Hands to help and to hold (you)

This morning as Scott was gone to a conference and I had the school routine to myself, I was limping around the house at high speeds in various stages of being dressed, once with a toothbrush in my mouth, once while applying deodorant, another time while moisturizing my skin and simultaneously putting on shoes, all the while supervising the progress of the children in getting ready for school.

“Ack!” I gasped, “what about the lunches?”   Scott had laid some things out for the kid’s lunches, but I hadn’t done anything toward packing them.   I delegated a child to the task.

“Ack!” I gasped again.   “Where are your shoes?”  ”Have you brushed your teeth yet?”   “Why are you still only wearing a shirt?”   The various children scrambled to get it done.

“OH!”  I shouted out of the bedroom door, “You’re going to need jackets today for sure.  Wind and rain.”   I called to my daughter and she rounded them up, even as one child was protesting that their jacket was at school.   “Wear the orange one,” I instructed.  I knew he bore ill will toward the orange one, but it couldn’t be helped.

Backpacks in tow, a banana and a glass of water in hand, we scooted out to the car and made a path to school.   As I stood at the pay and display parking machine, one child was suddenly close to my side, orange jacket on, looking forlorn.  ”I don’t have my bag,” he said.   He didn’t.

“Can you do your school work without the things in your bag?”

He looked beyond tormented by the lack of his school bag.  He pleaded, but without much heart, “Will you get it?  Will you help me?”  He knows I am a proponent of natural consequences and little believed I’d drive home for the bag.

For once, I am fully ready to exercise after dropping the kids to school.   I had a planned day, an agenda.   Backpack retrieval wasn’t on it.  I looked at my shoes, ready to take me places and help me keep healthy, and I absentmindedly spoke aloud.  ”I was going to walk,” I said.

“Poor Mommy,”  piped up a sympathetic little voice.   No, I thought, silently this time,  it would be poor Mommy if I didn’t help the child, if I didn’t do what I could to take unnecessary stress out of his day.

“I will get it for you,” I promised him with a kiss on the cheek and smoothed his strong-willed hair.

Hours later, when it was both dark and night time, the children piled up on our bed to watch a never before seen episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.   I sat on the edge and reached for them each.  They wrapped their arms around me.   “Lay in my lap,” instructed my little girl.  ”I’d squash you, honey” I told her.  No, she insisted, lay here.  So, I tried to lay there.  She wrapped her arms and hands around my head and shoulders and held me to her chest.  I could hear her heart beating.  She was very still.

“Am I hurting you?”  I was anxious to know.

“No,” she said, smiling at me peacefully.   “I like this a lot.”

And I thought to myself that it has only been a moment since I had helpless babes –  and now the hands of my children help and hold me as well.

How beautiful.

 

A sure sign

It’s nearly four weeks since I sprained my ankle and it still hurts and I still limp.  It’s been almost four weeks that I’ve tried to curtail physical activity that involves my foot (um, you tell me!) and therefore have sat rather still and tried to do productive things.   What that means practically is that my house is a project disaster.  As in, productive activity = projects.

To my left . . . a salt shaker, jewelry from 3 different days, an empty pack of Big Red, my little Lumix, the USB cable for the Lumix, two pens, a package of Peanut Butter and Milk Chocolate Morsels, a package of Ginger Nut biscuits, a box of photos dated mostly from 1990 to 1993, a box of matches, a list of quotes, a hanging calendar opened to November and laying flat, and a tiny picture of “Tony” from the game Guess Who.  G thinks Tony looks both like a baby and an old man.

I do also have a caffeine free Diet Coke.  I’ve already had two cups of tea at bible study.

To my right . . . a mound of office things that have been displaced by some room changes, a container of Haribo Christmas Sweets, a pink scarf, a measuring tape, a box of photos dated from 1994 to December 1999, my Bible and Community Bible Study guide, and a headless Power Ranger.  Oh, and not to forget the scrapbook.

Before I could get any of this assortment tucked away somewhere, life picked up pace and I had to go limping out of the house and out into the world to do things that must be done.  And then, an assortment of clothing began to accumulate at the end of my bed.  Outfits worn, outfits hoped to be worn, coats, scarves . . . . train tickets, books, notes to self, and a container of first aid items recently displaced by room changes.

On the coffee table in the living room – memorabilia organized, stacked, and some of it pasted nicely into a book.  A butternut squash is in the kitchen waiting to be cooked.  Laundry that is washed and in various stages of being folded is in the dining room.   A huge gentleman’s chest is in the hallway, blocking passage and also blocking heat coming from the radiator.   I think it is traveling from one room to another but has become disoriented.

And life marches on.  Meetings, obligations, shopping, school runs and activities, play dates . . . and all of it, and I do mean all of it, is piling up around my shoulders.  So I sit here in my head to toe fleece, writing, because I do that, but not very often anymore.  There is too much.

