a difference four little years can make.

Happy birthday, big girl. Thank you for an annual reason to remember the very best day, ever.

Tonight I started writing

2009-11-20T21:22:00.005-05:00

I've thought about writing a lot, and here's the funny thing: Thinking about writing doesn't make you a writer.

Profound, right?

Like most other things I do and enjoy, I don't consider myself an especially gifted writer. I don't dream up stories of suspense or fantasy and I can't imagine why anyone would want to read my thoughts or opinions or recollections. I share those here mostly for the benefit of my daughter, because I don't want to leave her with all the unanswered questions that my mother left me.

I spend a lot of time thinking about Mom. In May she will be gone for five years. It seems unimaginable. Even though those days feel like they have only just passed, the truth is that life has been impossibly full for my bother, sister and me. Mine alone has experienced Sara's birth, Dad's illness and death, a new job, hard lessons in marriage, and a soul-crushing home renovation that I swear I might turn into a Wagnerian opera one day. (I think I'll start wearing the Brünnhilde horns around the house for a little inspiration.)

Time was supposed to be the thing that helped me make peace with Mom's death. But here I sit, four and a half years later, reliving the night that we said goodbye to her while tucking my daughter into bed. It's just as real now as it was that evening -- and let me tell you, I wasn't all that wild about it the first time around. Death, my friends, is for the birds.

So I'm going back to an old technique that someone suggested to me several years ago, one I've tried before with a fair degree of success: I'm writing it out. I'm going to take it out of my heart and put it to the page, where it can stay forever safe but not rise up to choke me when I least expect it. Death and dying may have a grip on me, but to be honest in many ways Mom's final days were more than most people could hope for. She was surrounded by so many people that she loved and died holding the hands of her children. We were all so lucky, really.

But lucky is not how I feel when I am in the throes of remembering it all. "Feeling lucky" is actually probably way too much to ask for. Maybe I can aim for "grateful," or "at peace" or even "OK." I will happily take any one of them.

Through this process I hope not only to get the sharpness of grief out of my system but also to gather together my memories of her so I never forget that Mom was more than just her death. I don't want to forget who she really was because I want Sara to know her namesake. She has big shoes to fill, my little girl -- and I don't just mean Mom's size 10s. Our mother, though she never would have recognized it, has a story to tell and I think it's a good one. And so, I'm going to try and tell it.

Tonight I stopped thinking and started writing. For me and for Sara, and for the story Mom had to tell. I hope I can do it justice. And who knows? Maybe this will make a writer out of me yet.

Christmas flowers, lilacs, and marigolds

2009-11-05T21:39:00.007-05:00

Rob took Sara out to Shades State Park today, just because it was Thursday and he could. They love their T-days together and the adventures that ensue.

As they were driving home they passed a cemetery. Sara said "That's where we take flowers to Grandma," remembering our occasional trips to Mom and Dad's condos over the years, clearing away the old blooms and leaving something new.

Rob corrected her, saying that yes, we take flowers to Grandma -- but not there. Some other little girls had taken flowers to their grandmothers at this cemetery. Sara thought about it for a second, then announced that she wanted to take Christmas flowers to Grandma this year.

And then, "I miss Grandma."

He called me at work, right after this conversation, to tell me what she had said. And of course I cried. (Of course I did.) Not so much because I miss Mom -- though I do, every day -- but because Sara never got a chance to know her. But even so, she loves her. She misses her. And I believe she misses Mom every bit as much as I do, as much as her tender little free-and-a-half year old heart will allow. I can't wait to pick out those Christmas flowers with her and remember Mom together, telling her how Christmas was Mom's favorite time of year, and how flowers were one of her most favorite things. Somehow in the remembering, there is a little less missing.

Sara went on to talk about all the things she wants in her garden next year, sounding very much like her namesake. "I am going to plant all the flowers I love like lilacs and marigolds, and Mama will plant veg-uh-tuh-bles, and Papa will plant fruits."

Mom would just love this girl. Love her. They would be peas and carrots, those two. I'm just so sorry they had to miss it.

Long time, no blog

2009-11-01T08:40:00.009-05:00

I've been derelict in my blogging duties. It's true.

Why is that? Well, let's see...

Sara: She's busy. Like, crazy busy.

Halloween: Never more fun than this year. NEVER.

Work: It's been a bitch lately. Ugh.

New obsession: I might be a wee bit dreamy over my photo shoot last weekend. Too fun.

Not the flu: I don't know what it was, but Sara was down for the better part of a week.

Bejeweled Blitz: OMG. It's like Facebook crack.

The other crack: Photoshop. Dovetails nicely with my new obsession.

Falltime: My favorite season never fails to disappoint.

Not a very long list, now that I look at it. Ah, well. Perhaps a few photos to make it up?

Romans 8:26

2009-10-19T21:11:00.004-04:00

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness.

We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself

intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.

Tonight,

rather than dwell on all the things I want (but don't need),

or recount all the things that I have (but don't deserve),

I am setting aside my mind's idle chatter

and praying for a family that has shouldered more grief than I can imagine.

I don't have adequate words for them. Thankfully, I don't have to.

Cancer sucks, and that's why you should help

2009-10-13T11:50:00.003-04:00

One of the upsides (and believe me, I look for them) of my job is that I get notifications about all sorts of interesting medical research. Every now and then one really catches my eye -- and this is one of them.

The American Cancer Society is doing their third Cancer Prevention Study (CPS) and wants you to participate. If you're between the ages of 30 - 65 and have no personal history of cancer go over and check this list for the 2009 locations, then call your local office to make an appointment or see if you qualify to enroll (I'm looking at you, Indiana!).

If you don't meet the requirements you're not off the hook, because it's your job to let someone who does qualify know about this opportunity to help. Right now over 70,000 people are enrolled in the project but they're hoping to eventually have 500,000 thousand people from across the country participate. Previous CPS studies have demonstrated the link between cancer and smoking, obsity, nutrition, and lifestyle. This time around the ACS hopes to learn even more about the factors that may lead to - or prevent - cancer.

You can go to their website here to find more information about this project, or go here to get the number of your local ACS office.

This matters, people. You all know someone whose life has been rocked by this disease, so make the call.

I will... how about you?

It's all about the fabric, friends!

2009-10-02T13:12:00.003-04:00

How about a little giveaway?

OK! Head on over to Lila Tueller's site for a chance to get your hands on some very cute fabric she's got coming out for next spring. It's lovely!

Bottle it up

2009-09-29T16:47:00.006-04:00

There are lots of things about being Sara at the age of three that I'd like to bottle up and save for another day because I know they would come in handy:

Her boundless energy. (BOUNDLESS.)
Her uncluttered honesty.
Her insatiable thirst to know everything. (EVERYTHING.)
Her frequently issued hugs and kisses.
Her drive for fun and adventure.
Her soft, smooth, clear, creamy skin. (I SO WISH.)
Her innocence.
Her optimism.
Her propensity to make up words that are just right.
Her abs of steel. (OR MAYBE TITANIUM.)
Her infectious sense of humor.
Her sweet heart.
Her simple problems.
Her ability to forgive.
Her fearlessness. (~~SOMETIMES~~ OFTEN TIMES TOO FEARLESS.)
Her honest, undeserved, pure, unfiltered, endless love for her family and friends. (AND KITTIES AND NEIGHBORHOOD DOGS.)

I'd also like to bottle up her fashion sense. Because the girl likes what she likes, and she isn't afraid to work it.

