Month: August 2013

Gangly Legs and Crimped Hair

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It’s a flat of springs, a weave of cotton, a puff of air, a bubble of water. Sometimes it folds, deflates, or falls out of a wall.  

Ours is burnt orange and taupe, can be digitally changed for comfort, and is the heart of our home. 

Our bed.

Reign in your immaturity for a second and I’ll tell you why I love it.

It was the place I landed as a teenager, all gangly legs and crimped hair, talking with my mom. My mind would wander in as many directions as the stitching on her outdated comforter while she answered my deepest question: Am I worth your time?

It was where I’d hide when moonlight hit the side of my dresser, void of the outline of branches and I couldn’t escape the feeling that something was certainly coming through the window for me.

It’s what cradled my fevering, aching body, and what I rioted against during my toddler years.

And it’s just as valuable to me now.

It got me through three pregnancies.

It is a trampoline when I’m not looking.

It’s where our family assembles into a pile of arms and legs and stuffed animal friends that get us through the night, to embark on a handful of adventures before bedtime.

It’s the place my daughter tells me, with jagged trails of tears on her cheeks, of the shame she’s been carrying over how she treated some of her friends last year in school.

It’s where my son comes face to face with me on his daddy’s pillow and I remember that it wasn’t so long ago he was sucking his thumb.

Tonight it’s the place where delicate pigtail curls hover over sun-grazed shoulders, where a sequence of high and low-pitched voices dripping with childhood are followed by screaming laughs. It’s where there is an unending performance of somersaults, and tickling that will make you lose your breath.

It’s where the only kid at home is queen, and I don’t want this night to end.

 

“When did I stop thinking life was dessert?”

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Chapter four of Miss Voskamp’s life story is about food, and she is speaking my language.

“When did I stop thinking life was dessert?”

“It takes a full twenty minutes after your stomach is full for your brain to register satiation. How long does it take your soul to realize that your life is full? The slower the living, the greater the sense of fullness and satisfaction. The body and soul can synchronize.”

“Life is dessert- too brief to hurry.”

                                                                                              -Ann Voskamp 

“It’s more like walking around after you’ve had your eyes dilated.” (Two Parts)

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“Oh, it’s a fluffy novel,” I said to the man who’d gotten me to pull my face up. With a cup of sugar and cream, and a little coffee I had been waiting for my friend to slide into the booth with me. While I waited, I read. Mindlessly. Until I was interrupted.

His skin was as richly dark as the cocoa he kept with him, which he almost forgot.
“You’ll need this for tomorrow,” the waitress said with familiarity.
“Thank you.” And he turned to me. “Now this, this is my chocolate on one side and cinnamon on the other.”
A regular. A man with plenty of time and a keen sense of down-home, old-fashioned, save-your-soul food. I liked him already.

“I just read a great book called The Historian,” he said beneath the weight of his book bag. “It was on the bestseller list.” 

“Oh OK. I’ll have to check it out. So what do you do? Do you write or work while you’re here?” 

“Yeah I write. I learned when I was about eight or nine.” 

Huh. Retired, and losing it. But then he laughed.

“I’m kidding. No I just ride my bike and come here every morning to read. And I ride my bike. (He said it twice, which for some reason I need to note. It’s part of how he charmed me.) Sometimes I mow. What do you do?”

“Well I have three kids-” 

“You? You have three kids? I thought you were in high school.” 

Mr. Rudy, my new friend, I love you.    

*

That’s what I planned to write today. And though I love it, I need to get brutally honest. It is the best writing, isn’t it? The kind that’s actually relatable. Not to say that cute, retired men in hole-in-the-wall restaurants aren’t relatable. But it’s not what is really in me.

How do I say it? How do I start? These are the words that I penned in blue at the top of my journal this afternoon. “I’m speechless. I am without speech,” Elaine from Seinfeld would say. And it is where I rest right now.

Some would call it a fog, a black cloud, a sheet covering, depression. I think it’s more like walking around after you’ve had your eyes dilated. It’s like being in the bottom of an empty gravesite and looking up without a clue how to climb out. It’s blah.

I haven’t been able to shake it for more than 24 hours, and I don’t often come to this place, though I recognize the décor. I have been here before.

I don’t know how I came, what pushed me in, but it sucks. And if you’ve visited, you know.

I could eat. If I do I’ll go for carbs, and sweets. Lots of them. Chips (my weakness), chocolate (my other weakness), peanut butter with chocolate (wait a second…there’s a pattern here), pasta, or anything else that would fill the void between my fingers and not in my heart.

I could check out with movies. Seinfeld, always Seinfeld. In good times and bad it is eternally a good choice. Ever After, Twilight, anything Jack Black, a multitude of Nicholas Sparks, What About Bob, The Princess Bride. I would be distracted, it would work. For a little bit.

