chase

What Engagement Means to a Boy

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The girls mirror each other on the couch with pillows and blankets and fevers. They have made a cocoon out of a comforter, and I nearly dive in with them.
Kyle is keeping his distance in the kitchen, happy to have an all-access pass to our Netflix subscription at the expense of his sisters’ miseries.
The belly of my coffee mug swells against a backdrop of physician notes, a listing of side effects for an antibiotic McKenzie needs. It’s long enough to make a person wonder if it’s humanly possible to survive any given medication.

Though I worry about their health in the midst of spy movies with gadget sounds and words like “vortex” and “Armageddon,” it’s my son’s disengagement that really has me bothered. I watch him as I have so many times and think, How do I engage this boy? What makes him come alive, and let’s do more of whatever that is because I’m terrified of his own cyclone of impending demise into an eternal pit of withdrawal. 

“You’re going with Dad.”
He bends the way he does when he’s feeling intense emotion. “Why? I don’t want to,” he says with a quiver in his voice.
“I’m sorry you don’t want to. Why don’t you want to?”
“Becausssse, there’s nothing to do and it takes soooo looong. It’s so booooring.”
“I’m sorry that it’s boring. Is there something that would make it more exciting?” As in, You’re going so suck it up Bud and find the fun. But less insensitive.
“No.”
“Well, it may be a long couple of hours. Here, let’s pack a few things in case you get antsy.”

I gather a Target bag of goodies and do not insist he change out of P.J.’s. He tromps to the garage door with dinosaur pants stuffed into the necks of his snow boots. It carries a sort of indignation that reminds me he is still alive somewhere in there.

Soon I get a text from him, which I’d like to pause and say is the weirdest. My children texting me. (sigh)
“Hi mom hows ‘i goin’?”
“Hi buddy! Good how are you? Miserable? :)”
“No. Bored.”
“I’m sorry you’re bored. What would make it more exciting?” And I’m annoyed at my own repetition.
“Freddys! We’re here right now.”
“Lucky!!”

Later when I force the T.V. off he wanders around our family room like the vultures in Jungle Book with their British accents and stunted syllables.

“So what we gonna do?”
“I dunno. Watcha wanna do?”
“Don’ start ‘at again.”

 Tap-tap-tap, go the small discs on the checkerboard. They send him into a tizzy of laughter until he can hardly catch his breath. “That is so funny. It was like tap-tap-tap.” 
I laugh because he is, and soon he’s found an energy that will not be stopped.

He blows milk bubbles to the lip of his glass.
He sucks in air as he speaks so the pitch of his voice rises a couple octaves of irritating.
He covers his mouth with his hands and says, “I can’t be quiet.” I noticed.
He scoots a rocking chair around the hardwood and gets his legs stuck in the sides.
He chews up…an eraser.

But he’s back, he’s him and I wonder how, when it becomes obvious.

His dad engaged him.

The night before Chase hit a breaking point with the noise of three children. As he tucked Kyle to sleep I saw them get forehead to forehead in a tender moment amid the most important parenting words I’ve heard: “I’m sorry.” It was vulnerable, priceless. It set the tone for the next day when they downed hamburgers and recited lines of movies. When they hopped in the truck and braved the snow. When they talked about respect with words like s&$!. When they came home as men.

Now please, go disengage. It’s bedtime. 

My Husband’s Quiz

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“So this is thirteen?”

I only smile.

“Right?”

“I’m not telling you.”

We are both playful grins.

“Come on. I lose track.”

“Well, what year were we married?”

His eyes travel to the dim ceiling of the restaurant as he visibly counts with his lips. I take another bite of tilapia that resolves any ill feelings I’ve ever had of this man. Because it’s that fantastic.

“Thirteen?”

“All your answers are coming out as questions.”

I smile again, unable to resist his boyish laugh. His real laugh.

“We were married in 2002 so it’s twelve,” I say.

“Twelve. Wait,” he says flicking his fingers to check. “Wow. Twelve.”

“No.” And I can’t wait to see his face. “We were married in 2001 and it’s thirteen.”

“So I was right the first time!”

I giggle. Dessert, please.

Men’s Vitamins

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WHOLE FOOD ENERGIZER, read the bold letters I didn’t notice. They are written on the bottle of Chase’s vitamins. Why am I looking at men’s vitamins? Because mine ran out.

“Just take one of my multi’s,” I tell him when he hasn’t any more.
“No. I might grow breasts or something.”
“Are you being for real right now?”
“I’m not taking them.”

I, on the other hand, have no problem stealing from his stash when the tables are turned, but last night I couldn’t figure out why I was folding laundry like a machine.
“Want to watch another episode of Seinfeld? How about Hoarding: Buried Alive? So interesting.” I spoke in speeds hardly comprehensive to my husband whose eyes were half closed.
He yawned. “You can start one and if I fall asleep, well, no harm.” 