I guess we can consider that bottled.

Totally wish...

2009-09-29T13:57:00.001-04:00

...I could go to this.

TOTALLY.

It's true

2009-09-23T13:26:00.002-04:00

The squeaky wheel DOES get the grease.

Maybe I need to squeak more often.

cjane readjane lovejane (who's really courtney)

2009-09-22T10:22:00.003-04:00

Here is a blogger I thoroughly enjoy. She puts words to work in a way I appreciate: Funny or melancholy or smug or humbled, each one is precise, heavy with meaning.

Even if she's talking about dirty diapers.

It's a gift I tell you.

Putting a pin in it

2009-09-15T21:31:00.005-04:00

In an ill-advised plot to simultaneously accomplish a pain in the neck errand and wear out the child, I decided to take a stab at a mid-week, post-dinner, end-of-the-day run to the library with Sara tonight.

Yes, the Central Library. Downtown. The rather large one. That I haven't completely got a handle on just yet. Right right -- that's the one.

And I guess now is just as good a time to mention that I woke up with a headache this morning which I never did shake. (Is it possible to shake a headache that you wake up with? I don't think so.)

Anyway, Sara and I traipsed off to the beautiful new library, her library tote in tow, with just a few things to gather up. Because she is three she made attempts to run through the stacks and hooted like an owl in the old, high-ceilinged reading room, and because I am Mama I threatened her with No Books For You or Going Home Right Now if she didn't knock it off. We reached a middle ground and made it out relatively unscathed, if not quickly or quietly.

But oddly enough, this isn't a story about the library. This is a story about the moments after we left the library, when I pulled out on to Pennsylvania and then made the west-bound turn on to St. Clair to make our way back home up Meridian Street. To our left was the American Legion Mall, with all of its memorials and monuments and homeless people, and to our right was the grand sweeping staircase into the old original library, the same entrance that I walked through myself for so many years though it's now outfitted with a unique work of modern art. As I made the turn and navigated the car around jaywalkers and parallel parkers I heard a loud, hoarse gasp from the back seat.

You don't hear a three year old gasp like that everyday.

If it had been an adult I would have slammed on the breaks and braced for impact, but as it came from a preschooler my instincts were tempered with curiosity and a little amusement. As soon as I realized that we weren't about to hit anyone or anything, I heard Sara say "Look at THAT one. What's that called, Mama? What is it? Wait -- a sunset? A sunset. Yeah, a sunset. That is one of the GOOD ones. That is a good sunset."

And it was.

But I never would have noticed it if not for the fresh eyes of my sweet girl. And I think this is why God sometimes gives us ill-advised plots for Tuesday night trips to the library with a three year old.

A letter for Sara

2009-09-10T12:14:00.011-04:00

Baby girl,

I have called you this for three years – “free and a HALF” years, as you would say. And you are, and you always will be, despite your protest that you are not a baby. Or a little girl, or even small. You are big.

(As much as I hate to admit it, you are big, too.)

But here’s the truth, and I don’t expect you to understand it now. It took your Mama 35 years to learn this and sometimes I still find it hard to believe: Forever and ever you will be my baby girl. Not the infant who unknowingly depended on me to eat and stay warm and dry, who needed us to teach her to talk and walk and play. Not the toddler who demanded her independence while always making sure I was within her line of sight. Not the preschooler who dazzles me with her sense of humor and insight.

No, you will always be my baby, who I think of first thing in the morning and remember last at night. The one whose face I could never imagine until I met you, but who I had known for a lifetime once you arrived. You are an extension of me and still entirely yourself – a phenomenon that I can’t ponder for too long because it always makes me dizzy. You are every great possibility waiting to happen. You are the one that I have always loved without any fear or doubt or reservation.

None of these things will ever change.

And that’s the tricky part: It will never, ever change. Even when you leave for kindergarten or high school or college, even when you leave to start your own family, you will still be my baby. You won’t like this – I didn’t like it – for a long, long time. If you are like me it will take the birth of your own child to teach you this lesson and make it stick, and still you’ll struggle with the notion that I could have ever loved you as much as you love your own little one.

But I did. And I do. And I always, always will. Even when I’m gone.

Because that’s how Mamas forever feel about their babies.

Mama/Sara Adventure Day!

2009-09-03T19:55:00.007-04:00

The poor kid. Her father has set up an entirely different expectation when it comes to "adventure," one that typically includes appropriate footwear and outdoor gear.

Then there's me. My adventure days require dressing up, hair decorations (or pretties, or crowns, or whatever she's calling them on a given day), a restaurant, and all manner of girly things. (Translation: shopping is usually involved.)

So today we donned our best twirly skirts, had pancakes at LePeep, and then went raspberry picking at Spencer's Berry Farm. We followed that up with a trip to the Red Circle Store (aka Target) and then came home to build a fort and take a nap.

(Rob took over for one of those last two activites. I'll let you guess which one.)

All in all, a great Mama/Sara day. Can't wait for the next one!

Puzzling

2009-09-02T19:22:00.004-04:00

After dinner Sara and I sat down to do a puzzle or two (or three).

And you must know: doing puzzles with Sara is a painful experience. Painful. I think because she is so smart I expect too much from her sometimes; typical three-year-old tantrums baffle me because she speaks with the vocabulary and complexity of someone closer to five or six -- a big emotional and intellectual leap, all things considered. But these puzzles... man, oh man. I really think she should have a better grasp on them than she does. Just 12 pieces, filled with edges and corners to guide the way. What I realized as those painful 30 minutes unfolded was that this is just an area of relative weakness for her, this business of seeing the Big Picture.

In watching her tonight I remembered again how much alike we are, my girl & me. Losing sight of the Big Picture is a constant struggle for me, too, and that flaw reveals itself in a seemingly random but nevertheless consistent manner. Countless half-completed projects, dreams abandoned, lifelong struggles with weight, stubborn attempts to engineer the future -- they're all the result of missing the Big Picture.

Sara sat tonight quickly pulling at random pieces and forcing them together, happily oblivious to the pictures she was trying to create. Rather than envisioning Eric Carle's train cars full of hippos and lions and giraffes Sara saw purple lines or yellow blobs or "big teeth!" She had the bottom at the top and the top on the side and tried with all her might to meet the middle pieces with edges and the corners with the middles. As she did it she filled the room with self-talk, alternating between murmurs of "this is hard for me" and singing "I! CAN! DO! THIS!" Blissfully, peacefully, doggedly working the pieces and more often than not failing but never pausing to wallow in that failure. Never kicking herself, never giving up. And when the pieces did fit? Celebration and pride the likes of which you only see in a three-year-old.

How many times have I grabbed at random pieces of my life and tried to force them together in ways that seemed so logical, so right, but in the end could not have been more wrong? How many times have I tried to start at the end with no thought of the beginning? How many times have I missed the clues that help you fit the pieces together the right way, refusing to slow down and take the time to really work the puzzle out?

(Countless times, I am sad to say.)

We've got a lot to learn, she and I, about remembering the Big Picture. But tonight as I sat and watched my daughter chip away at those 12 piece puzzles bit by bit by topsy-turvy bit it's she who taught me something about approaching this work with perseverance, joy, and celebration.

The girl never ceases to amaze. She's only three. How much more is she going to teach me in the years ahead? I only pray I'm a good and worthy student.

Raising the bar

2009-08-26T21:31:00.004-04:00

So, I know there are a lot of mommy bloggers out there.

