It goes both ways

Some good things, in no particular order.

1. Though sleep has been difficult the last two weeks, it didn’t slow me down today; I played hide and seek with my kids in the woods.  And trust me, two hours a night is a lot worse than the status quo.
2. I didn’t yell at my husband when he wandered off in Costco yesterday.  Now I did yell at him when we were trying to order photos, but I still consider this an accomplishment.
3. My wonderful, dear children.
4. My in-laws, who I really like and who have been an immense help to me and good company many days as Jason works long hours.
5. A restful Mother’s Day. Jason served us an amazing meal which he mostly prepared the day before so he wasn’t hermiting in the kitchen all afternoon (this was upon my request).
6. I’m making jewelry, which I haven’t done since childhood.  I like giving it away and I have really enjoyed Jessica and I’s evening jewelry-making sessions.  My mom, Becky, and Linda have given me lots of old jewelry to work with but of course that doesn’t keep me from building my own collection of material to work with.
7. I’m taking more photos and enjoying my camera, which was a wonderful gift from my dad a few years ago.
8. Hanging out with other ladies at Jane’s clothing swap and finding some great things to take home.
9. Finding a Vietnam-era military locker at Value Village.  Becky says her kids used Bill’s dad’s locker as a toy box when they were young. I like having meaningful things around my home, things with stories attached to them.
10. Having some other creative projects I’m inspired to do.  In fact, being inspired is something I’ve needed for a long time and it’s coming back to me.
11. Meeka’s post.
12. The mornings are sometimes hard, but things usually get better as the day goes on.
13. My psychiatric NP said I’m doing a lot better and when I actually thought about it, I agreed with her.
14. I’m celebrating six years of writing on this blog.  For me, doing anything for six years is pretty amazing.
15. Goodwill Hunting and Silver Lining Playbook.
16. Reading a book on Bonhoeffer and how it has given me insight into my family’s German Lutheran heritage.  I want to learn more.
17. The trail gator we just got for Ian.  More family bike rides are in our future.
18. Ian’s preschool Mother’s Day party and how he showed me his classroom and told me I’m the best mom.
19. The bags of girls clothes Adelle sent home with me and the box with filled with goodies from my Mom.  It felt like Christmas!
20. Ecclesiastes.

Some hard things.

1. The sleep thing.  I laid awake for two hours last night, filled with anxiety. When will this end?  What will it take?
2. There’s a good chance Bill & Becky will leave in June.  Their renters in Georgia fell through and we don’t have a place for them to live here long-term.  Like I said, I really like them.  Even if I didn’t have the struggles I have at the moment, I would still be sad to see them go.
3. Struggling with the idea of living elsewhere (in the Seattle area, not out-of-state).  I am intrigued by this and yet the uncertainty, the cost and the stress of moving makes me anxious.  I keep coming back to the fact that I love living where we are and that is a blessing.  And Jason and I are working pretty well together as we talk through this topic (maybe he would disagree on that?).
4. I think you’re sensing a theme here — anxiety.
5. A day last week when I felt discouraged and didn’t want to get out of bed.  The dark cloud was hanging, but I just had to sit up and put my feet on the floor.
6. I’m having trouble eating regularly and being interested in eating in general.  Food is a passion for me so it’s hard, but I did get two enjoyable meals in with Dad & Linda at Ballard Pizza Co. and The Whale Wins.  If you go to Ballard Pizza Co., which you should, get The Big Moses.
7. My children are watching way too much TV and I’m not really monitoring the content they are absorbing.  Don’t worry, it’s all of the kid persuasion, but still.
8. The temptation to lean on other things, which is strong. But, God brings me back when I wander.
9. I felt convicted the other day that I frequently call myself a depressed person.  But, I’m not depressed a lot of the time.  Besides, that is not who I am.
10. I’m sad BSF is ending.  I really enjoyed my small group and I will miss our stimulating conversations.  This has been one of the most impressionable years of BSF for me.
11. The fights I pick with Jason.
12. My efforts to try impress people; I want them to notice me (how does this work, since I’m an introvert?). It’s tiring, and really a person struggling with mental illness doesn’t need the pressure.
13. Jason’s working and he can’t help but keep his mind on that a lot.  But, at least he has a job.

I feel like ending with my hard things obliges me to say I’m not hanging off a cliff here and I’m not trying to be hard on myself. I just can’t help being an honest person.  I think that’s a good thing.

In fact, I am glad God uses me to say things others can’t or won’t.  I know some can relate in some way.

“Let each person lead the life that the Lord has assigned to him, and to which God has called him” (1 Cor 7:17).

