Monday, July 28, 2008
Coming Up Short
I am short on inspiration, short on time, short on energy. I hope to be back and running soon.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Grasping
I loved how we grasped hands like old girlfriends every time I visited her.
I loved how we chatted and chatted, mostly about the same things as the week before, because of her dementia. It is not like I was pretending to be interested each time, but I actually was interested because of her way of telling the stories.
All the while, grasping my hands tight within hers.
When I visited this past Sunday, she was near death, I could tell. I sat near her bed and read some of my favorite psalms for a while before I noticed that her left hand was raised in the air. It was my turn to grasp that hand, to hold it to my face, and kiss it goodbye.
This morning she died. I woke up at 3 am, my hands were asleep and not functioning. As I tried to restore blood flow to them, I remembered how my husband and I spent substantial time giving each other hand massages last night with an olive oil balm. While I was rubbing his hands, I realized how much I love hands, how much I study hands.
Are we not all, just existing, just waiting to be touched by a hand, a word, a sound?
So touch.
This is the world of the living. Grasping and letting go. If you are not doing it every day of your life, you have no business here.
I loved how we chatted and chatted, mostly about the same things as the week before, because of her dementia. It is not like I was pretending to be interested each time, but I actually was interested because of her way of telling the stories.
All the while, grasping my hands tight within hers.
When I visited this past Sunday, she was near death, I could tell. I sat near her bed and read some of my favorite psalms for a while before I noticed that her left hand was raised in the air. It was my turn to grasp that hand, to hold it to my face, and kiss it goodbye.
This morning she died. I woke up at 3 am, my hands were asleep and not functioning. As I tried to restore blood flow to them, I remembered how my husband and I spent substantial time giving each other hand massages last night with an olive oil balm. While I was rubbing his hands, I realized how much I love hands, how much I study hands.
Are we not all, just existing, just waiting to be touched by a hand, a word, a sound?
So touch.
This is the world of the living. Grasping and letting go. If you are not doing it every day of your life, you have no business here.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Different sides of the same war
Some days being a mom is only half the challenge, and the other half is dealing with your husband.
I am so grateful to have one when he is around to help and support me, especially now, because many days he is out of town for work. When a husband and wife insert a child in their life, funny things happen, one of which being that THE HUSBAND ACTUALLY HAS THE NERVE TO QUESTION THE MOM. THE FULL TIME MOM.
"Did you change her diaper today"
"Has she eaten today?"
"She is so dirty, when was her last bath?"
"Have you seen this diaper rash? How could you have not seen this diaper rash?"
Those are just some of my favorites. My husband and I have learned to deal with these miscommunications little by little, but I have to share a funny one from a friend.
After she, the MOM, put her 1 1/2 year old boy to bed, the DAD heard some unusual chattiness over the baby monitor. When DAD went to check him, the little chatter box was standing at the door waiting for him, having completed his first Olympic out-of-the-crib dismount. In this case, the DAD's first reaction was to suggest that the MOM forgot to put boy in his crib while putting him to bed.
I hope my friend does not mind that I shared this. It captures the point I am trying to make about how parents fumble around so much with this child rearing thing, that we start to think with the rationalization skills of a toddler. In this case, the little boy did not get hurt, like so many children on their first attempt at crib climbing. Perfect story: a good laugh and no one hurt. Except DAD may have been punched by MOM.
I am so grateful to have one when he is around to help and support me, especially now, because many days he is out of town for work. When a husband and wife insert a child in their life, funny things happen, one of which being that THE HUSBAND ACTUALLY HAS THE NERVE TO QUESTION THE MOM. THE FULL TIME MOM.
"Did you change her diaper today"
"Has she eaten today?"
"She is so dirty, when was her last bath?"
"Have you seen this diaper rash? How could you have not seen this diaper rash?"
Those are just some of my favorites. My husband and I have learned to deal with these miscommunications little by little, but I have to share a funny one from a friend.
After she, the MOM, put her 1 1/2 year old boy to bed, the DAD heard some unusual chattiness over the baby monitor. When DAD went to check him, the little chatter box was standing at the door waiting for him, having completed his first Olympic out-of-the-crib dismount. In this case, the DAD's first reaction was to suggest that the MOM forgot to put boy in his crib while putting him to bed.
I hope my friend does not mind that I shared this. It captures the point I am trying to make about how parents fumble around so much with this child rearing thing, that we start to think with the rationalization skills of a toddler. In this case, the little boy did not get hurt, like so many children on their first attempt at crib climbing. Perfect story: a good laugh and no one hurt. Except DAD may have been punched by MOM.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Dear Rose,
I forget that you are watching until you comment on my blog every now and then. When you do, I get all jumpy and teary, remembering you.