I never really thought of myself as one, but since most of what I write is for the (eventual and ultimate) benefit of my daughter then I guess I ought to cop to it.

But when I run across blogs like this one, I can't help but wonder...

When did mommy blogging become so gosh darn slick?

Don't get me wrong: Hers is a lovely blog, with a terrific layout, up-to-date graphics, high-end design and amazing photography. I mean, come on -- Photoshop or no, my snaps would never turn out like those. (Those beets? Holy cats those beets! They make me swoon - and they're beets.) And then there are the recipes. There's no bottled peanut sauce or fajita seasoning packets to be found. I guess I just marvel at having the time to pull all of that together. Raising three kids, plus mad cooking skills, not to mention taking the time to shoot & shop it all and then write about it? It's like she decided to live what Martha Stewart is selling.

And is actually pulling it off.

I am impressed. And she doesn't even appear to be one of those moms with a not-so-hidden marketing agenda. Sort of makes me think twice about what the heck I'm doing here. Cause slick I ain't.

Jealous much? (Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes.)

Addendum: The response I'm getting to this on Facebook is unexpected. Maybe I didn't write what I thought I was writing, as my point was meant to be more about the explosion of "glossy" mommy blogs rather than a fish for moral support and/or praise. Will have to re-read future posts with multiple perspectives in mind to avoid what might appear to be manipulative pleas for attention.

That said, thanks for the moral support and reminders that being "Sara's supermommy" is really what it's all about.

Nesting

2009-08-21T17:00:00.009-04:00

My mother always said that rain brings good luck.

We have had a remarkably mild summer this year, but for the past few days August has tried to make up for this by offering up a particularly uncomfortable run of hot, humid days interspersed with rain showers and thunderstorms. Personally, I love storms and the energy that they bring -- but the muggy, hot days I can do without.

Similarly, day-to-day life over the past week has been particularly uncomfortable as well: Running in too many different directions for too long, trying to meet the needs of most everyone but myself. Yesterday I finally hit the wall. I was done. I slept for more hours than I can remember sleeping in a long, long time.

And then today I woke up better rested, and the weather finally broke too. The rain is still here but has brought with it cooler breezes and more of these pleasant but unusually mild days. So, before Sara woke from her nap this afternoon I decided to take advantage of the time and the weather by sitting outside and swinging under my sister's tree. There was a heavy grey cloud blowing our way and I knew another shower was coming but I didn't care; in fact, I thought it was perfect.

Just after I sat down I noticed an abandoned nest at my feet, blown out of the tree during one of the storms earlier this week. It was a sweet little robin's nest, still perfectly intact despite the elements. I thought about how much work that bird must have put into building it's small home, and what a good job it did for it to look so perfect even after it's unceremonious eviction from that tree.

And then it started to rain.

It was hard to ignore the parallels to our own nest, the one we've spent so long working on but that will be beautiful and well-built when it's finally done. I took it as a sign that we would find our home there soon -- maybe not as soon as we might like, but soon nonetheless.

I'm going to keep that nest, and fill it up with wishes for all the things I hope to find in our own: peace, good health, happiness, love. And it will be a reminder of the time, effort, and patience it took for us to get there, and of the storms we had to weather to finally, finally, come home.

The rain blessed me today. Good luck, indeed.

Soft spot

2009-08-17T21:38:00.005-04:00

As Sara gets older I find myself struggling more and more with the one thing that I just can't seem to deny her.

Me.

Because every time I hear that desperate need in her voice, the panicked harmonic that tells me she's afraid I'm not going to be there, I lose my resolve. I can't let her live with that fear for even a second because I know how it feels. I experience it every day and - for the record? It feels pretty awful. Yes, yes, even at my ripe old age. I'm pretty sure you never stop needing your Mama.

I just won't let my little girl carry that crappy feeling around yet. And so bedtime might be a nightmare for awhile, and I might spend more hours than I care to remember calming her irrational fears. It just doesn't matter. She's got me, and I'm not going anywhere. That's all she needs to know.

I can't do it all ~OR~ My to-do list is actually quite short

2009-08-04T13:02:00.005-04:00

Here is what I do:

Get up with Sara every morning
Feed her (or at least keep her from eating candy for breakfast)
Shower
Get dressed
Make coffee -- sometimes, drink it
Look for breakfast to eat in the car -- sometimes, find it
Think about finding something to take for lunch -- sometimes, make it
Work: that's another post entirely
Get home & assume Sara responsibility
Clean house -- no, pick up crap; no time for cleaning
Ask Rob to do laundry (a few times a week)
Sometimes fold it
Worry about the house
Worry about money
Worry about Sara/my health/the future
Go to the grocery
Cook
Wash dishes
Keep Sara from killing herself
Give her a bath
Argue with her
Bargain with her
Discipline her
Put her to bed
Several times each night
Collapse
Sleep
Get up and do it again
Wonder why

Here's what I don't do:

Make a healthy breakfast for Sara & myself
Get to work on time
Enjoy my job/consistently make a difference
Spend time playing with Sara
Plan menus to have healthy dinners & lunches prepared
Exercise
Enjoy 15 minutes of quiet, just for me (maybe drinking coffee)
Get enough sleep
Spend enough time with Rob
Spend enough time with my friends
Read (daily)
Write (daily)
Create (daily)
Behave nicely (all the time)
Do the things I really enjoy doing, every single day
Live happily with less
Simplify (everything)

All I need to do:

Switch titles on the lists above.

10 things -- but really, only one

2009-07-23T15:22:00.005-04:00

Among the various tasks I have to do at work is triaging new orders that come in for outpatient evaluations and then deciding which of our speech pathologists should see each patient. Every chart I get has a patient history form that has been completed by mom, dad, caregiver, foster parent -- whoever cares for the child.

Most are run-of-the-mill. Some are hilarious. Some, worthless. One was even insulting.

And, of course, some are sad. One mom, who obviously had very basic reading and writing skills, had clearly spent a long time working on her son's history: she had been exceptionally thorough, proof-read it (changing correct grammar & spellings into errors on several occasions), and written a lengthly note sharing her guilt that her child's delays were her own fault.

But the ones that always get to me come from the parents whose children are unable to speak at all. Usually these parents are some of the strongest we meet: their children are so medically involved, fragile in so many ways -- unable to walk, talk, eat, dress themselves, clean themselves -- that by the time we are working with them on communication they have developed a pretty tough exterior. While I'm sure they have private moments where they grieve for their kids, wonder why, feel guilty, and indulge in the anger they rightly hold, these parents can't dwell on those emotions every day. They wouldn't survive. They have therapies, and medications, and tube feedings, and real patient care duties to attend to every single day.

The history we gather on these kids is a little different. We try to figure out who's in there, what gestures, expressions, even grunts they might already be using to reach out to the people around them. It's amazing to me how resilient these kids are and how intimately their families know them that they can understand what, to an outsider, is just a meaningless noise or an almost imperceptible glance. We try to figure out what kinds of motor, social, and cognitive skills they have. We ask what kinds of communication approaches have been tried before, what has worked, and what didn't.

The last thing we ask is for parents to list ten things they would like their child to be able to say. And I'm sure you already know their first response -- it would be yours and mine as well. All of them, every last one, answers the same.

"I love you."

Can you imagine? (I can't.)

And this is one reason, among oh so many, that I tell my daughter a hundred times a day that I love her - and why I truly do know how blessed I am to hear her tell me the same.