Somebody else’s poop

The last few weeks have been a bit out of routine for the Haggard family.  Rebecca, my mother-in-law, had plans to visit her mom and sister in California mid-March and since I still need a babysitter for both myself and my children I decided to take the kids to my mom’s.  Jason would stay at home and decompress and then we would return and he and Ian would head off to New York to see the Franci.

I was on an upward swing mood and energy-wise, and so I felt pretty confident I could handle the day’s drive to my mom’s alone with the kids and the preparation it would take to pull it off.  Rebecca would be around to help me and watch the kids so I could pack the day before.

And really, once you’ve got the car packed and the children restrained, they can’t do much damage.  I can deal with intermittent crying.  And, as my friend endearingly calls all minivans “rolling studio apartments,” I would be driving in relative ease, with cruise control.

For merely my own entertainment, I would like to go off on a rabbit trail to explain how I view “drives.” There is the leisurely Sunday afternoon scenic type.  There’s the epic road trip, the usual high school “I’m bored, let’s just go drive around” and the unfortunate ambulatory type.  There’s the classic “let’s just keep driving until we resolve this fight and then we’ll go to our scheduled social function” kind.  I understand that all these kinds of “drives” can be necessary for both sound mind and/or body.

But, if you’re driving across the state of Washington, you just want to get there.  Let me rephrase that–I just want to get there.  That’s the “drive” you’re taking (with me). I’m with children, people.  This could take all day (and in my mind it should not).  We must NOT stop unless absolutely necessary.

Yes, I have strong opinions about this.  Ask my mom, who drove back to Seattle with me and made the mistake of having both a coffee and a Coke which caused her to have to pee more frequently that I thought a human being ought to.

(Note: Nursing or potty training children also throws this expectation all off for me.  I know they have to eat and pee, but in my opinion you might as well just not leave your house at all, which is what I, and some other moms tend to do.  Heck, if people love you enough they’ll come visit you.)

Anyway, back to the start of our trip.  Packing went very smoothly the day before.  I got to bed early, and loading the van in the morning by myself was a cinch (I prefer to do this alone anyway, because I am very particular about how it’s done–I think you see the theme that’s developing here).  We were out of our driveway at 9am (that’s a PR for me) and heading out toward 1-90.

We breezed past the outlet mall in North Bend (stopping there is one hypocritical exception I will make, but I figured we’d go there on our way back to Seattle).  We then reached Ellensburg, and then the halfway mark at the Gorge.  This was major progress!

Somewhere past George I started talking to Elysia. Our conversation lasted about an hour and as we got to the end of it, I was hearing Imogen moaning in the back.  We were close to Moses Lake and I had promised Ian we would stop there for lunch.  We pulled up to a Subway/gas station combo and I said goodbye to Elysia.

Feeling extremely good about how things were going and that it was only around noon, I opened up the van doors to free my children.  Unfortunately, what I found was Imogen covered in wet, runny poo.  It had soaked through her clothes and down into the car seat.

This incident only slightly threw me off.  Moms, we’ve been here before; it’s known territory.  You just go with the “flow” so to speak and pun intended.  I got Imogen out, wiped her and her seat down with a million wipes, did my best to contain the poo in all the places it had ended up while keeping her from wiggling out of the van, put fresh clothes on her, and put the changing pad in the car seat to cover the wet areas.

This was, I might add, witnessed by everyone walking in and out of the store since I had parked right in front of the door (for our convenience, of course).

I was hand-sanitized and with children, onto the next potty stop for Ian and myself.  I decided to take with me only what was absolutely necessary, which was my keys and the little wallet that is attached to my key chain which contains my credit cards and driver’s license.

The gas station bathroom was very tolerable and included a handicap stall, which is a must for not only the handicapped, but also those of us with munchkins.

When we entered the stall, it was hard not to notice there were quite large skid marks in the toilet (I warned you with my title this post was going to contain foreign poop, so don’t blame me now for your own imagination).  The term skid marks almost seems to understate the amount of poop that was actually in the toilet, but that is indeed what was in there.

I flushed the toilet, but it was to no avail. We would deal with it–I was not giving up the space this handicap stall afforded me.

Now I will say I also get kinda OCD about public restrooms.  My basic motto with my kids is “Put your hands in your pockets and DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!”  I have developed a system with Ian where he can pee and still obey this rule.

With Imogen, I’m just going to have to discuss this with my counselor.  I don’t know how I will emotionally manage seeing her bottom and hands on a public toilet seat.  Shall we move on, please?

Ian had peed, Imogen was remaining mainly in one location and keeping her hands to herself, and so I took a very quick moment to go pee myself.