Tomorrow I must undrown my plants.  The flowers are swimming in their boggy outdoor pots due to rain and rain and rain.     See what I mean?

 

POSTSCRIPT:

I’ve been told (and suspect it is true) that we (that’s us, the Five) appear to have it “together” at times.   If that were true, would this be an example?

 

Coming up short

It all began when we decided to give each boy his own room.   There is too much chaos with the two in one room, though there are moments when things seem okay.  Mostly, the mixture of oil and water is just not good and in an effort to promote peace in the house, we decided to try a little upheaval.

The contents of the bedroom-to-be included everything that you’d find in a home office, a large selection of Mom’s clothes and shoes, all the family photographs, and everything that is spare, including medicines, toiletries, candles, etc.   I began with clothes.

Once my clothes were out of one location and distributed to other locations, I realized these clothes were causing me more sorrow than joy.  Sizes I can’t wear, items that I suspect are out of style, shoes that have seen their better days.  I had clothes stored in 3 out of 4 bedrooms.  I needed help.

I texted my friend Alison and she came to the rescue.  The culling began and I realized I was very anxious about it.  Poor Alison.  Which reminded me of poor Sheree who helped me ditch parts of my wardrobe one sunny June day not so long ago.  What is is about the clothes that bring out emotion?  I found myself offering explanations, as if I needed to declare the history and relationship with each piece.  Okay, not EACH one.  But plenty of them.   I realize I like to defend the quality of certain garments and inevitably will cite the brand.  ”But it’s Calvin Klein!” I implore, to the bemusement of both Sheree and Alison.  I am such a child with my clothes.  ”But it fits!  I am hard to fit,” I offer.   But do I wear it?  No.  Will I?  Not sure, probably not.  But maybe.

Thankfully, Scott intervened with a plate of cheese and crackers and fruit.  We energized and went on.

I learned some valuable things, and not all of them yesterday.  One, I have tended buy things I don’t JUST LOVE.  That is my new criteria for purchases.  No matter how cheap (I am a bargain shopper in my inner soul), no matter how well-made, I will not purchase that which I do not JUST LOVE.   Two, I learned  some critical differences in Irish fashion and Alabama fashion.  These, I will list:

• There is no mid length trouser i.e. capri or cropped trouser in Ireland.  If I wear these, they will shout “Look at the American!!!”  It’s too cold to wear them anyway.  Ali slipped them on and showed me some things about them.  I might never wear them again, even in Alabama.
• Some fabrics that are currently sold in U.S. stores are pretty much not sold in Ireland, which makes the garment look . . . suspicious, to say the least.
• There is a more modern look to trousers, but I don’t have a clue what it is.   I don’t have any of them.
• In Alabama, I might be “dressed up” if I wore jeans and a sweater.  Here, that would be very casual.  What is “dressed” for me?   I’m not sure .

So now there are bags and bags to go to the charity shop and there’s considerably more space in all of our closets/wardrobes.  And I feel like I’ve never had the first idea about how to dress myself, at least not in Ireland.  While it’s been said women dress more casually here, I find the reverse to be true . . . .it wouldn’t be rare to see a mom pushing a baby buggy, just out for a walk, in her tall boots, skirt, top (not knit, not a sweater), cardigan and coat.  And hat and scarf.  That’s an outfit for going nowhere special.

Now, here I am.  In a different season of life, because I’ve aged.  In a different climate, country, and culture.  Feeling like a fashion dork.  No, worse,  feeling naked.  Metaphorically so, Alison rightly pointed out.  I’m a blank Slate, feeling a little sad, a little lost.

 

 

 

Sitting still

The H1N1 had just begun to fade away from our house and I woke up feeling good . . . em, the other morning.   I’d know when it was, but the days are all blending together again.  But before they blended . . .

We have some friends that are moving from Ireland back to Australia.   Having recently packed a container, or so it seems, we decided we’d love to help.  Not solely because we were “in practice,” but because we think a lot of this family and want to show them that we care about them, even as they are leaving.  So, on my first discernible day of feeling well, we drove down to help and it was exciting.  Exciting to be out of the house, exciting to be serving or helping in some way – just exciting. 

There might have been an hour of excitement before I sprained my ankle like a big bozo.  It smarted.  It throbbed.  But I wasn’t having any of it, no injuries, thanks very much.  So we kept on going and I hobbled and helped.   Yes, I’m that kind of stubborn.   Besides, my joy at being useful after a long bout with illness could not be contained and I had to express it with packing tape and bubblewrap, with disinfectant and hot water, and with organized piles of belongings. 