Rebooting

2009-07-21T22:59:00.002-04:00

Many things on my mind these days. Deciding which to wrestle with first. Will post when a winner is determined.

I know it'll be hard, but do try to sleep between now & then, OK? OK.

Rag doll

2009-07-18T15:42:00.005-04:00

I just woke up from the second best nap EVER.

It didn't quite pass the high bar set by The Great Nap of 2006, but man, oh man -- it was close.

I'm so relaxed I'm not sure how I'm managing to sit upright.

Grief, you're a tricky bastard

2009-07-15T23:16:00.003-04:00

A colleague called yesterday to tell me she had just learned that her sister has a brain tumor. It is aggressive, and does not respond well to treatment. The prognosis is poor.

She is 38, and has two children -- 7 and 11.

Her grief is not mine, but her circumstance brings my own right back to the surface. I understand the helplessness she feels, the anxiety of knowing too much but not enough. Cancer is a sonofabitch; brain cancer, the worst. The treatment robs patients of themselves without offering much in return. It seemed to me to be a relentless undoing of a life, a slow unraveling that all of us -- even Mom -- had to witness every day. It was awful for everyone.

Watching my mother die from that hideous disease changed me; I don't know how it couldn't. To this day I have a single, horrible memory of Mom that defines the entire illness for me, one I'm afraid I'll never be able to shake. It was a moment that captured every feeling of guilt and desperation and confusion that I experienced over all those months; but worse still it was the moment I saw my mother losing herself, so far away and yet stranded here in a body that was destroying her.

I still feel the same nauseating helplessness now as I did that day. I still feel the shame of just wanting to leave, because it was easier than facing her. I still feel like the little girl who's been separated from her mother and is crying for her, desperately looking for her -- only I know I'll never find her again.

About two years ago I ran into an old professor. She was speaking at a conference I was attending, discussing the role that emotion plays in how therapists work with their patients and families. Ever since Mom's illness I had been experiencing this first hand. Whether it was discussing feeding tubes with the parents of toddlers or end-of-life considerations with the elderly, my professional judgement was colored by my journey with Mom. I just couldn't handle another difficult conversation that would inevitably lead me to tears.

Hope and I talked for a long time after her presentation. We talked a bit about the "old days" but mostly about our families. It was clear to her that my loss was still fresh despite the time that had passed. She told me I had to work through the grief.

And I explained to her that I wasn't all that inclined to do so, thank you very much.

But I know she's right, even if I don't really know what it means to "work through the grief." Time seems to help some and so does Sara, who talks about her grandparents as though they are simply living in a magical place even further away than Pennsylvania -- which to her is very, very far away. I have purposely laced some of my old family rituals into our lives today, and this seems to be both comforting and comfortable, and feels like an acknowledgement of who Mom and Dad were and what they left with me. As life goes on the good memories outweigh the bad and I can remember the past without feeling robbed of it.

Until I get that phone call, and I hear in someone else's voice the fear and helplessness that is still so close at hand. And then grief gets the best of me again.

I guess I still have work to do.

Ever have one of those days?

2009-07-11T10:19:00.005-04:00

Ever have one of those days with your kid? You know, the kind where you take her into a store for a quick perusal and she finds a strangulation hazard in three minutes flat? And you know she found it because in the 20 seconds you had actually managed to focus on the reason for your trip, she wanders away from you and you locate her by the "Hey Mama, I can h-gaaaah" that you hear from 5 feet away. When you turn to look, she's got a cord around her neck and grimace on her face.

Yes, one of those days.

Or one of those days where, in an effort to get food on the table (cause that's your job too), you pause for a second to appreciate how smoothly things are going. Maybe a little too smoothly. And definitely too quietly. So when you ask your kid what she's doing and she says "I'm playing in my room," you instantly determine that you are hosed. This is confirmed when you call her out to see you and she comes trotting in with one arm behind her back, certain that you'll never figure out that she's hiding something back there.

What were you doing?

"Nuffing."

No, what where you doing?

"Cleaning da floors."

And that's when you find that the bathroom hand soap has been squirted all over the bathroom floor, her bedroom floor, her bedside table, her bed, and one sandal -- the other one, thankfully, is still on her foot.

10 minutes are spent coaching her on how to clean up her mess. 10 minutes of your life you'll never get back.

At this point you breath a little easier. The worst is over. Because what could she come up with in the two minutes that you take to go back to the kitchen & make sure dinner wasn't ruined?

Turns out, she comes up with Desitin. The sticky, smelly Desitin that just the other day you had found her smearing all over her boot and told her she was not to get into. Right -- the very same stuff. Except this time she is huddled under the quilt on the far side of the bed trying to avoid detection, rubbing it on her hands and arms. Why? Just because she can, I guess.

Aaaaand game over. Time out clock begins... now. Tears, wailing, an actual - and I kid you not - boo hoo, pleas for release, demands for Noggin.

For the love of God, if I could just get dinner on the table!

She is freed and makes a bee line for higher ground. Now that she's upstairs with her aunt you feel safe, and take advantage of the situation by sitting (that's right, sitting) for five minutes. Dinner is ready. You make her a plate, hopeful that when get some food in her belly the beast will be silenced.

But not so much. Because in calling her to dinner you've interrupted what clearly must be the best episode of Ni-Hao Kai-Lan ever, and you hear about it. All through dinner. Lots of sobbing, but very little eating.

Oh, sweet Lord.

Before the evening ends she will have consumed 4 and a half chocolate chip cookies and you don't even care. She's in bed. Tomorrow is a new day.

And then tomorrow comes. But it's no longer one of those days; now, it's one of those weekends -- one of those rainy, stormy, stuck-inside-all-day weekends.

Chasing the cats.

Using the sofa as a trampoline.

Using her baby stroller as a battering ram.

Honing her macrame skills with the cords from the blinds.

Insisting that the neighborhood dog running through the yard needs to be fed, and weeping when you won't let her go after it.

Save. Me. Now. It's not even noon.

Lemme just say that next weekend, when the Papa is home?

I'm so off duty.

Hear me rawr

2009-07-07T22:08:00.005-04:00

If you know me at all, you know that I am not an overt feminist. Some might assume that I am not a feminist at all.

Well, you'd be wrong.

While not a supporter of many of the agendas of the feminist movement, I do believe that women are meant to enjoy the same opportunities that men do -- when that is logical. Women are equally deserving of good jobs, quality educations, and sound medical care, just like their male counterparts. But this may not mean we are entitled to always enjoy the same opportunities because, in case you hadn't noticed?

We are wildly different creatures. And for that I say Amen. Different is amazing, and interesting, and beautiful, and quite literally life-giving.

This isn't really a post about equal rights. This is about about equal access to something vital to the well-being of women everywhere: sound medical care.

Probably because of our historically male-driven paradigm (men work/men provide/men lead/men protect/etc), a lot of medical research is conducted with men in mind. Or, maybe more accurately, with men as the primary source from which data is collected. Heart disease, for example, manifests itself quite differently in a woman than it does in a man -- but in the past most public education campaigns were designed around the classic symptoms found in men, as most research had typically been done on the male population. I don't believe this was deliberate, just an unfortunate outcome of an outdated mindset.

The good news? The medical community seems to be catching on to this. Women's health is being discussed in many outlets and researchers are casting a wider net, looking for clues to the genesis - and cures - for disease in both men and women.

But I'm here to tell you, we still have a long way to go. I know this because I'm experiencing the imbalance myself.