I completed my deed, thankful the children were not moving from their locations.  But as I pulled my pants up I heard a dreaded “Ker plunk!”

I knew what it was before I turned around–my keys and key chain wallet were in the toilet–WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S POOP.  I had stuck them in my back pocket since I didn’t have my coat on.

In moments like this you do not think; instead you act (I reached in and grabbed my keys)–and, admittedly, you say a cuss word or two.  At least this is what I do.

But once that’s over, and this is really only a matter of seconds, you start thinking–there’s a small pause–you say another cuss word just to set in stone how you’re feeling in the moment, and then you assess.  You wonder what you should do with the keys dangling from your finger and dripping onto the floor and the poop you can see on the side of your wallet.

And what about the children?!  My solution was to just start yelling “Nobody move! NOBODY MOVE!”

And I still hadn’t pulled my pants up all the way.  Agghh.

With a bit more yelling and frantic toilet paper grabbing I managed to set the keys down on a wad of TP (why I thought I needed to keep them “clean” from the floor germs I do not know).  I tried not to think about how much my nasty hands were touching my undies and pants as I pulled them up.  Any time the kids moved anywhere near the toilet I yelled “DON’T GO OVER THERE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”

Did I mention there was someone in the stall next to us?  I bet if she had a button in her purse that said “Mom of the Year” she would have handed it over the stall wall and I would’ve proudly pinned it to the front of my shirt.  But how I would have done this with poop germs on my hands I do not know.

We got ourselves out of the stall and I started frantically dousing the keys, wallet and everything in my wallet with water and soap, while trying to keep one eye on my children, particularly the smaller one who would want to wander back into a stall. My other child was just giving me the evil eye for yelling at him and all kinds of back talk was flying back and forth between he and I.

At a certain point I realized that dousing my key fab in water was probably not a good idea so I stopped that.  And then the lady in the stall came out and I sheepishly looked at her and said “Why don’t you go ahead, we’re going to be a while.”

She turned out to be really nice and told me this long story about how she dropped her iPhone in the toilet once and how she was able to save it.  She didn’t mention any poop was involved.  And then she left.  Sadly, no button, but also no condemnation.

At that point I decided we just needed to get out of Dodge.  We were in a serious danger zone of germs and at least I could take the nasty germs I had with me, leave the rest in there, go out to the van, put a haz mat suit on, and get down to business.

“NO, we will not be stopping for a sandwich at this moment, Ian,” I said as we walked by a wide array of tempting Subway toppings.  The response: more evil eye.

I put the kids in the back of the van and went to work.  No, I didn’t really have a haz mat suit, but now I’m seriously considering getting one.  What I did have were lots of baby wipes, Clorox disinfecting wipes and antibacterial hand stuff, all within hand’s reach.  These are the kind of moments when having OCD tendencies comes quite in handy.

All my cards and wallet (still trying not to think about that wallet) ended up Cloroxed.  My keys were scrubbed down as well and I doused myself and the kids with antibacterial rub.

And now we were going to go back in the store and eat?  Yuck. But, I had promised Ian Subway, which is his all-time favorite.  Plus, it is kinda negligent to not feed your children if they are hungry and if you have the ability to do so.  So, we went inside and got our food to go.  We were getting out of Dodge, remember?

As we got down the road Ian happily sat in the back and ate an entire 6-inch.  I forced myself to eat because I figured part of my emotional state was because I was hangry in the first place.  Imogen was just happy to not be sitting in her own poop.

It took me about ten miles or so down the road to stop being angry.  And then I felt relieved it was over and all I could do was laugh at how disgusting it all was. I figured it was a milestone for me; there would’ve been times in the past where I would’ve stayed mad a lot longer and in the moment of drama acted a lot worse to my children or those around me.

I will say, I was glad Jason was not there.  I don’t think I’m mature enough at this point to not have thrown my wrath on him, for no unexplainable reason or fault of his own.

I will confess that the first thing I did when I got to my mom’s house was to gruffly say to her “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” wipe down the car with more Clorox wipes, put my children in the bath, wash my clothes, and take a shower.

I threw the wallet away.  No amount of soaking it in bleach would erase the memory of seeing someone else’s poop on it.  And it was a nice wallet, too, and kind of sentimental to me.  But now I use my cheap Fred Meyer one because why have nice things if they’re just going to end up in the toilet?  (I acknowledge the irony and/or hypocrisy of this statement since I had left my new iPhone in the van before entering this traumatic scene).

There’s really no good way to end this story except to say that though awful, I’m growing up a bit.  Even in the craziness that is my current emotional troubles, on a good day, we did okay with something unexpected.  I did not curl up into a ball, burst into tears and let my children wander aimlessly through a gas station convenience store (or play in a public toilet).  In fact, everything else about the drive was enjoyable both before and after the incident–and we made record time, too!