Undoubtedly, I would still come up empty.

So I stay in it. I accept that this is where I reside.
And I wait, because God never lets me suffer forever.

Why is it so dang hard sometimes?

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A little less hot, it still smells like rain when the bus pulls to the end of our street. McKenzie doesn’t see me, only her neighbor friend. Kyle looks at the ground as his shoes clunk down the black steps. His face is taut and I know he’s holding back. It isn’t until dinner that he finally breaks.

“No one sat by me on the bus.”

Like a lioness I crouch in protection. “Oh I’m sorry, Buddy.”

“Did you try to sit by someone?” asks Dad.

“Yeah. He moved away.”

His name. I want, his name.

“And then the bus driver yelled at me to sit down.” This, like a tree root that won’t stop, is all it takes to make him crack. Before I know it his daddy’s arms are around him.

My boy, the little one, he is tender-hearted. He loves full, and fierce.

School friendships are the cornerstone of our education. It is my unprofessional opinion, of course. But I’ve watched the way my children become fickle about learning, and it’s often based on how their relationships are going. When I think back to my own elementary career, I don’t think of those stacks of numbers I had to multiply or the words I read aloud when it was my turn. I think of how it felt to win dodge ball in front of everyone, of notebook paper with stupid drawings from my friend that would literally have me in stitches for an entire day.
Or my awful fourth grade year. There were three of us, which meant that somebody was always on the outs. “I’m friends with you again but don’t tell her.” “She’s so stuck up. I’m mad at her. Don’t, say, a word.” As you can guess I was often the her, the she. And I’m pretty sure I was the one saying it on several occasions.

It is hard to make good friends. It is hard to keep good friends.

And not much has changed. Sometimes by default. People move, grow in different directions, or just lose touch. It isn’t mean-spirited or intentional. It is life. Sometimes.

 I’ve had friends never return texts or e-mails. Just silence. I’ve been left with the lonely, one-sided wave while someone pretends not to see me in the parking lot. I’ve even had a friend move without a word.

It’s been said that women are relational, emotional. Women need other women. Really? Then why is it so dang hard sometimes?

So I rack over what I did, what I said. I think, “Ugh, am I clingy, needy, high maintenance, hypersensitive?” Probably. I’ve caught myself lately saying “If there’s room in your life…” Or, “Do you have time to hear this?” I’ve been burned, and in a culture that barely lifts its eyes from ten million devices, that must be unceasingly entertained and thus isolated, it isn’t easy. Have you walked through the airport lately? It is daunting. I’m guilty of it myself. 

But I want more. I want to do life with somebody. Lots of somebodies. I want a friend who can handle my ugly as well as my beauty. Who will share five dozen cookies with me in secret. I want to share a secret. I want someone who will walk barefoot on my floors to ransack my fridge because they are so at ease in my space.

I’m a pursuer, to a fault. I don’t let one unanswered text go lightly. (Five, OK I get the hint.) I fight. I lay myself vulnerable. I take the risk because it’s required if I’m going to have any real friendships. There are moments I’m left reeling after rejection (and then the 5 dozen cookies become all mine for enjoyment). I start to wonder why I keep trying. Why put myself out there at all?

Because dear Kyle boy, the world needs your kind of fierce. And it needs mine too.  

One Thousand Wha…? Meandering thoughts on Ann Voskamp

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“We look and swell with the ache of a broken, battered planet, what we ascribe as the negligent work of an indifferent Creator (if we even think there is one). Do we ever think of the busted-up place as the result of us ingrates, unsatisfied, we who punctured it all with a bite? The fruit’s poison has infected the whole of humanity. Me. I say no to what He’s given. I thirst for some roborant, some elixir, to relieve the anguish of what I’ve believed: God isn’t good. God doesn’t love me.”            -Ann Voskamp

Wait. I need to read that again. Maybe twice.

“Take it slow,” says a friend, to which I wonder, is there any other choice? I feel like I’m reading the pages through finger-smudged glasses. My mind squints and demands, “Come again?” as I muddle through the rhetoric.

I landed at Starbucks this morning kidless, (WordPress is underlining that word in bright red right now but I’m using it anyway. I like the way it sounds. In fact, I’ll repeat it.) kidless, watching a long line of fellow addicted patrons ebb and flow through the drive-thru. A black Buick, a first generation 4Runner, swanky women whom I guess to be from the million dollar homes in Castle Pines, just-ripe teens texting in their boredom and obsession with modern culture, and suit jackets on their way to a meeting. I nestle into a corner with my books, my laptop and my journal. I have over two hours to read, do a writing practice, edit pictures, browse the internet. “This is going to be good,” I post on my Facebook status.

Oh, was it.  

“I read a chapter a day,” another friend says of this wildly popular book. Yes. Seems like a good pace. I’ll do that too.