I'm not sure when I first heard about PCOS, or polycystic ovary syndrome. I know the first time I ever heard a doctor mention it to me was more or less in passing, as she went over the results of a rather lengthy history I had provided. Buried between the meatier topics of obesity and diabetes risks was a quick castoff, a mention that I had all the classic signs of PCOS -- fun stuff, like being overweight, having irregular periods, oily skin, unwanted facial hair -- and so I probably had that as well. That was it.

A few months later I had a miscarriage.

Soon after that, in a discussion about insulin resistance, I was put on Metformin. It was explained to me that this would help my body overcome the insulin resistance, thereby helping me achieve better weight loss results. The side effects could be unpleasant (and yes, they can be) but we should give it a go. And so we did.

Never one to shy away from the internet for more information, I started doing some searches on this new medication I was taking. It didn't take long before I saw that it was frequently prescribed for women with PCOS -- and hadn't I been told I probably had that, too? With a little more digging I found that Metformin was known to help women with PCOS get pregnant. Get pregnant, and stay pregnant.

That's when I knew that there was no "probably" about it. I really had this thing, this PCOS. And I had likely lost a baby because of it. And nobody told me it might happen.

Happily, I got pregnant again -- thanks to that Metformin, I have no doubt -- and had a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Perhaps I've mentioned her before?

So life went on. I lost more weight. Then I lost my mother, and my father, and most of my resolve, and the weight soon returned. I continued to see my doctors, an ob-gyn and a new internist, and I always brought up PCOS. Not really knowing what to ask, I would tell them that another doctor told me I probably had it. And in lock-step, each doctor would shrug, say yes you probably do, and there's little you can do about it. Eat right. Exercise. Lose weight. Next question.

And I know that their answers were correct. Correct, but not complete.

I'm learning that PCOS, obviously unique to women, is a parallel to something the medical community calls Syndrome X, a high-insulin metabolic state. While my primary concern with PCOS arose from infertility, some recent reading has also taught me that PCOS, like Syndrome X, can lead to diabetes, high blood pressure, and cardiovascular problems. Additionally, because PCOS effects the hormonal function of the ovaries, women with chronic and/or severe cases are also at risk for ruptured cysts, ovarian twisting, internal bleeding, endometriosis, endometrial hyperplasia, and endometrial cancer.

An increased risk for cancer. There's absolutely nothing that terrifies me more.

I think that's worth more than a shrug and a passing comment, don't you? Three doctors -- three female doctors -- never told me any of this. Maybe they didn't know. But they should, and now I do.

Look, I'm not going to lie: Losing weight and getting pregnant were big motivators for learning more about this thing, and they are still big motivators for trying to overcome it. But the more I learn the more I realize that there is more at stake here than dropping a few dress sizes and having another baby. There is my life, and growing old with Rob and raising Sara.

Why didn't they tell me? I don't suppose it matters now. What matters is that I don't let them off the hook so easily in the future. I know better what to ask, and who to seek if they can't provide the answers.

Because I'm a woman. And I deserve that kind of healthcare.

[[RAWR]]

Dying a million tiny deaths

2009-07-06T11:34:00.005-04:00

OK. If I had the time and the money and the chutzpa to go there, I would totally go see House Beautiful's 2009 Kitchen of the Year.

Why?

Ina Garten.

Ina Garten will be there.

Ina Garten will be there, in an amazing kitchen.

Ina Garten will be there, in an amazing kitchen that she inspired.

And I know if I went we would be best friends.

Because that's how it works, right?

(I love you, Ina.)

(Seriously.)

Photo courtesy of The Food Network, via thebarefootcontessa.com

(Please don't sue me for copyright infringement.)

Not words I would use to describe myself, but...

2009-07-05T21:53:00.006-04:00

I think there is truth in some this -- at least for today.

Considerate Dreamer

you are a dreamer

Your combination of abstract thinking, appreciation of beauty, and cautiousness makes you a DREAMER.

You often imagine how things could be better, and you have very specific visions of this different future.

Beauty and style are important to you, and you have a discerning eye when it comes to how things look.

Although you often think more broadly, you prefer comfort to adventure, choosing to stay within the boundaries of your current situation.

Your preferences for artistic works are very refined, although you vastly prefer some types and styles to others.

Though your dreams are quite vivid, you are cautious in following up on them.

You are aware of both your positive and negative qualities, so that your ego doesn't get in your way.

A sense of vulnerability sometimes holds you back, stifling your creative tendencies.

You're not one to force your positions on a group, and you tend to be fair in evaluating different options.

You are balanced in your approach to problem-solving, not letting your emotions hold you up.

You prefer to have time to plan for things, feeling better with a schedule than with keeping plans up in the air until the last minute.

You do your own thing when it comes to clothing, guided more by practical concerns than by other people's notions of style.

If you want to be different:

Your imagination is a wonderful asset, but don't just dream—be bold enough to take action and explore new things!

Consider a wider range of details and possibilities when thinking about the present and the future—don't be too set in your ways.

how you relate to others

you are considerate

You trust others, care about them, and are slow to judge them, making you CONSIDERATE.

You value your close relationships very much, and are more likely to spend time in small, tightly-knit groups of friends than in large crowds.

You enjoy exploring the world through observation, quietly watching others.

Relating to others so well, and understanding their emotions, leads you to trust people in general, even though you're somewhat shy and reserved at times.

Your belief that people are generally well-intentioned contributes to your sympathy regarding their problems.

Although you may not vocalize it often, you have an awareness of how society affects individuals, and you understand complex causes of people's behavior.

You like to look at all sides of a situation before making a judgment, particularly when that situation involves important things in other people's lives.

Your close friends know you as a good listener.

If you want to be different:

Because other people would benefit immensely from your understanding and insight, you should try to be more outgoing in social situations, even when they make you uncomfortable. Others will want to hear what you have to say!

Thanks to @zigged for the link!

And to prove there's no sour grapes

2009-07-05T07:46:00.004-04:00

Some blogs I've recently stumbled across that I love:

www.joythebaker.com

I would totally love hanging with this girl. And not just because of the Red Velvet Black & White cookies, Root Beer Float Cake, or Brown Sugar Bacon Waffles (though none of those things would hurt). No, I would dig an afternoon with her because she's funny, clever, and as nice as can be. (Thanks to Casey @ mooshinindy.com for pointing us to this site with her rave review of the Root Beer Float Cake.)

www.conversationswithacupcake.blogspot.com

In keeping with the baking theme, I bring you Conversations With a Cupcake. This blogger has managed to blend mad baking skills with charm, wit, and illustrations. Oh, and she does some very generous things along the way. I've found my birthday cake for next year at this site -- seriously, I've already sent the link to my sister.

www.nestingplacenc.blogspot.com

I love this woman because she loves fabric. The fact that she has a knack for easy, accessible, and often inexpensive home decor just sealed the deal. When I knew it was true love? Her window mistreatments, where she created lovely valances without the benefit of a sewing machine, curtain rods, or a hammer. Cause why bother with a hammer when your high heel will do?

www.sew-funky.blogspot.com

A New Zealander with crazy crafting skills. I found her while searching for a tutorial on freezer paper stenciling. She had only been on my blogroll for a couple of days when she posted about her mother's sudden death, and now my heart aches for a woman who I don't even know.

littlelivesphotography.com

OK, full disclosure: Elaine is one of my BFFs. Has been for the longest time: college, marriage, miscarriage, birth, losing our mothers, losing weight, gaining weight, scrapbooking, singing, traveling, and more laughing than I can begin to list. So of course I follow her blog -- but she also happens to be an awesome photographer. And she's just as genuine & nice in real life as she seems to be on her blog. I know, I know... I'm a lucky girl.

houseonhillroad.typepad.com

This is one of those blogs that makes me want to chuck it all and stay at home so I can sew all of Sara's clothes, grow & preserve all of our food, and snap awesome shots of everything while I do it. I used her twirly skirt tutorial to make my first (and only) successful item of clothing and am itching to try the coffee cozy pattern next. Because the only thing better than that first cup of coffee is that first cup of coffee with a cute cozy surrounding it.