This just proves in a small way that God gives you what you need exactly when you need it. For me right now this isn’t a picture perfect response in a troubling situation.  I’m just asking for a sound mind–and that’s what He gave me.

What do you do with the downhill?

In high school cross country, my most favorite race was on our school’s home course.  It was also probably the hardest course in our league of schools.

The first mile was really nice paved path, a bit of up and down, but it overlooked water and beautiful mountains.  The second was a relatively flat trail through woods.

The third mile started right around the time you hit what was (and maybe still is) infamously called “Goat Hill.”  It’s only probably 30 feet long but it’s steep, narrow, and dusty, just a little opening in the trees.  You obviously couldn’t pass anyone and in order to get up it you literally had to grab onto branches to pull yourself up. By the time you got up it and hit a paved road, your quads were screaming.

But oh no, it wasn’t over then.  After you crossed that paved road you were about to hit 800 meters of uphill trail.  Not steep, but not gradual either.   At this point, you already feel like you just want to lay down on the side of the road and die, but there’s more.  And more.  And believe me, those 800 meters feel a lot longer than the first two miles.

If you’re a runner, maybe you just laid your head down on your desk or a tear  trickled down your cheek and you whispered out loud “I’m so sorry . . .”  Or you got this surge inside that made you want to put on your running clothes and hit the pavement.  Or maybe both emotions happened at the same time.  There is sort of this weird paradox or ambivalence I think all runners have about the sport.

If you’re not a runner, then you probably are confused or you just think I’m crazy for running in the first place.  Stick with me, though.

The last time I ran the course at Farragut State Park was fall of 1999, as a senior.  I still distinctly remember those 800 meters.  I put my head down, dug in, and ran. And ran. And ran.  I was passing groups of girls as I went.  Even though it was hard, I felt a little bit superhuman.  I was surprising myself.

After you reach the top, the last couple hundred meters are flat and then downhill grass into the finish line.  It’s the reward, I suppose.  It’s what everyone wants, right?  Well, they want the finish line, but next to that, the grassy downhill feels quite nice.

Even at 17 years of age, I realized the downhill was not what I wanted.  I am no different now. I want Goat Hill.  And more than that I want that hellish 800 meters.  When I run downhill I feel like I’m flailing, like I can’t control myself.  Frankly, I feel kinda like an idiot.

I found this also to be true when I started riding my bike a few years ago.  When I told Jason that I actually like doing hills he told me there are a few categories of cyclists.  There are descenders, sprinters, and you guessed it . . . climbers.  And inside I take some pride in the fact that I can call myself a climber.  When I ride downhill I’m constantly wanting to hit my brakes.  I can’t just let the bike go.

I have found similarities in labor and childbirth, too.  The first time I labored, it was like I was running the hardest and longest race I’ve ever ran.  But I put my head down and I dug in.  And I did it.  And again, I surprised myself.

I got a baby out of the deal, and that’s Ian.  And it’s not like I wasn’t glad it was over.  But I really liked that it was hard.

But what do you do after you cross the finish line and have achieved probably the best race of your life?  Or, even greater than that, you hold that beautiful gift of a child in your arms?  What do you do when everything is all congrats and happy times?  To me, accepting these things is harder than it is to walk through hard stuff, if that makes any sense.

These “easy” times, these times of joy and peace, I resist them far more than those 800 meters. Or, the transition or the four hours of pushing a baby out.  Or the steepest hill I’ve ever climbed on my bike.

I’ve had a lot of the hard stuff in this particular season. I’m not denying that it has been scary, excruciating at times, confusing.  I’ve wanted it to go away, like right now.

But now I’m getting what I wanted. I’m having more good days, and I don’t know what to do with them.  With the plenty, the energy, the clarity in my head, the predictability of the days, the motivation, the feeling like myself.  How do you live life with God in that?

I still have some hard days and I cry out to the Lord (mostly).  I need Him.  But on the good days, it just feels like I’m flailing on the easy downhill that is this world, tempted to be satisfied and pleased with what temporary things are constantly offered to me–money, stuff, distractions, reputation, image.  There is this weight of guilt just hovering about it all, and I can’t shake it off.  I can’t just let go.  But there’s got to be a way of running the downhill a different way.

And so oddly, I feel like I’m grieving the loss of feeling bad.  I want a little more of it because it’s painful, it’s familiar.  I know how to talk to God in the mess, and I sense deep down He hears me.  Maybe I feel like I deserve it or I’m earning His love in some way.  I haven’t quite figured it out, but what do I expect when I follow a religion, a Person, that is somehow simple and complex all at once?