Rose is not your name, in the same way mine is not May. Not our names, but really our names. Our coming of age names, I suppose.
You were a friend that never took too much. Now that I am an adult, I see how rare and how precious this is. In fact, when we were together, our conversation did not dwell in the chaos of our adolescent personal lives. We did not spend hours on the phone talking about boys, or how much we hated certain teachers, or even the turmoil that happened in our own homes.
We had more important things to do. There were all of those hours standing in the stacks of bookstores, saying, "Ohhhh...look at THIS ONE. I need this one." There were the times we read poetry in the back of a van by flashlight or in a deserted boat garage. We decided that grey was the only color that really mattered. I still think we were right on that one. You would notice when I was upset, not ask why, but grab my hand. Often. I tried to do the same.
Most importantly, we sought and found God. Together, through our friendship, we found the essence of God. No matter how many times the world around us fell apart and built up again, we never changed, we were always just there, watching each other and waiting to step in when it was time.
I miss you, and knowing that you are watching makes me feel so much better, it actually brings me to this keyboard even when my inspiration is dry. See, that is God.
Love,
May
Rose is not your name, in the same way mine is not May. Not our names, but really our names. Our coming of age names, I suppose.
You were a friend that never took too much. Now that I am an adult, I see how rare and how precious this is. In fact, when we were together, our conversation did not dwell in the chaos of our adolescent personal lives. We did not spend hours on the phone talking about boys, or how much we hated certain teachers, or even the turmoil that happened in our own homes.
We had more important things to do. There were all of those hours standing in the stacks of bookstores, saying, "Ohhhh...look at THIS ONE. I need this one." There were the times we read poetry in the back of a van by flashlight or in a deserted boat garage. We decided that grey was the only color that really mattered. I still think we were right on that one. You would notice when I was upset, not ask why, but grab my hand. Often. I tried to do the same.
Most importantly, we sought and found God. Together, through our friendship, we found the essence of God. No matter how many times the world around us fell apart and built up again, we never changed, we were always just there, watching each other and waiting to step in when it was time.
I miss you, and knowing that you are watching makes me feel so much better, it actually brings me to this keyboard even when my inspiration is dry. See, that is God.
Love,
May
Monday, July 14, 2008
When someone knows you...
...better than you know yourself, it can get scary. My friend Meredith graced the Midwest and my family with a visit from her home in New York City this past weekend.
At one point we were driving and talking about music. I was telling her about a group that I love, Dashboard Confessional, and how for some reason the lead singer stirs me up in emotional and physical ways that should not even be described. Don't worry, my husband knows all of this and rolls his eyes every time we are listening to or talking about Dashboard Confessional. I was telling Meredith that I had no idea why I felt this way about this man, because he is not particularly attractive and is probably a celebrity jerk.
This is when Meredith turned to me and said, "Uh. Because he looks like M.W. from high school."
She nailed that one so hard that my mouth fell open. This boy from high school was dark and mysterious, beautiful and quiet, and had me running in adolescent circles for three years. In fact, we even went on a date and he asked me out for a second date. I declined. Standing within two feet of this boy gave me every heart attack symptom in the book, even at age 16. This was a good choice, but I did continue to worship him from afar for the remainder of high school. I'd like to hear a psychological analysis of that one.
As an aside, all of my friends from high school who read this blog are laughing, I know. There was not a person who did not know how M.W. crazy I was.
So, thanks Meredith for helping me figure me out. Again.
At one point we were driving and talking about music. I was telling her about a group that I love, Dashboard Confessional, and how for some reason the lead singer stirs me up in emotional and physical ways that should not even be described. Don't worry, my husband knows all of this and rolls his eyes every time we are listening to or talking about Dashboard Confessional. I was telling Meredith that I had no idea why I felt this way about this man, because he is not particularly attractive and is probably a celebrity jerk.
This is when Meredith turned to me and said, "Uh. Because he looks like M.W. from high school."
She nailed that one so hard that my mouth fell open. This boy from high school was dark and mysterious, beautiful and quiet, and had me running in adolescent circles for three years. In fact, we even went on a date and he asked me out for a second date. I declined. Standing within two feet of this boy gave me every heart attack symptom in the book, even at age 16. This was a good choice, but I did continue to worship him from afar for the remainder of high school. I'd like to hear a psychological analysis of that one.