So, what about you? Which blogs are you loving these days?

Woe is them

2009-07-04T16:37:00.007-04:00

The internet is an amazing thing.

Over the last ten years it's become an almost indispensable thing for most of us -- I know that I, personally, have used it to:

"Date" my husband (before he decided it would be easier to move than drive 20 hours to & from Indiana every weekend)
Plan my wedding
Find long-lost family and arrange a reunion to finally meet them
Track my pregnancy
Find my job
Look for a house
Look for houses for other people
Decide not to buy a house
Look for contractors
Renovate my house
Learn to sew
Reconnect with old friends

And then there are the daily things -- tracking the sales at the supermarket, finding recipes, reading the news, getting directions, checking the weather, looking for hotels, reading blogs...

Ah, reading blogs.

Blogs are probably the most interesting thing out there. Most (like mine, I fully admit) are not really worth the time spent reading them, at least to people other than family & friends. Some are blatant marketing tools. Others never really get off the ground. But now and then a blog really hits on something: an audience, an idea, a movement, whatever. These bloggers have a voice that people like to hear. Some set out hearing that voice from the beginning, while others evolve, like the classic "mommy blogger" who eventually manages to filter her thoughts down to one main idea -- say, going organic with your family.

I've often wondered if I need to find a voice too. But that assumes that I'm trying to cultivate a following (I'm not) and that I have the talent to sustain it (I don't). This blog is for me and for my daughter. I'm flattered when people stumble across here and find something I've said interesting or funny or useful, but that's just gravy.

Over my decade or so traveling the internet and reading blogs I've had the pleasure of watching a few bloggers transcend that gap between personal story-telling and public speaking. Sometimes I think it's just happenstance; sometimes it seems to be very deliberate. Either way, I continue to follow them because I, too, happen to like what they have to say.

Except.

Except when they write posts explaining to their readers how they just don't have the time to write for them right now. These same readers, whose loyalty and encouragement has granted them a public forum, opportunities for income, sometimes even entire careers -- no time. Too busy. Too conflicted. Too in demand.

Too full of themselves.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think bloggers owe their readers anything. Unless, of course, their readership has earned them sponsors, ad revenue, freebies, and book deals. Then I think they do owe us something: the voice they so earnestly wanted us to hear in the first place. Because without regularly sharing that voice, their audience -- along with all those benefits -- eventually disappears.

And without a doubt a new blogger will be happy to fill their shoes. Because the Next Big Thing? Is already out there.

Forget Orlando

2009-06-21T13:55:00.004-04:00

Oh no.

Despite what you have been led to believe by The Mouse, the happiest place on Earth can actually be found on East 86th Street in Indianapolis.

The internets have led me to a local shop that quite literally took my breath away when I stepped into it for the first time yesterday.

(Thank you, internets.)

Quilts Plus is now, I am sure, going to be both my salvation and my undoing, the place that lifts me up when I am down while at the same time torturing me with its endless (literally endless) possibilities.

Quilts Plus, I hate you for loving you so.

Unlike the Other Stores Which Shall Remain Nameless, the staff at Quilts Plus are nice -- friendly you might say, though I quiver a little at the realization of this, even as I type. No fabric nazis here; in fact, when the chief-cutter-in-charge said hello I quietly admitted to her that I had never been there before, and instead of sneering at me she actually welcomed me. With a smile. And enthusiasm!

But better than this, if you can dare to imagine, is the fabric. The FABRIC. THE MILES AND MILES AND MILES OF WOVEN EYE CANDY. BOLT AFTER BOLT OF FIBER FANTASY. STACKS AND STACKS AND STACKS OF TITILLATING TEXTILES.

Excuse me while I take a moment.

My mind literally started to spin when I rounded the first corner and spied the "kids collection." If only I had twelve more for whom to make totes and skirts and curtains and pillows galore. And seriously -- seriously, I tell you -- I could feel the breath catch in my throat when I rounded the next corner and realized that I had a least another half of the store to peruse.

Oh, and peruse I did.

But what really won me over, more than the fabulous staff and mind-boggling inventory, was that they had exactly what I wanted. The fabric I've been mooning over online for weeks now -- Moda, Amy Butler, Michael Miller, on and on and on -- was all there waiting for me. Even the one design that had been eluding me* at Etsy** (whose vendors, lets face it, have all the awesome stuff) was there standing in the stack just waiting to go home with me. I maybe might have squealed a little.

OK I did squeal a little. Don't judge me. The ladies at Quilts Plus didn't. They understand.

Quilts Plus, Quilts Plus, Quilts Plus... I think we've got a future together.

Miss you already.

*Sorry, no sneak previews... I've picked this out as a special gift for someone!

**I love Etsy so much that I have already plotted out my own online shop. I even have a name for it. And no, I'm not telling you what it is.

Just a thimbleful

2009-06-20T15:14:00.007-04:00

It's true that everything that's awesome about being a mom would fill every ocean in the world -- the first time you see your baby would probably fill just one to overflowing all by itself.

It's equally true that some things about being a mom aren't quite so endearing. But because I know how fortunate we are to have such a happy, healthy, smart, funny, beautiful girl* I will limit my list of complaints to the liquid equivalent of a thimble. And in this thimble you would find:

Weekend wake-up calls when you've been given the clear to sleep in. "Mama! It says eight-oh-eight and that means I want you to get up now!"
Negotiating... well, everything.
Debating the fundamental benefits of going poo in the potty.
Stepping on rocks, dolls, crayons, plastic caps, Hot Wheels, grapes, and all things small.
Having an audience in the bathroom. Every. Single. Time.
Donning a bathing suit in public. (ONLY for my daughter. And to everyone at the Jordan Y today, my sincerest apologies.)
Shiny purple things.
Time outs.
Naps refused.
Pinky Dinky Doo. Worse yet, Lazy Town.

See, it's not a long list. And, I suppose, more than a fair trade.

*Yes, I do know this. I am reminded every, single day -- and I never take it for granted.

Might've been wrong

2009-06-18T15:25:00.004-04:00

Perhaps got a little ahead of myself on yesterday's post about Something coming.

Or maybe the Something came and is just better known as The Shit. As in, The Shit Hitting the Fan.

What a day. I was exhausted by 10 o'clock this morning.

Oy.

Enough with the pregnant

2009-06-18T12:58:00.004-04:00

Four people from work
Two old friends
Three announcements in past two weeks

And no, I'm not.

Something

2009-06-17T22:17:00.005-04:00

Today as I sat in a meeting where I essentially explained to my boss that what we really need is someone to do my job who isn't me (you know -- in a nutshell), I got butterflies. I chalked it up to the many many great unknowns in my workplace these days and didn't think too much more about it.

And then driving home I felt it again. That feeling you get in your stomach when you go over a hill, or when you are waiting for something to happen, something you've anticipated and are excited about, but also a little scared about, too. You know -- Something, with a capital "S."