The last few days the lyrics to a song I’ve been listening to by Tenth Avenue North have been stuck in my head.  In fact, they were part of the inspiration for writing about this particular subject.

Don’t stop the madness
Don’t stop the chaos
Don’t stop the pain surrounding me
Don’t be afraid, Lord, to break my heart
Just bring me down to my knees

Don’t stop the uphill, Lord.  Yet, yeah, I could use a break, that would be nice.  I don’t know what I want, dangit, and I certainly don’t know what I need.  Only you know that, Lord.

I know life feeling bad can’t go on forever.  There aren’t races out there that are completely uphill, at least I don’t think there are.  People wouldn’t run them (except maybe me and a few other crazies).  And my husband and kids and family and friends can’t handle my uphill forever, and they shouldn’t have to.

The Gospel talks a lot about suffering, but it does talk about indescribable joy.  There are times when the Lord is speaking of the receiving of it in eternity, but there are others when He means joy in our days on this earth.  It’s not like we receive our inheritance then; in many ways, we are receiving it now and moving forward in it.

The Bible talks about the dead coming back to life, and the lame being healed.  Jesus did not expect Lazarus or the beggar or Jairus and his daughter to go looking for some other fatal illness that would make life scary and miserable and end in paralyzation or death.  Suffering would inevitably come again for each one of them, but He gave them indescribable joy in those moments of healing and in the times that followed for each one of them.

I picked up Brother Lawrence’s little book to help me see if I could resolve this a little more for myself.  He has been a dependable help before.  But as I read his words, all they did was irritate me.  Practicing the presence of God just seemed to come so easily to him, even from the beginning.  Being a glutton for punishment, I need some struggle!  I suppose I should just keep reading, life gets miserable for everyone at some point.

But do you see, I’m still missing the point here?  And so God leads me back around to try to learn this life lesson again.

Right now there are days when I’ve got to run the downhill because it’s part of my life’s course.  There will probably be more of these days ahead.  God will decide.  So how do I practice His presence, live my life unto the Lord in the daily running about of getting things done?  Or parenting, marriage, friendship?  How do I not live in a worldly fashion, in a superficial way?  How do I talk more to God than just think about Him?

And heaven forbid, how do I do the things that I really love doing and not feel like in some way I’m doing them disobediently, apart from Him, or avoiding Him? I told you, I’ve said it, I’m a glutton for punishment!

But, these are the things I tell myself: If I forget about God or my heart doesn’t want Him, I have grace.  I still have Him.  He holds all things together, regardless of their state.  He’s in the uphill and the downhill, He’s in the plateaus, He meets us at the finish line.  Although that “us” is corporate to followers of Jesus Christ, it also means me, because damn it, I’m His.  When will this sink in?  I hope it’s before I see His face.

On the good days, help me cling to these truths, Lord.  Do not let my fingers loosen their grip.

Maybe someone reading this can relate.  Maybe you’re a climber, too.  Or maybe, you thrive on the downhill and your fist raises up to heaven when the uphill comes; that’s when you loosen your grip.

Either way, we keep going and we try to figure it out.  And then we realize that trying to figuring out how to get up the hill or how to get down it is actually working against us.  And then God helps us do what we’re called to do–let go.

A chip off the old block

Ian started preschool the beginning of February.  To be honest, I just wanted and needed some cheap childcare (can I get an amen from any other parents on this one?)  I wanted someplace else Ian could go where there was a wholesome, pleasant atmosphere, where he could show & tell his stuff, obey adults, be nice to other kids, run around, and get his craft on.  And, I could be with one less kid for a few hours.

Many of you saw the photo on facebook the photo that confirms to the world that Ian loves preschool (and that picture was taken before he even got there on his first day!). I figured he would.  I think he was getting a little bored around our house.

I don’t care, at least at this point, about academic rigor, but he is learning some things, particularly about letters and their sounds.  And word around preschool town (and from Grandma Becky who’s got the direct line to other grandchildren) that four-year-olds have the ability to write their own name.

Well, Ian doesn’t do that, at least he didn’t (*spoiler alert*).  I’ve haven’t cared.   I’ve read those lists on Pinterest, the “Everything Your Kids Should Be Able to Do Before They Get to Kindergarten” ones and my half-hearted response has been “Whatever, he’ll get to it.”  It’s so shocking hear myself saying this, but this is something I don’t worry about (this category runs small for me).