As an aside, all of my friends from high school who read this blog are laughing, I know. There was not a person who did not know how M.W. crazy I was.
So, thanks Meredith for helping me figure me out. Again.
Friday, July 11, 2008
No...Now
Yesterday was Sophia's 2-year well visit to the doctor. She has a memory better than any computer I own, so as soon as I started driving in the direction of the doctor's office she started crying and screaming, "no! no! no doctor now!"
The waiting room was a back and fourth attempt of crying and trying to calm herself down. When the nurse opened THE DOOR, you know, the one to the examination rooms, Sophia wailed again, but this time with a "hiiiiiiii, thank you" embedded in the scream.
After the very "scary" experience of getting her height and weight measured, we had to endure more waiting. I held her quietly in my lap and rocked her while she let out tiny, breathless sobs. I knew better than to soothe her with words, that any phrase involving doctor or almost done or go home soon would send her spiraling into five minutes of inconsolable tears. Instead I quietly kissed each lingering tear on her face, and kept rocking as looked around the examination room. There are family photos of most of the doctors in all of the rooms, and for some reason people who get M.D.s feel the need to super-breed, so each photo included at least, at least, three small children. This made me, Mom, cry.
The tears came from that stupid place inside of me that feels I can never be enough for Sophia. My husband. My parents. My sister. My friends. Sophia will most likely be deprived of a sibling because of this inadequacy, which made me cry a little more. Our family photos will not be that, shall we say, abundant with people.
I pulled it together just in time for the doctor to come in and just in time for Sophia to lose it again. The examination went great, she is advanced in height, intelligence and has no life-threatening diseases. I decided that this is what I should be focusing on...my gratitude, not my shortcomings. Sophia talked a lot again through her tears, "no steescope now," or "no bellybutton now" or "mommy's turn now" or "no ears now."
As the doctor was filling out her paperwork, she looked up at me and said, "on this form there is a box to check for impending sibling, am I to leave that blank this time?" She asked as more of a joke, considering she recently gave birth to her fourth and fifth child, and was telling me that she was tired, tired, tired. But I had a hard time taking the joke, and smiled as my eyes filled with tears. "No...now," was all I could say.
The waiting room was a back and fourth attempt of crying and trying to calm herself down. When the nurse opened THE DOOR, you know, the one to the examination rooms, Sophia wailed again, but this time with a "hiiiiiiii, thank you" embedded in the scream.
After the very "scary" experience of getting her height and weight measured, we had to endure more waiting. I held her quietly in my lap and rocked her while she let out tiny, breathless sobs. I knew better than to soothe her with words, that any phrase involving doctor or almost done or go home soon would send her spiraling into five minutes of inconsolable tears. Instead I quietly kissed each lingering tear on her face, and kept rocking as looked around the examination room. There are family photos of most of the doctors in all of the rooms, and for some reason people who get M.D.s feel the need to super-breed, so each photo included at least, at least, three small children. This made me, Mom, cry.
The tears came from that stupid place inside of me that feels I can never be enough for Sophia. My husband. My parents. My sister. My friends. Sophia will most likely be deprived of a sibling because of this inadequacy, which made me cry a little more. Our family photos will not be that, shall we say, abundant with people.
I pulled it together just in time for the doctor to come in and just in time for Sophia to lose it again. The examination went great, she is advanced in height, intelligence and has no life-threatening diseases. I decided that this is what I should be focusing on...my gratitude, not my shortcomings. Sophia talked a lot again through her tears, "no steescope now," or "no bellybutton now" or "mommy's turn now" or "no ears now."
As the doctor was filling out her paperwork, she looked up at me and said, "on this form there is a box to check for impending sibling, am I to leave that blank this time?" She asked as more of a joke, considering she recently gave birth to her fourth and fifth child, and was telling me that she was tired, tired, tired. But I had a hard time taking the joke, and smiled as my eyes filled with tears. "No...now," was all I could say.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Emerge
I stand over my vegetable garden a lot this time of year. It is early July, and in Cleveland, this is when the tiny, wispy flowers that hang upside down on these plants start to wither. In the world of vegetables this event is just like waiting for some tall, female news anchor to announce the lottery numbers that you played because, oh, I don't know, you just felt lucky that day.
There was not much hope for this garden of mine a few weeks ago. We are trying to sell our house, so my heart just was not in the planting and care that was needed in the beginning. I kept thinking that the person who would eventually buy my house for a steal would also inherit the nearness of my friends and family, AND get to taste my heirloom tomatoes. This was all too much to bear, and I let the garden get weedy and buggy, as a way of shaking my fist at the Universe. The Universe must have gotten a chuckle out of my virtual fist shaking and thought, look, I just give what I give, you can love it, hate it, complain about it, or change it...but into your hands I placed something precious. Choice.