That night, satisfied at having been out and about and useful, I sat down.  And I didn’t get up.  Much, if at all, for a long while.  Foot iced and elevated.  Sitting, sitting, sitting.  Again.   I read the Argos catalogue and attempted some Sodoku.  I watched some subtitles French films.  I realized that I was getting a massive head cold to go with my sad ankle.  One box of tissue – gone.    And I sit.  Except for the occasional trip to the laundry room to tend to a garment cleaning emergency.   This is the extent of my usefulness.

Although, I did venture out one very rainy, windy morning to work the school shop and to have a conference with the kid’s teacher.  We ventured all the way to the next estate down the road, where we realized we had a flat tire.  Ventured back to our street and begged a lift (limping, in the rain) from a kind neighbor.  Arrived at school and asked for a little something to keep me busy.  And now, I have a stack of books and a roll of heavy duty contact paper and the useful duty of covering books for the classroom.  

Who says sitting still isn’t useful?

 

sharing places

It was disappointing.  Disconcerting.  Heck, if my stress dreams are any indication of how I’m really feeling, I’d say it was even frightening.  If I’m being forced to walk barefooted in hospitals and public toilets in my dreams, how vulnerable must I feel, deep, deep down?

We have a limited support network here in Ireland.  Firstly, there are only so many people that we know.  Secondly, there are only so many people that we know very well and that know us very well. Truthfully, I’m not positive anyone knows us really well.  How could they?  No family, no childhood friends, no one that knows not only who we used to be, but who we have become as well.  It takes time, much time, to build those relationships.

When I’m down, not sad, but truly knocked down and discouraged . . . there are just a few people with whom I feel I could trust with my heart.   I try not to be stupid and unguarded with my heart, but if I am to have relationships of any depth, I have to be willing to share my pain and my joys.  Just bits at a time, not sharing more than is wanted or welcome.

Recently, in a single day, I discovered both where I had been stupid and where I had been wise.

There was no reason to feel unsafe.  This person was always inviting me to share my feelings and opinions and was equally always free in sharing feelings and opinions.  We have similar values, and while we are definitely in different stages of life, mutual respect has always been part of the relationship.  So, I’m trusting.  I’m expressing.  I’m listening . . . but then, suddenly, I’m hearing a snide bullet of a statement whiz past my left ear.  What?  What did you say?  The statement was repeated for me.  I must have dozed off.  What were we talking about?   Frantically, I tried to mentally retrace the words that led up to that moment.  More things were being said, but all I could do was sit and process.  Why?  The words, the timing – didn’t make sense.  Intuition pieced together words that had bothered me, yet hadn’t made sense.  It dawned on me . . . displeasure was being expressed, but in a shootin-round-the-corner fashion, passive-aggressive retaliation-style.   And to my horror, I realized that this person had just crossed over a boundary line that I hadn’t imagined I’d need to guard.  The stupid part is that I hadn’t imagined it.  The unfortunate part is that I do feel more vulnerable than I did even a week ago, when I thought I felt vulnerable enough, thank you very much.

At the end of the day, I was in the company of  a different person when the hurt began to tumble out of me.  Not hurt from one boundary violation, but pain from a million little things.  At least five of which I can name.  And recently stung, I thought, “use caution, use caution.”  But I so needed to connect from the heart with another human.  This is life.  Risk and benefits weighed, I shared and I trusted.

A beautiful thing happened, though.  She heard me.  She saw me, who I am, not just my pain or my circumstance.  Isn’t that all that we want, to be seen, to be known, to be understood?  We want from people what only God can do, but occasionally, I believe God gives insight to people the sake of others.  People who can see who someone was created to be, looking only at the glory within.  And for a while, it was so good to be loved and encouraged and affirming to know that at least in that moment, there was a safe place to share my heart.

 

If you do not breathe

Lately, I’ve had something that I would not call writer’s block.  Maybe it is.  But I’m thinking it’s more that I’d rather not say something than not to say it well.  Most days, all my creative energy is dried up in the scorching heat of tending to all things immediate.  One fire put out, another one starts blazing.   And at the end of the day, which is often when I sit down to write a post, any little buds of inspiration are burnt, brown, and unblooming.

But I wonder if being creative is really the point.  Having recently taken an interest in how and why writers write, I’ve been reading bits and pieces by Anais Nin.  She wrote that a writer’s role is not “to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.”  She also wrote that if in writing, we do not breathe, cry out, or sing, then forget about writing, “because our culture has no use for it.”  It’s embarrassing to say that I am a writer, because I find my words too simple, too lacking in expression, with a variety of  thoughts expressed in similar ways when they deserve unique arrangements of words to capture them perfectly.  That puts me in the category of saying what we all can say, and by Nin’s standards, I’d do well to keep quiet.  So I do, often, say nothing.  And in saying nothing, I feel that I’ve not taken breath, I’ve not cried out, and I’ve not sung.  The unspent expression forms a lump in my throat.