The yellow ribbon of the bookmark I’m borrowing slumps over, smashed between ink and paper. I pull on it, ready to get the “shoulds” out of the way. You know the ones. “I should read something that draws me to God. I should read today’s checklist Bible verse. I should journal my heart, pray.” And then I’ll get to the fun stuff.

But I never leave her words.

I linger, copy, and am pulled closer. I nearly cry behind the metal post in the floor-to-ceiling window at the coffee bar. I am gripped, while preschool pick-up time runs faster and faster toward me.

“I wake to the discontent of my skin. I wake to self-hatred. To the wrestle to get it all done, the relentless anxiety that I am failing. Always, the failing. I yell at children, fester with bitterness, forget doctor appointments, lose library books, live selfishly, skip prayer, complain, go to bed too late, neglect cleaning toilets. I live tired. Afraid. Anxious. Weary.”

                                                                             -Ann Voskamp

I’m held there, struck by the courage of this woman’s journey. Not from the “poetic” beauty of her sentences, though they are beautiful. Nor from the fresh, pure perspective she offers of gratitude, though it’s stirred me deeply. What’s incredible is how she approaches a crossroads and has the fearlessness to keep going.

“The sun climbs the horizon. I throw back the covers, take another breath, and begin. I GET to. I GET to live.”

                                                                              -Ann Voskamp

She does not stay in hopelessness. She does not end at the grief, depressed and ungrateful. She pushes, seeks, and claws until she finds more.

There IS more. Much, much more.  

“At the Eucharist, Christ breaks His heart to heal ours-“

                                                          -Ann Voskamp

 

“I eat dessert every day and pour creamer in my coffee…”

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We’re like a herd of cattle lined up at feeding time. Actually we’re mothers standing outside preschool doors. And we’re hungry. Hungry for a break.

But what eats at me more is the vague sense that I’m out of place. I glance around quickly (so that no one will know I’m comparing body type and financial status and I.Q. like everyone else in this small space). There are neon gym shorts, black tank tops, slicked ponytails, chiseled calves…and I’m starting to feel like my 1 to 2 miles once or twice a week is looking severely inadequate. In my moment of unreason I try to suck in the slight overhang above the running shorts I will not run in today, while I think about how those gray and yellow stripes next to me look perfect over midnight blue denim.
There are gold earrings and tan arms that curl around toddlers whose hair is combed into delicate tendrils. There is lipstick and mascara and pedicured toes.

Then there’s me. I’m the girl who was a baby when I had a baby. I want a chicken coop and acreage that leaves me close enough to share sun tea and sugar with my neighbors but far enough to walk around without a bra under my shirt. I want a garden the size of my current front yard and a grocery store I can’t get to for 10 minutes. But less than 20, ’cause a girl’s gotta have a few things. I eat dessert every day and pour creamer in my coffee without figuring how many leg lifts I’d have to do to even it out. My hair tickles my shoulders and plays by the straps of a top from two seasons ago. I should have redone my nail polish two weeks ago. And I don’t want to feel lonely, which is how I feel in the morning line.

Until I look harder. There are also shades of blue that don’t go well with black hair. There are baby bumps and flip flops and whiny kids with breakfast still lingering on their cheeks. (If I had to bet I’d say they are a third or fourth child.) There are women who could be grandmas and some who could be high-schoolers. And there are plenty of us not yet showered.

My dad used to say, “They put their pants on one leg at a time like everybody else.”

He is right. We aren’t so different. Beyond pants we share passions, duties, fears, frustrations, joys, a fierce love for our kids and the breaks we take from them.

We are mothers.

Unforgettable Summer

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Today is the last day all three of my kids are home before they slide their arms through the straps of their backpacks. McKenzie’s is new, green and white checkered. It is a symbol of her struggle between being a tomboy and a girly girl, the journey of her transformation from one to the other and back again. Kyle’s will do. It’s from last year, and a perfect shade of orange. Maya’s is princess, her sister’s kindergarten choice passed down. It is her lot.

Two months between school seasons hardly seems long enough. I feel like I just carried in teacher baskets, and did my best to cease and desist all manner of panic attacks amidst graduations, parties, pick-ups, birthdays and camping plans for the day after school was out. Yet, two months can also seem much too long. Very much.

Summer came at us swinging. We inaugurated our new-to-us camper in Pueblo among cousins and s’mores and amoeba-infested ponds. We smeared pasty sunscreen and braved our community pool the first day we had free. We rode bikes and burned our skin. 

Then we crashed. We were tired. And lazy, and that’s when I began to notice a trend.   

“Mom, can I play DS?”

“Can I do games on your phone or Kindle since I don’t have a DS?”

“Can we watch a movie?”

These pleas were coming to me while the credits to one movie still scrolled over theme music. We had a problem. A habit I didn’t want to form. 