Well, the house is not selling soon it seems, so my husband transformed that jungle into a neat square of emerging vegetables. Now we wait. When those tiny flowers finally give up and turn to fruit, it is hard to ignore how you fundamentally feel about the world. As if you are a guest that is crashing some fabulous celebration where yes, the other guests get unruly now and then, and the conversation and noise can exhaust you, but there is no escape. Realize this, and take some time to taste the joy that is constantly put in front of you.
There was not much hope for this garden of mine a few weeks ago. We are trying to sell our house, so my heart just was not in the planting and care that was needed in the beginning. I kept thinking that the person who would eventually buy my house for a steal would also inherit the nearness of my friends and family, AND get to taste my heirloom tomatoes. This was all too much to bear, and I let the garden get weedy and buggy, as a way of shaking my fist at the Universe. The Universe must have gotten a chuckle out of my virtual fist shaking and thought, look, I just give what I give, you can love it, hate it, complain about it, or change it...but into your hands I placed something precious. Choice.
Well, the house is not selling soon it seems, so my husband transformed that jungle into a neat square of emerging vegetables. Now we wait. When those tiny flowers finally give up and turn to fruit, it is hard to ignore how you fundamentally feel about the world. As if you are a guest that is crashing some fabulous celebration where yes, the other guests get unruly now and then, and the conversation and noise can exhaust you, but there is no escape. Realize this, and take some time to taste the joy that is constantly put in front of you.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Post-Vacation
On the entire drive down to Myrtle Beach, I felt like the miles and the hours were flying by, I had so much head noise to amuse myself, I hardly noticed we drove for 12 hours with a toddler.
On the way back, the head noise was gone, and the drive seemed longer. This was either due to the fact that I stepped out of the day-by-day for a few days or the massive consumption of Vodka, starting at 11am, on the beach for the last week.
If I am honest with myself, which I try not to be too often, I think I can figure out the real reason why the drive seemed so tedious. I was driving away from a rare blessing of my extended family gathering to see each other in a circumstance that was not a wedding or a funeral. We just wanted to meet, spend time and laugh. We did.
Every day as we sat in a circle on the beach, I realized that I was not unique. I am made up of a conglomeration of genetics and history that I share with my Mom, Dad, Sister, Aunt, Uncle and three first cousins. My cousin Kate and I have the same feet and shy observation skills, and we have both suffered for those things. My cousin Jon has this nerdy love for science, exactly like mine, which we inherited from my Dad. Andrew is a cousin that is almost exactly my age, and somehow he and I know how listen to more than one conversation at once. I didn't know that there was a male on earth that could do this. As I watched him, I knew he could and was doing it often.
I love making new memories. That is all there really is to do in life, everything else has proved overrated.
Our whole family is transitioning. People are getting married, people are breeding and people are dying. This is always going to be the case. Change is like a windstorm that lets up just long enough for you to look around and realize what you need to grab on to for dear life. What is the strongest and cannot waver? The people who share your genes and your history are impossible to let go.
On the way back, the head noise was gone, and the drive seemed longer. This was either due to the fact that I stepped out of the day-by-day for a few days or the massive consumption of Vodka, starting at 11am, on the beach for the last week.
If I am honest with myself, which I try not to be too often, I think I can figure out the real reason why the drive seemed so tedious. I was driving away from a rare blessing of my extended family gathering to see each other in a circumstance that was not a wedding or a funeral. We just wanted to meet, spend time and laugh. We did.
Every day as we sat in a circle on the beach, I realized that I was not unique. I am made up of a conglomeration of genetics and history that I share with my Mom, Dad, Sister, Aunt, Uncle and three first cousins. My cousin Kate and I have the same feet and shy observation skills, and we have both suffered for those things. My cousin Jon has this nerdy love for science, exactly like mine, which we inherited from my Dad. Andrew is a cousin that is almost exactly my age, and somehow he and I know how listen to more than one conversation at once. I didn't know that there was a male on earth that could do this. As I watched him, I knew he could and was doing it often.
I love making new memories. That is all there really is to do in life, everything else has proved overrated.
Our whole family is transitioning. People are getting married, people are breeding and people are dying. This is always going to be the case. Change is like a windstorm that lets up just long enough for you to look around and realize what you need to grab on to for dear life. What is the strongest and cannot waver? The people who share your genes and your history are impossible to let go.
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