Well, a week or so ago we were coloring at home (Ian had markers, Imogen was designated to colored pencils.  Note: Don’t EVER, EVER give markers to a toddler).  Since we had grandma reinforcements, I was feeling more on the confident side, so I casually mentioned to Ian, “When you’re done with that picture why don’t we work on writing your name?”

He was mildly disinterested but said “okay”.  So I wrote him an “I” and he tried to copy it.  There was a little bit of push back, but it came relatively easy so we went onto “A”.  That’s when the back-peddling started. “Nooooooo! I CAN’T DO IT!”  This was said over and over, with increasing desperation.

You and I know this is not true.  With his duplos, Ian can practically build a miniature-size version of Ludwig’s castle or a Blackbird stealth.  And then he can somehow pull both creations together into one self-entertaining epic storyline (which he whispers to himself – did we all do that as a kid or was that just me and now my offspring?).

Back to the name writing thing.  By this time, we had moved past frustration.  I sensed some tears coming on.  I sensed fear.

“My name is too hard to write!” Ian said.  Too bad that excuse doesn’t work since we gave him the EASIEST name in the world.  When both Grandma and I told him this his response was that he wanted a new name.

I told him he was too young to change his name and besides, Mama had prayed a lot about what his name should be and I felt that God had given Ian his name (it means “God is gracious”).  You can’t argue with God.  But, for fun I said “Alright, Ian, what would you want your name to be?”

He hesitated a moment and then sheepishly said, “Helga.”

I’m sorry, I laughed.  And Grandma laughed.  What the heck – Helga?!  Besides, that has a “G” in it.  If you won’t write a capital “A” good luck writing that one, Ian.

Thankfully, our laughter did not shame him.  It actually put the teeniest, tiniest crack of a smile on his face.

So, Ian mustered up the resolve to try an “A”.  He tried to copy the “A” I wrote and it was not a bad first attempt at all.  It looked a bit more like a crooked, wobbling ”H”, but heck, I’d take it.  And I praised him for it.

Well, Ian did not like his “A”.  In fact, he hated it.  He hated that we praised him for it.  “It’s NOT PERFECT!”

This is when I went into my time warp.  I can’t remember how young I was, but it was pretty young, when I started saying this to myself.  And I’ve been saying those words for a long time. I’m still saying them.  It has kept me from doing things in life, or it’s imprisoned me into doing them half-heartedly, or just giving up on them altogether.  And to be honest, I get angry about it, just like Ian does.

In the midst of my self-revelation, I was able to step outside myself for a moment and realize an invisible door was showing up.  As our pastor says, your kids “flash” you, so to speak. They show you what’s really in their heart, past the clenched fists and the evil eye.

I have been told when you see this flash, this invisible door, you leap headlong through it before it shuts in your face. And you pray and hope God shows up and you don’t mess things up.  Parents of older children can correct me if I’m wrong on this one (or least give us newer parents tips on how to successfully get through the door and not create dysfunction once inside).

Well, I went in that door.  It was double doors, because in actuality, this was just as much about me (maybe even more so) than it was about him.  Ian’s resistance shined a bright light; it brought me back to my own fears of things not being perfect.  Things HAVE to be perfect, gosh darnit!

I told Ian how there have been so many times I have been afraid to do things because they are hard.  I am scared, just like him, that I can’t do it.  I thought about all the things I tried as a kid – horseback riding, synchronized swimming, piano lessons, a myriad of art classes, basketball, golf, tennis, choir.  Some of these things I wasn’t good at, but some of them I could have been good at.  Some of them I was actually kinda good at and maybe, with time and practice, I could’ve been really good at them.

I need to make a side note to say that one of the only things I stuck with is writing.  And a degree in English Literature tried to suck that one out of me.  But, here I am, and truth be told, all those papers on literary criticism probably made me a stronger writer (and thinker) about life.

And so there Ian was and he listened to my speech and he understood as much as a four-year-old can about how some new things are scary and hard to try, but that God gives strength, and we can be proud of ourselves for trying and completing them, that practice makes us better at them, etc., etc.

And then he finished writing his name.  He still got angry when Grandma and I praised him for following through.  There were some more protests and slamming of his fists on the table.  But he did it.  This first attempt was written on the outside of a letter to Grandma T, but here is his second version, written underneath a painting of a big boat hooked up to Grandpa Brad’s red truck.

A few days later I was dropping Ian off at preschool and we were making small talk with one of his teachers. I encouraged Ian to tell Ms. Laurie about the new thing he learned how to do.  I had forgotten about the name-writing; I thought he was going to tell her how he’s riding his new two-wheeler (which was a cinch for him to learn), but instead he said “I can write my name now!”