It was like I had six arms and the piles were sorting themselves. I brushed my teeth and popped an Aleve because as it turns out, the new Power Yoga DVD I purchased is nothing like the beginner session I’ve been doing for 5 years. Youch. Apparently I was long overdue for a little challenge.

My novel drew me in page by page, I started to relax. But long after the light switch clicked off, I tossed.

Then some idiot dog thought it was afternoon instead of midnight and shortly thereafter I was stifling giggles into the pillow because all I could think about was Brian Reegan going, “Hey! Hey, hey, hey! Hey, hey!”
Listen to the bit and you’ll know why this is funny.

Blankets pulled close. Blankets kicked away, like I’m on the brink of menopause. Which I am not, thank you.

Ugh, the night. Would I have to entertain it until morning?

Aha, a snack. I needed a snack.
I grabbed my book, a Melatonin tablet for good measure, and then was off to the land of cheese. Still, everything I was doing was in super mode when I heard little feet drop to the floor and run to what I know is my bedroom. I found her cuddled against her daddy. I scooped her into me and breathed in her sleepy breath. There is nothing like the restful face of a child.

All right, round two. By then it was after 3:00 a.m. and I was in that place of debating if I should just fold the cards I’d been dealt and get some stuff accomplished or chance that I’d actually rest.

Suddenly it was morning. I did it. I fell asleep. In my haze I almost forgot to check the label inside the cabinet.
Mm, hmm. That explains it. Selfie note: no vitamin-taking at bedtime.

From now on, I will be more careful. Being up all night isn’t really beneficial for my kind of daily schedule.
But hey, at least I didn’t wake up with a beard. So that’s something.

 

Rotten Eggs

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“You hard-boiled a carton of eggs,” he says as if we’re in the opening act of a 90’s sitcom.

“Yeah.” I want to smile so badly at what’s coming, but refrain in the off chance I’m wrong.

“I went to crack one open and I was like, ‘Whoa, this egg is rotten.'”

Can you see it? The underneath of a pat of butter starting to melt and slide across the warm pan. His anticipation of all the ingredients coming together in a sizzle. The salivating and hunger pains. And then the repulsion, maybe even a hint of worry that one he’s chosen should have ended up at the local country store under a heat lamp instead of our fridge.

Well, it is the day before Easter, dear.
The smile comes. Because I was right, and it is so delicious.

What My Third Decade Taught Me

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“I used to think I knew everything. Now as I get older, I realize there’s a lot I don’t know.” -every older person that wanted to annoy me
“Oh I know. Believe you me, I know.” -naïve self 

The first time I said my new age was on Twitter. It read, “I am 30.” Strangely, there was no unexplained vomiting or dying like I predicted would happen. It didn’t even taste bitter coming off my tongue. I might have actually smirked a little when I said it out loud, which I spoke while I was tweeting. So, I survived.

A new decade feels like a new life. I drag in a deep breath and see that my hands are more open instead of more determined like they were when I had 20 candles on my cake. I’m ready to embark. Guess I better be, I’ve already set sail. 
I reflect back on what I’m taking into this next stage.

Life is Unpredictable. I didn’t believe it until I lived it.
 When my belly swelled under maternity overalls that were a mistake, my Chase was building our first home. We lived in a makeshift apartment in his parent’s basement for two years while he worked full time, stacked logs to frame our walls, and drained himself over blueprints. On the same two beautiful acres he’d bought in high school, where he’d found the perfect pine tree to carve a marriage proposal, we were starting our life. Dreams of protecting toddler fingers from splinters, a constantly roaring fireplace, endless dinner conversations with our teenagers, and two rocking chairs surrounded with grandchildren filled my mind. A garden here, stone landscaping there. Christmases fit for a Pottery Barn spread.
Then baby girl came, and giggles were missed because of the hour-long drive to work and the hour-long drive home. We got feet of snow, not inches, that had to be plowed just to get down the driveway for milk again, and again. Winter gripped us much longer than summer graced us.
“Let’s buy a rental in town,” became “Let’s move into the rental,” became our new place. We had a boy, another girl, and seven years of memories I wouldn’t trade. 
It wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t what I planned. Until family time was robbed and suburbia gave it back. Yeah, life is unpredictable but that’s part of the fun.

Your True Heart is the Key to Freedom
Words.
Being a safe place for my kids to talk.
Not oatmeal. Or peas. Never peas.
Date night.
Abba.
A quote that changes me.
Writing. Horrible writing. Good writing.
Hours of reading. Horrible reading. Good reading.
Listening to someone hurting.
Letting someone hurt with me.
Strong coffee. Plenty of cream.
Boundaries.
Less self.
More women’s shelters. More homeless.
Time to change Barbie’s clothes. Time to get bandages on scrapes. Time to watch growth.
Hunger and thirst.
Second chances.

