I don't have colon cancer

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

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.

An attitude of gratitude

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.

First, do no harm

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

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.

When life gives you lemons, go for the club

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.

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

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

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.

Death by awesome

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

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.

Tuesday night wrap-up

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

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.

Pour les oiseaux

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.

Remembering

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.

A letter for Sara

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!

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

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.

10 things -- but really, only one

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.

Rag doll

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.

Just a thimbleful

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.