He will always remember when he learned to ride his bike. It will probably be a memory of glorious freedom.  But I think in writing his name (at least I hope) he will remember God gives strength and courage to do new things.  They don’t have to be perfect the first time, or even ever.  And we can start on new things because we know these truths.

And I hope that I sit down at that beautiful piano that was such a wonderful gift to me and I play, even though it scares me.  And I write more and sing my heart out in the choir at church on Easter, and get the sewing machine out more than once a year and make something even if the stitch doesn’t come out absolutely perfect.

Thanks, Ian.  Thank you, God.

This season’s bucket list

Lately I’ve been thinking of things I want to accomplish. Maybe it’s me having this fanciful idea that I am more in control of my life than I actually am (not uncommon for me) or maybe it’s just me feeling better and looking forward to the future.

Actually, it’s probably both.  I do have this sort of Jekyll/Hyde thing going on in my personality (ask my husband).  And life is rarely black and white anyway.

This list is not really for when I’m better, but more things I want to accomplish on my journey. I don’t have a lot of expectations or a time frame. Well wait, that’s probably not true.  Somewhere in the far corners of my mind I almost always have expectations and deadlines for myself, but that is what therapy is for.

But, I digress.  Here is my list:

1. Go blonder.  It really does a help a girl.
2. Train and do an olympic duathlon.  I imagine myself crossing the finish line and having an emotional breakdown (the good kind) because LOOK AT ME I’VE COME SO FAR!!! (and I will mean in the figurative sense, not the literal one).
3. Paint that blue wall in my kitchen that I don’t like. Well, I’m not totally committed to this.  I just know I’ve been staring at it for four years and I don’t like the color, but I don’t know what color to paint it.  I think one day a burst of energy will collide with a burst of creativity and my husband will come home to crabby children who’ve been neglected all afternoon because “TAH DAH!!!” the wall is now a different color and Mommy was the culprit.
4. Start a collection of children’s books (and not for my children).  Actually, I’m already starting to do this with my own childhood books.  Some of them are on my shelf, some exist only on a Pinterest board for now.  What copies I do have I will guard with my life because my youngest is currently an obsessive compulsive page-ripper.
5. Mat, frame, and hang our marriage vows in our bedroom.  Oh, how flowery and hopeful we were when we wrote those words!  But at least I can look over at them when we’re fighting in bed and they’ll remind me to shut up and dang it,  just say I’m sorry and MEAN IT.
6. Have a “redo” on my marriage.  Ugh, that sounds so doomsday, but I don’t know how else to put it.  There was enough drama before we got to the altar, but since then we’ve had two miscarriages, four pregnancies, two children, and gone back to school and changed career courses.  We’ve had lots of fights and not as much laughter as we’d like.  Oh yes, and I’ve turned crazy for a while (well, more crazy, that is).  It’s time to slow down the drama and get to know each other and just heal and have fun.
7. Can I say go to Kauai?  I just want to go there, PPD or not.
8. Play the piano.  I’m not playing right now and God’s gently reminding me my soul needs it, but it’s scary to step into that creative realm with what little knowledge I have.
9. Stop racking up medical bills.  I’m going to love the day when that line item on our excel spreadsheet has a black number in it instead of a red.  It’s not just about the money; it just seems that at the end of the month that number (whether black or red) correlates emotionally to the state of my health. It says something about progress.
10. Make a PPD scrapbook.  This sounds so weird.  I wish I wasn’t using the word “scrapbook” but I’m not sure what else to call it.  I was reading this article, and it got me thinking it would be cool to document in tidbits the things that happen (good or bad) during this process and include some pictures, words of encouragement, etc.   I am an avid journaler so I guess I’m already putting this season into words for myself and for God, but to me this documentation would be more public.  It would be for my kids when they are older and for my 40 or 50 or 60 year-old self to read.  Or, maybe my daughter or daughter-in-law will find it useful someday.  Or maybe I’m just being redundant because I’m already doing that on this blog, I don’t know.

After this season, I have thoughts of also becoming a mushroom forager, learning how to play the banjo and cello at least relatively well, singing publicly, making jewelry, living on a farm, collecting doll houses, taking good pictures, and writing a book people would want to read. And I’d like Jason to walk me through Europe. Some of these just exist as dreams (because I’m afraid maybe I can’t accomplish them), others are more real to me.

I would also like to buy a house that I can spend years filling with antiques, books, photos, gifts from friends, family heirlooms and things I find on the side of the road or in little shops or in attics somewhere.  Actually, sometimes I imagine this house is my childhood home, but I’m not sure how that would ever become a reality.

But, these things are for later or for heaven or for never.  Some of them require me to be brave, others require money, time, energy or maturity.  For the sake of my sanity, I will just stick to my current bucket list.