You Get to Change Your Mind
There is a place, a most precious place in our quaint metropolis that serves an old-fashioned, loud-waitress, you-are-family kind of menu. I secretly fantasize about working there when my all three of my children are in school for more than a morning. I’d thrive as an employee as much as I do a paying customer. Mostly because there are lots of retirees who sip coffee while talking about what used to be. I’d be fantastic at waving some decaf in their direction.
When we found this most valuable nugget I ordered a big breakfast. Choice of egg: scrambled. Choice of meat: sausage. Choice of pancakes or French toast: pancakes, as large as a dinner plate and drenched in an ice cream scoop of butter. Please.
My wise Tinys would get the homemade cinnamon roll. They gave me samples (meaning I used my mom voice to teach them “sharing”), and I’m telling you that coil of icing is not of this world. And I’m not entirely sure from which side of the eternal spectrum it comes forth. Then one day I tried the French toast. OK, there are no words. My order has shifted. Choice of egg: scrambled. Choice of meat: sausage. Choice of pancakes or French toast: the toast, don’t forget the ice cream scoop of butter. Please.
Because I’m a grown-up and being responsible doesn’t happen without humbly knowing you can be wrong or have the liberty to change your mind.

 There will be Loss
If there’s a hint of a sniffle, a whisper of a cold catching on, I can guarantee one or all of the kids will be calling my name in the night. “I need a tissue,” they say with a swipe of their sleeve.
A few short hours ago I was lying in the dark, clenching my retainer and whispering prayers about a new diagnosis. News of a friend that broke my man down to stunningly handsome tears.
We’ve said good-bye to more than we’ve wanted. We’ll do it again.
I’ve learned this is the cycle until my name is called.

So many lessons. Parenting is hard, and no one knows how to do it until they jump in, no matter the age. Marriage trails with the same statement. Farting will never not be funny, though I don’t do it. Conflict molds you when done well. Heartache draws you to Truth when you let it. Happiness isn’t as rich as peacefulness. Losing sleep is sometimes the only quiet moment I’ll steal, and when I steal chocolate. Seinfeld will forever be the backdrop to my laundry getting folded. 

And I’m pretty sure all those oldies who said the more they know, the more know they don’t know? They were right.  

 

Rounding to 30

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For as long as I can remember I’ve had an unrelenting ache to be known. When I’m caught in a confrontation, it isn’t as much about being right as it is about being seen, heard, understood. While I’m rounding the corner to my thirties this week, I think about those three decades, what they’ve meant, who’s walked beside me, who’s let me slip away, and there’s a phrase I read last week that I just can’t shake.

I HAVE FORMED YOU.  – Isaiah 44

What I don’t remember is where we were or the age I was when I did this. What I do remember, was looking for the familiarity of knee-length ironed shorts, the aroma that is my mother, and her safe form I was certain would shield me from the shyness that was creeping in when I looked up at foreign faces. I found her, squeezed her thigh as only a toddler can, and then was caught by surprise when the person attached wasn’t my mom at all.

I HAVE FORMED YOU.  -Isaiah 44

Our kitchen carpet was like a kaleidoscope of oranges and browns, like all carpet laid in the 80’s. It was morning. And it was my birthday. I squealed and lowered into a crouch with my hands out like I was about to receive the biggest balloon of all my short years. “I can’t believe I’m nine!”

I HAVE FORMED YOU.  -Isaiah 44

Midwest summer days nearly suffocated me. Still, it was better than school. My cousin and I tromped around the fields, dodging bees and boredom in the in-between of elementary. We wound our way through the strawberry patch and picked our afternoon snack. Sweat tickled my ears when I brushed dirt from the red wonders I ate, and memories etched into my mind, not letting me go even 20 years later.

I HAVE FORMED YOU.  -Isaiah 44

Standing in front of my peers I suddenly couldn’t get away. The desks were too close, the eyes were all on me. I wanted to speak what I was going to say but in a rush I went to the bathroom. “It’s a panic attack, not a heart attack,” the doctor later said. It came to be the first of many.

I HAVE FORMED YOU.  -Isaiah 44

We drove over a day to get home from Texas, my mom and I. More than once. In the desolate, dry spans of Oklahoma we made up songs. Particularly about the friend of ours with big lips, the one we’d just visited. (He knows who he is, and he’s proud of his smacker.) Each phrase ended in a rhyme, the beat consistent through the words.

I HAVE FORMED YOU.  -Isaiah 44

I didn’t make it to the end of the driveway before I broke down in tears. I wanted a baby, and my friend had just announced she was having one. What if I never hold my own, a part of Chase and a part of me? What if there’s something wrong with me? Or him? What if it never happens? In the days that followed I learned why I was so emotional. That the girl who is now one year from a two-digit birthday was already growing.