The following week became No Electronics Week. Except for toothbrushes, which aren’t toys. I’ve learned to clarify.

There was great weeping and gnashing of teeth. I didn’t budge. And I don’t think any of us expected what happened next.

The high-pitched, squealing laugh of my oldest daughter. The sputtering, exhaust-like, out-of-breath giggle of my son. The smack and flip of a set of diamonds, spades, hearts, and clovers. Cries for equality, fairness, justice. Declarations of victory. And the brave challenge to do it again.

In less than 48 hours I’ll be frustrated that I have to ask if they finished their breakfast and combed their hair. I’ll shove them in front of our plum tree and tell them to smile while they hold their bags like turtle shells. They will acquiesce. Half-heartedly. I’ll tell them to buckle up. Yes, even for 3 miles. And I’ll wish them an amazing first day, hoping that in whatever disappointment or wounds they bring home later, their lives will be fuller and richer and wiser for the experiences they encounter or the people they meet.

We’re starting a new school year, but this was the summer my kids became best friends.

      

 

  

The Middle is Mine

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Light turquoise wraps around the binding, holding together the whole of what’s inside. The cover says, “Love, Aspire, Grow,” while the face of several different breeds of flowers play behind them. Triangles as bright as the lemons on my kitchen table are lined in rows near one side as foreign designs splash across the bottom.

I guess it’s modern Bohemian. That’s what the back of the book states.

When I open to the first page I see more piercing yellow and exotic art among the quote: “Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere. -Albert Einstein.”

May I introduce, my new journal. Did I mention it’s new? That means the pages are crisp and perfect. The pinch in the center where the last piece of paper meets the next piece of paper smells woodsy and dusty and fresh. The jacket design I picked from a dozen others on Target’s inviting shelves. I even grabbed this one, held the weight of it in my hands, spread it open to get the feel of what it would be like to write in it and then put it back. But in the end it drew me again. The inspiring blurbs around the outside fit just right in the margins, and the colors? Well, I love them.

Although, that’s not the best part. It is between all of this that gets my pulse going. The not knowing how I’ll fill in the empty spaces, but simply knowing I will fill them. With whatever I want. As often as I want. In as many ways as I want.

I always wish the first entry to be flawless. I start out with a vow that my writing will be long and lean, even on all sides and ultimately poetic.  That lasts about one paragraph. Because that isn’t me unless I’m trying really hard; and then I’m just missing the point.

Likely there will be prayers, angry demands and whining, and gratitude. In some spots there will be creativity that’s good, and others that should never be seen. I’ll tell secrets that won’t be whispered anywhere else, and stories that will never be read. I will ultimately “Love, Aspire, Grow.”

The middle is mine. And it’s my favorite part.

 

Parallel Wrinkles of Time

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When he’s old they won’t go away as he relaxes, those lines that parallel above his eyebrows like a notebook. And when I’m two years younger but just as crinkled, I’ll think they’re endearing. I’ll remember being at the threshold of our thirties and him giving me that heavy look. “We’re sinking.”

I always take this news not with a grain of salt, but a whole salt block because my husband, God bless him, is a proverbial tightwad.

“Ok. Everybody calm down,” I say. “Let me see.”

My arms tighten and my breathing becomes shallow as I scroll the mouse down the alleys of Quicken charts. I become downright afraid. 

How did this happen? Sure, the new car in the garage contributed but we had some here and some there and…where did it go?

I dig. Deep into the depths of my heart at what is going on in the tick-tocks of this moment. At what I want to avoid with everything in me.

It’s saying “no.” No grande half-caff mocha, two pumps caramel, skip the whip; no salsa and chips and tips; no date-night movies where Chase slurps at an ICEE and we piously roll our eyes at what we looked like 12 years ago; no camping trip with the family; maybe no dream property that we’ve been praying about and saving for. 

As the monologue between my ears slows, we settle into our roles. He panics and I rationalize. Sometimes we trade, but usually those cute wrinkles on his forehead increase with intensity and stature while I try to juggle numbers and search for what checks are due us. Except I can’t juggle anything but schedules. Sometimes. You see the predicament.

We could have to utter them. The two words we’ll do anything not to say. “We can’t” Can’t eat it, can’t drink it, can’t go.

At first glance this feels embarrassing. Shameful.

At a second take, I see that I still have coffee every morning. We eat healthier at home (Although the rest of my family probably doesn’t care and would still claw for the Hot-N-Ready if it was in front of them… Who am I kidding? So would I). We’ve never gone without shoes or meals, pillows or blankets, or Halloween costumes. In fact, sometimes the blanket IS the Halloween costume. And instead of popcorn and the sloping tiers of amphitheater seating we have the best date of our lives watching stars among the pines.

We have each other. And I’d rather live poor with you, than rich without you.