Or maybe I won’t stick to it, only God knows.  No expectations, remember?

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1).

Preparing Ian for the woman in his life

A few days ago I had the hankering to try on my wedding dress.  (Is this weird?  I get the compulsion like once a year and/or when I think there is an inkling that I may be able to zip it up).  Anyway, I went into my bedroom to put it on and Ian waited outside the door.

When I came out three minutes later (which is like an hour in 4-year-old time) I said “TA DA!” And, not surprisingly, all I got was Ian’s grumpy face.

Now this face doesn’t mean he doesn’t like something.  I knew he was mad he had to wait outside the door, but I had told him that’s how it works.  Women put on their pretty outfits and men wait outside until it’s time to complement them.  He didn’t understand this and besides he wanted to play with the big white bag with the huge zipper on it.  His sister was nearby and he could’ve put her in it. But no, I had ruined that possibility.

In my presentation, not only did I get the grumpy face, I could tell he thought it was all a little strange.  Considering I had just come out of sweatpants, this is understandable.

I proceeded to sweep myself down the stairs and showed my mom on skype (who was also mildly uninterested).  I acted silly and fun about it (and as you can guess fun is a bit unusual around our house lately) and so Ian decided he was on board with my little game.

This was confirmed the next day when he asked me if I would try on some of my other pretty dresses.  It’s probably hard to believe since I’ve been rattling on about my extremely understated wardrobe as of late, but I consider myself to clean up pretty well, when I want or have to.  And I have quite a few cocktail dress options. (When do I wear these?  Never.) So, I tried on three different outfits for him.

When I got done I said, “So Ian which one did you like best?”

He told me he liked the purple one (a former bridesmaids dress that was the most frilly and foofy of the three).  I think it’s because I did the twirl in it that he requested.

Then I said “What about the first one I tried on, the red one?  I really liked that one.”

No, he liked the purple one best, he said.  And I could tell he was growing more and more disinterested by the millisecond.

Yet, in that moment, I found that small fountain of wisdom inside of me spring up with a tidbit of helpful advice for the 25-year-old version of Ian.

“Ian, when your wife says to you, ‘Does this look good on me? What do you think?” THIS is what you are supposed to say:

“Honey, I really liked outfit A (or B or C), but you looked great in all of them.   You should wear whatever you feel most comfortable in.”

What I didn’t say to him was that maybe one of his wife’s wardrobe selections was sweatpants. Ugh. Hopefully he doesn’t find himself in that situation.

It probably doesn’t matter anyway because my wisdom was nonchalantly dismissed. My guess is his brain was thinking about if he’d had dessert yet today (it was 9am), or if he could watch a video, or if the discipline that would be doled out would be worth messing up the bed I was making at that very moment.

At any rate, he wandered off and has not asked me to put on another pretty dress since.

Something tells me I was given a glimpse into the future:  the scene involves an annoyed woman who is getting no help from her husband in her very urgent outfit crisis.

But, the kid LOVES to give flowers, so I think she’ll forgive him.

Enough about me, here’s my cute kids

You all tell me on a regular basis how stinkin’ cute my kids are, and I agree.  So here’s a bit of a photo recap of the last few months.

At the zoo on Ian’s birthday back in December.

Our first family gingerbread house.  It was very easy and fun.  And, as you can tell it’s a traditional German Hexen Haus (going back to our roots).  Also, my youngest has crazy, wild hair all the time.  Which leads us to the next picture . . .

Imogen’s first haircut.  Here hair’s still pretty wild, though.

My children aren’t all that into actually brushing their teeth, they just play with their toothbrushes, which I find lying in random places around the house (the brushes, not the children).

Just even more proof of which of my children is photogenic and which isn’t.

I’m thankful both of my children are in a snuggling phase.

We got out the antique kitchen again (I watch it like a hawk and if Ian is in any way rough with it goes into the basement cave).  And of course there’s the girl with the wild hair again.

Typical Ian dance/ninja/Spiderman move.  The facial expression can also, at times, express his “I’m being a pill” mood, although that is not what was happening in this artistic moment.

Imogen’s moves.  The bed is her typical dance floor.

Totally unscripted, but so sweet.

Many of you have seen this one on facebook, but it’s worth sharing again – Ian’s first day of preschool.

And because of preschool, Ian’s getting way more into arts and crafts.  Here’s one of his creations.  I also think it’s kinda cute and fitting that the t-shirt he was wearing at the time says “Explore.”

Dress up time.  I promise she was smiling two seconds before this picture was taken.

That’s all, folks.  I will try to keep up on our flickr photostream.