So, for the record, I’m in need of a good cry and a good, long session of expression.  You may have no use for it.  I suppose I could write it in a journal, adding to the number of journals I own with unfaithful, sporadic entries, but wordpress is where consistency happens.  If you need to look the other way, pardon me while I breathe and cry, and on a good day, sing.  I’m unleashed.

 

Tuesday, the birthday

Tomorrow, friend-party number one.

 

The weight of ten

Tomorrow we roll around to the 10th anniversary of the twins’ birth, also known as their birthday.    I never realized until I was a mother that it’s my day as well, but in a different way.   In fact, it nearly seems the mother’s day.  Maybe that’s why we celebrate mother’s day.   So we won’t get all tangled up in the kid’s birthdays, remembering the day we learned of the pregnancy, the highs and lows of the entire period of gestation, and ultimately, the moment the little one (or ones, in this case) launched first cries in a private world debut.   That kind of reminiscing would surely put a damper on birthday party karaoke and be totally uncool if mentioned in the car in front of the friends on the way to the cinema.  But I want to remember.

This tenth birthday carries a certain weight with it.   Perhaps it is because I see them leaving some of the childish ways behind already and the double digits simply confirm that it is not my imagination – I am giving up all notions that I have little ones anymore.   No more Itsy Bitsy Spider with chubby hands mimicking the spider’s climb up the spout, no more sun drying out all the rain in a grand gesture made by enthusiastic, albeit, short little arms.  No more repeated readings of favorite board books, no more Dora the Explorer, and no more gentle love affairs with Jessie and Woody from Toy Story.  No more approximated words like “pizzit” for pizza and “figilator” for refrigerator.   No more pumpkin patches, kiddie rides, or training wheels.   But I’ve known this for a while.  Only, I’ve not been forced to celebrate it in a birthday starring two numbers, One and Zero.

Tonight, as my daughter lay crying in bed, unable to sleep, and therefore, crying about it, I empathized.   I am unable to keep her young and yet, she must keep aging to live.  There are some things we can do nothing about, and it hurts.

But being the mom, because I am still the mom, I put on her favorite piano lullaby cd and scoot her over to make room for me in her bed.

“You want me to rub your back?” I ask.

“Un-huh,” she says, snuggling into me.

Smoothing her wavy brown hair to the side, I begin to stroke her head, my hand running over the blonde highlights I can see even in the darkness.   I rub her back, side to side, and then, up and down, gently, and I say “Shhh.  Everything’s fine.  You’re going to be fine.”  And as I make more shushing sounds and her tears subside, she begins to breathe more deeply, regularly.  The  little bit of her neck that is exposed is soft, as soft as it ever has been.  The music is soft, too, tinkling piano, familiar songs from childhood.  And my tears come with The Itsy Bitsy Spider and then more with Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Sleep, Baby, Sleep.  Grief comes and I know it is grief because it is a harsh pain that wells up from deep inside, uninvited.  My baby is gone, and she has been replaced with this lovely young girl.  How ridiculous that this should hurt, how surprising my own tears that no one can shush away.

Tomorrow, we will have cake and open presents and parties will follow later in the week. And I will learn what it means to deal with these growing pains.

 

Value

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art . . . It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival. C. S.  Lewis

 

I’m not having it

We are not having the swine flu, no, we are not.  Instead, we are having the H1N1 A virus.  For sure.  Three out of Five and a possible Fourth is starting up with the coughing and a bit of a temp.  I can’t make this go away, but I’m NOT having swine flu.

Poor E.   Trapped in her room – okay, the word is “quarantined” – for six days and we let her out on the seventh with the stipulation that she’d not cough and spew virus.  She’s desperate to go to school, to see people.   I get that.  Completely.

We get up and work in little recovery bursts to get dishes and clothes washed.   You know you’ve been sick a long time when you are happy to have the stamina to wash all the dishes in one go.  Yeah, that’s the kind of happy we are.   And I bought something, yes, something I needed, off an infomercial.   A first.   Another sign this caged bird needs to fly.

So, we’re waiting it out.   With vast disbelief that the thermometer still indicates anything above 99.   Still?!  Yes, still.  Thermometer in the ear, out, disbelief.  Tylenol or Ibuprofen.  In the ear, out, disbelief.   Hopefully, we’ll be sending one child off to school tomorrow.  And it looks like we are exchanging a newly well child for a sick one.   I don’t think I can do the math to see just how long we could live with this thing potentially.

But wah wah wah.  Things could be much, much worse.  It could be swine flu.

And it is October and there was sun today.  My flowers are colorful and mostly happy.   I’m catching up on my reading and my Grey’s and gasp, 30 Rock is on – gotta go!

xxoo