I HAVE FORMED YOU.  – Isaiah 44

Yesterday my kids were outside in their bare feet, when they weren’t roller blading or getting their socks wet. They were breaking apart the crumbs of a snowman they built over the weekend, a large mass refusing melt. I was kneeling by the new green of my lilies starting to peek from the ground unaware that today we’d be 30 degrees with more white falling from the sky.

When I struggle to know how to do this life, when I have mornings I don’t want to make lunches or agreements on how much Wii will be allowed later. When the cold of the day seeps too deep into my soul, I remember One who hasn’t left since I was too small to see with the naked eye and just starting in the womb. He hasn’t missed a moment, a skinned elbow, a tear, or a laugh.

“And another will write on his hand, ‘Belonging to the Lord.'” -Isaiah 44:5

And He won’t miss the ones ahead.

 

12 Years Married

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wedding photo
A humble Christmas tree, my bare feet. Our parents, his sisters, and a marriage license.

Today is my 12th wedding anniversary.

If you are doing the math you know that I am still 29 years old…and that means yes, I was 17 when I spoke my vows and signed my name. My new name.
I can tell you what led to this unconventional decision, except I don’t think it’s all that important. Nope, I wasn’t knocked up as I’m sure plenty of our friends at our tiny college suspected. Honestly, how many of you reading this were waiting for the bump?

I’d like to write the line: I said yes and never looked back. But that would be a lie. I have indeed looked back. Was I too young? Too naïve? Too ignorant or immature? Eh, perhaps. Did I really know what I was committing to?
Do any of us?

Twelve years is long enough to have some fights. Ones that feel like you are both communicating with a glass on your mouth so that you can’t get your point across nor hear what your partner is saying.
Twelve years is long enough to like each other, despise each other, and like each other again several dozen times.
Twelve years is long enough to make mistakes, memories, and history.

Previews blared inside a dark theater the weekend we got married. Our first movie as husband and wife. I looked back thinking, I will never, ever do this with another man (well, boy).
Packing boxes, a one-year old, and a six-month ripe belly holding our second child, and I looked back wondering, will I know myself apart from these roles?
Tears cut down our cheeks like rivers and I looked back to question if I’d chosen wrong.

I’ve loved every good and bad movie with him since.
This house that was supposed to be a rental investment has been the home where we’ve raised our children and grown as a couple.
Those tears have hurt us and healed us.

If I never look back, I would never have to answer my own question. Is this what I want, truly?
Every time, I do.

Deeply Grateful

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For a husband who will sing loudly off-key along with the performers of the Macy’s parade, because he loves to make our kids laugh and engage them.

For scattered puzzle pieces that need a family of fingers to make sense of them.

For chives that add just a little something to potatoes.

For a spilled glass of water, because it means I have a little girl who will come tell me in her sweet, three-year-old voice what happened.

For the musical sounds of announcers and fans and helmets against helmets.

For laughter, the kind from the gut.

For hairy teeth, because it means I’ve eaten way too much sugar, and I’ve never really wanted for anything.

For exhaustion, because it means my day, my life is full.

For shoes on the floor and smears on the sliding glass door, because it means I have kids, and they’ll leave traces of themselves.

For lotion, because my hands get so dry this time of year.

For squiggly, fake spiders, because they challenge my son to be brave.

For a beard that makes me appreciate a smooth face.

For a pillow, every night, since the day I started using one.

For a group of people who stared persecution in the eye, who were ready to die for freedom, and who changed everything by seeking out this amazing country.

For a Savior that has given me what I do not deserve.

For all this and more, I am deeply grateful.

“When it comes to life the critical thing is whether you take things for granted or take them with gratitude.” 

                                                                               -G. K. Chesterton                                                                                       

               

  

Dads are Superheroes

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He’s the first to notice that Dad is missing.

Like a fan of feathers, his hair is sprawling, uninhibited, unaware, the same way he sleeps. Crumbs of brown sugar toast are still around the edges of his mouth when he asks if he can go outside.

“Sure,” I say. I know what he’s looking for.

He is eager, alive.

The girls are inside. One of them, arms as noodle-like as the scarf she’s twirling, is humming and singing as she spins. The other one has three princesses on her shirt and is combing Barbie’s pink and blonde hair.

“Yours is so ratty and if you don’t stop that you are gonna get a spankin’.”

It is a stark contrast. And it is the outside that draws me today.

Dad is climbing a mountain of a ladder. With a bad back no less. There are large paint buckets filled with swirls near his feet, trails of hoses, and a schizophrenic motor that isn’t sure if it needs to be on or off. There are rollers, brushes, and tape. There is brown paper lining the windows and tarps for drips.

And there is a boy in Iron Man pajama pants, hanging out with his very own superhero.