I felt it most of the evening, and I wonder what it is. I wonder if the me that I don't listen to often enough knows something I don't know. I wonder if Something really is coming.

Or maybe not.

I do know that it feels like the time is ripe for change. Not the kind of change that I'm trying to engineer (Lord knows how that doesn't work) but change that just comes, like kids growing and leaves turning and your wedding day come and gone seemingly in spite of yourself.

I'm not going to try and figure out what this is, or when it's coming, or even if it's coming. But for the first time in a long time I feel ready for Something to happen, no matter what it is. My life, in all of its smallness, has prepared me for whatever Something comes next. I've figured out that I can do it, whatever "it" is.

And so we will see.

New obsession

2009-06-09T22:57:00.006-04:00

I meant to keep track of the designers on these lovelies, but I'll chalk my oversight up to pain. Anywho... aren't these gorgeous? The list of things I am planning to make (but don't know how to make) is growing thanks to the wonderful world of fabric.

I guess I best get to learning, huh?

I totally see kitchen towels in my future with these cuties...

Oh, and I felt like one of the cool kids earlier today when I was over at Amanda Soule's site and saw she had picked the same fabric for one of her projects (failed, which -- let's face it -- makes me like her all the more) that I've been loving on as well.

Having little girls does have it's upsides. Unicorn fabric? Why not!

Love was in the air

2009-06-04T22:08:00.004-04:00

This story could have totally been about Rob (substituting cats for the dog, of course). I laughed so hard I was crying when I read it.

Just like she loves Mr. Nielson, I love Rob, too. I know I'm two hours early, but happy fifth anniversary my sweet!

(If you aren't familiar with the story of the Neilsons, it's remarkable -- surviving a devestating plane crash is really just the beginning. An amazing family to be sure.)

To Whom It May Concern:

2009-06-01T12:55:00.004-04:00

Dear person who doesn't know me that well:

I realize that making small-talk is the socially acceptable thing to do, and I want you to know -- I don't mind small talk. In fact, I appreciate your effort.

But I'd also like to let you know that while asking about my preschooler is a perfectly delightful way to engage in said small talk, asking me if I'm "going to have another" is not. In fact, that kind of conversation is entirely the opposite of "small talk;" it is (I would dare say) rather "large talk." This question, much like asking the mother of multiples if she underwent fertility or the soon-to-be mother if she's had that baby yet, is better left unasked.

You see, the answer to the question is not simple. I could say no, and then you might ask why -- and again, the answer to that falls squarely under the umbrella of "large talk." Or I could say yes, and you might ask when -- but I think filling you in on those kinds of details might be considered "too much information." Or I could say I would love to, and we've tried, and I really want my daughter to have a sister or brother more than anything in the world but after three years it's beginning to look more & more like that may never happen --

But that answer might leave you feeling awkward, which really defeats the point of "small talk."

Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry or anything. And it's certainly not your fault because it's a question that dozens before you have asked as well. Somehow, somewhere along the line, society decided that it was alright to make these kinds of casual inquiries -- probably right about the same time we started watching The Real World and Big Brother and Jon & Kate + Eight, learning much more about perfect strangers than we ever had a right to know.

So let's make a deal, OK? You don't ask if we're going to have another, and I won't lie & say "oh, I don't know, maybe sometime, we'll just have to see..."

Because lies are not "small talk," they are "false talk." And I'm just not in to that sort of thing.

Thanks for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Sara's mom

The only couture that would fit me

2009-06-01T12:17:00.003-04:00

Hey!

You may have noticed that I am becoming more & more interested in all things free.

WELL.

How's about a free mini PC?

It's true! Jenny Rapson over at Blissful Style is coordinating a giveaway of one HP Mini 1000 - Vivienne Tam edition! It is small, it is lightweight, it is fast.

Most importantly, it is cute.

As a shameless pursuer of all things free, I have entered -- and I really want to win.

How about you?

Time

2009-06-01T08:17:00.001-04:00

Time this morning to

dry my hair (all the way)

pick up a bit

enjoy a cup of coffee

sit with Sara while she eats breakfast

check a blog or two

dream a little bit

say hello

you.

Hello!

That's one small library tote for Sara, one giant leap for Mamakind

2009-05-26T17:02:00.008-04:00

You have to understand where I'm coming from: My mom? Not a domestic diva. She could sew a button on Dad's pants when under extreme duress, but that was about it. Anything "fancy" -- like hemming pants, let's say? -- required a trip to the tailor on Broad Ripple Avenue. (Who, I swear, is the same first-generation American tailor wearing the same sandals with the same white socks today, just like he did when I was a kid. Ah, consistency.)

So it's not like she taught me the ins & outs of sewing. We didn't have a sewing machine to be sure. And my few encounters with the sewing nazis at Joann's didn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling about taking it up as a new hobby. In fact, even friends and family members that I had observed in action seemed to morph into something a little less than "exuberant" when I watched them put their Singers into action.

Still, I am particular enough, and creative enough, and cheap enough that I decided that I needed to learn how to sew. For real. My sister got me a sewing machine two Christmases ago, and I was very excited about. Then I found excuses (some of them actually valid) not to pull it out. The thing seemed ironic in every way: archaic, yet mechanically beyond my mental grasp; freeing, yet paralyzing; full of potential, yet fruitless without me doing... something.

So one day I threw caution to the wind and pulled it out. I spent an hour just working up the courage to turn the blessed thing on. And then?

Then I jammed it.

My first "project" was to make some placemats for Sara - because if there is one thing I feel strongly about, it is providing my child with seasonally-appropriate placemats. So I cobbled together two of them: a red one for Valentine's Day and a green Snoopy one for St. Patrick's Day. I didn't actually measure, or bother to cut straight lines -- and it showed -- but at the end of the evening I had produced two functional, if not fashionable, seasonal placemats for my three-year-old.

And this is the point in the story where you learn about my tendency to exercise poor judgement while basking in the glow of minor victories. Thinking I had made it over the learning-to-sew hump I decided I could make a simple denim jumper for Sara. The pattern said "VERY EASY," after all. How hard could it be?

Turns out, very hard. At least when you don't know what you're doing. I should have put the fabric back when I realized I didn't understand how much I was supposed to buy (ah, the lure of the fabric.... but that's another post). As luck would have it, that day I happened to meet the only pleasant sewing lady on the north side of Indianapolis*. She didn't snarl at me when I asked her if she could cut fabric for me, and despite my absolute certainty that she would sneer, like all the others before her, when I admitted that I was little more than an amateur she was actually helpful. Helpful!

Too bad she wasn't so helpful as to come back to my house and walk me through that blasted jumper because making it was, shall we say, treacherous. Sara wore it once (yes once!), so the week I spent making it wasn't a complete waste. (But mostly.)

This little reality check slowed me down quite a bit. The sewing machine seemed to mock me from the corner, knowing as well as I did that I really wasn't worthy. It sat, unused, for weeks on end. Eventually Rob took it back to our house where it sat perched atop an old loo gathering dust. At least I felt like I was having the last metaphorical laugh.

But eventually the bug bit again. Sara's doll cradle needed a new matress and I decided that if I couldn't sew something acceptable to a three-year-old then I shouldn't sew anything at all. And so I did. And she loved it.

Stoked by this apparent turning of the tide, I dared to imagine other small projects: Blankets for her baby dolls. Maybe a pillow for the cradle. Maybe...

