Coincidence? I think not.

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

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

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:

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

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

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

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.

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.

Happy Father's Day

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

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.

Hang on a second

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

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.

Green (but not the good kind)

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

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

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

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

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