A tote bag.

And then we took this wonderful trip to the library, and I knew it would happen. Because my kid? She had to have a book bag. A cute one, too.

So I scoured the internets for the perfect (read: simple) pattern, something cute and not too boring but one that wouldn't cast me into a pit of despair like the demon jumper before it. Two weeks later, I found it: The Pink October.

God bless Dianne Hadaway and her site for sharing this pattern -- along with simple, illustrated instructions (and a tutorial on boxed corners!) -- with the masses. After I read through the directions three times, stepped away for a couple of days, read them again, slept on it, had a strong cup of coffee, and read them again, I felt ready.**

Eight hours later?

Sara's library tote. With a pocket! And a coordinating fabric to line it! I lined something! And just to prove that it all was, indeed, meant to be, the child loves it. LOVES. IT. And it fits her books perfectly -- just big enough that it holds her Stella and Clifford books while still being manageable when full.

Ah, sewing machine. I am still not your match. You have settings I can only dream of using and your bobbin still vexes me. But I'm not through with you yet.

I'll be back.

Yes, I know the Dora undershirt is ridiculously small. I'll let you take it up with her next time she insists on wearing it.

*OK technically, Carmel. Which is counter-intuitive but a fact nonetheless.

**This should in no way imply that Dianne's instructions were inadequate, incomplete or poorly written; instead this should absolutely imply that the reader of said instructions (me) was incompetent.

New love

2009-05-16T13:18:00.003-04:00

A rainy Saturday with a busy three-year-old is always a crap shoot.

But!

Ours has, so far at least, turned out to be a pretty good one -- thanks in no small part to our (newly renewed) effort to get by on the cheap.

Yes, I sense a new series coming: Indy On the Cheap

As for my new love? The new (grossly over-budget, chronically delayed, much maligned) Central Library. I had never been before today, and I must say I'm sorry I waited so long. So many possibilities -- I can't wait! If you are one of the six people left in Central Indiana who hasn't been yet, you should go. Soon.

Now, off for some fresh-baked cookies & then a snore with the Bear. More adventures to follow.... puddle jumping will likely be on the agenda.

Happy Rainy Saturday!

Puddle jumpers

2009-05-15T13:44:00.005-04:00

In a twist that surprises even me, I have come to realize that the thing I love doing more than anything in the world is taking Sara on a walk in search of puddles. Because really, what is better than a three-year-old in rain gear -- pink & purple kitty-cat rubber boots, purple & pink butterfly slicker -- bobbling down the way looking for the perfect splashing opportunity?

Nothing. Nothing is better.

The surprise on her face and the belly laugh that follows when she jumps into a particularly deep & muddy puddle... nothing is better.

The smell of the honeysuckle that hangs heavy in the humidity and the way she wrinkles her nose when she smells the flowers... nothing is better. Nothing.

The time we spend together, talking about nothing and everything while she connects the dots from one little pool to the next... Right. There is simply nothing better.

Thank you, God, for rain and honeysuckle and pink & purple kitty cat boots, and thank you for giving me this girl who is teaching me about all the best things in life, one puddle at a time.

My new goal

2009-05-12T14:48:00.003-04:00

Here is my newest goal/aspiration/fantasy:

That the number of undocumented workers rustling around my property cannot be used as a direct measure for my overall happiness.

I'm just saying.

Bummer (but I can't help it)

2009-05-11T12:09:00.005-04:00

Michael J. Fox: Adventures of an Incurable Optimist - Michael J. Fox
courtesy ABC

I watched a broadcast last week done by Michael J. Fox that looked at the traits of optimists. Fox considers himself to be a hopeless optimist, and given how he is living his life despite what he is up against, I would have to agree.

It was an interesting and hopeful hour, as you would expect. Fox looked at optimists from NYC to Chicago to Bhutan, featruing dairy farmers and actors and baseball fans and some guy handing out free newspapers to New Yorkers. He listened to their stories and perspectives and then visited with researchers who are trying to determine whether optimism is a choice or a product of genetics.

They seem to lean toward genetics. Which is a bummer, because I tend toward pessimism. (Figures.)

The most interesting thing for me, though, was learning that optimists and pessimists tend to benefit from stimuli that feed their disposition -- in other words, an optimist will perform better if bolstered by positive input prior to a task; the pessimist will perform better if fed negative input prior to a task. The reasoning? Evidently pessimists look for problems not just to seek out the negative, but to prepare solutions to those problems.

Which explains why I can look at any given room at any given time and determine eight different ways my kid can kill herself. OK maybe not kill herself -- but at least do permanent damage. (You think I'm kidding? Think again.)

Anyway, I am a little bummed that I seem to be stuck with a pessimistic outlook on life but it's good to know that my brain is always looking for a way around the roadblocks. Of course now I want to read all of Fox's books, but I don't know how I'll begin to do that given all the other stuff I need to work on. Hmmm. I guess I'll just have to find a way...

Not funny ha-ha

2009-05-07T15:03:00.006-04:00

Bodies are funny.

I was looking at the portrait work on a photographer's website today and was suddenly struck by how very odd the human body really is.

It is hard and angled
and
soft and round.

It is soft and smooth
and
stubbly.

It is flabby
and
strong.

It is oily
and
wet
and
dry
and
hairy.

It is always changing.

It is never good enough.

It is the best I've got -- at least in this moment.

Bodies are odd: gangly, bendy, wiggly, bumpy
and
mysterious: autonomic, reflexive, cyclic
yet
beautiful: in the eye of the beholder.

My body limits me
and
enables me.

It allows me to see - hear - smell - taste - feel
the world
and then
remember it.

It gives me life
and
someday will take it away.

No two are alike
and yet
I have just described my body
and
yours.

I hate my body
and
I love it for giving me a child.

Bodies are funny.
Not funny ha-ha
but
curious
compelling
puzzling.

An amazing mystery.

Perhaps I should take better care of it
and
learn to love it after all.

Thinking

2009-05-06T20:35:00.005-04:00

I've been thinking about blogging quite a bit lately. Haven't had much to say, I guess.

Here's what else I've been thinking about:

Kitchen tile
Bathroom tile
Range hoods
Kitchen cabinets
(Are you detecting a theme?)

What I'm good at
Cooking
Writing
Day dreaming
Not much else

Yoga

Sleep
Never enough sleep

My friends
Elaine
Amy
Bill
Mollie
Tricia
Angie
Megan
You (Yes. You.)

Business time
Too tired
(Never enough sleep)

Sara
Keeping her alive
Keeping her happy
Sometimes, mutually exclusive endeavors

Moving
More space
Our own stuff
Lots of windows
A patio
Flowers
Vegetables

Vacationing
Michigan
Maine
Outer Banks
Oregon
Disney (Because... right. It's Disney.)

Breathing

My broken Tab key
(Sara)
(Keeping her alive)

Dreaming big dreams
Gardening
Photography
Friends
Coffee
Rest
Home
Crafting
Cooking
Mothering
Playing

Mom
Dad
(Always)

You
Most definitely, you
I miss you
(Yes. You.)

Are you real sleepy?

2009-05-01T22:32:00.003-04:00

If you are married and tired, you have to see this. Don't ask me how I came upon it. Just watch it.

Happy Easter!

2009-04-12T22:55:00.003-04:00

Ours was an exhausting but lovely day. Hoping yours was, too!

The drought is over

2009-04-09T11:38:00.001-04:00

Have published several updates to the house blog.

Enjoy!
Amy