Playing Grown Up

Well, here I am attempting a second time to write a post with more of myself included. I am no longer pontificating... have stepped down off the soap box. Is it more human and approachable this way? Perhaps I'll consider this a group therapy session. After all, you must be reading this blog for a reason. If it's to search to answers, I can only tell you, in all honesty, that I do not have them. But, perhaps we can discover some together. I'll go first.

Hi. My name is Andrea, and I feel under-equipped to deal with life. I suppose there are so very many more things I could admit to - over eating, over sleeping, over doing. But, I think I've come a long way by being able to really distill what's going on down to such a pithy and provocative statement. You see, I've always been the one able to handle it all. Keep all the balls in the air. Keep all the plates spinning. Now I've come to realize that those things are what the analogy implies : games - just part of an act. It looks good (and feels good) on stage, but when the makeup comes off and the costumes are put away at the end of the night, there are still children to raise, souls to save, bills to pay. Life is not the circus act.

My best friend and I (both of us turned 30 this year) were wondering together on the phone the other day why no one warned us of what it means to be a grown up. Why did no one tell us how serious and earnest this thing called life can be? Why did no one think to warn us that we would endure indescribable difficulties even as we enjoyed unparalleled joys? Why didn't anyone let us know that this is what it would be like? I've been trying to abdicate my adult responsibilities for years, but they keep coming back. All this time I've had the sneaking suspicion that this thing called life is perhaps a bit more serious and taxing than I wanted to let on.

For my friend, it all started with her first vacuum. You see - it wasn't her mother's vacuum. It wasn't borrowed. It wasn't temporary. It was hers. Forever. You don't buy a vacuum unless you need it. You don't need a vacuum unless you have a home. You don't have your own home unless you're a grown up. See the connection? To this day I think that vacuum causes her pause on good days, panic on bad ones. It's a sign that she - all of us, really - is inextricably engaged in the forward march of life, and that can be a sobering thought.

I, on the other hand, didn't have the sense to pause and consider the implications of my first vacuum. I was very young and idealistic when I plunged headlong into life. It wasn't until sometime after a college degree, two home purchases, a brand new car, three children, and a dying loved one later that I started to have the sneaking sort of panic that my friend's small appliances stirred up in her. Now I find myself very much entrenched in this thing called life, and feel ill equipped to handle it. Who am I to hold the hand of the dying? What do I know about helping those left behind in their grief? What words can I offer to bolster my brave husband, who faces the world with the weight of his family on his shoulders each day? Where will I go for the wisdom to bring forth these children that I feel so fiercely proud of and responsible for? How did I end up here?

Some days I think I'll wake to discover that it's all been a game of house. We (the good children, intently engaged in our play) will be called back to reality by our parents. We will put aside our drama and aprons and vacuums and go have a snack under the watchful eye of a capable and caring adult. Our vain striving over who is in charge, which person says what, where things will go, what we will do... it will all be forgotten. After all - if we are honest with ourselves in the deepest and darkest places in our hearts, we somehow sensed all along that it is foolishness to pretend we are really adults, don't we? Ahhh.... but what can be done about it? Therein lies the trouble.

And so, I will continue to be a little girl her mother's high heels. I will pray for wisdom in bringing forth and carefully preserving the treasures in my husband. I will shore him up on the days when I can see that he is a little boy in his father's tie and suit jacket. At least there is much comfort to be found in knowing that I am not playing this game alone. I will trust the promise God gave me that when I open my mouth, it is in wisdom, and the teaching of kindness will be on my tongue. When that promise is stretched thin and looks like it will run out, I will go to Him for a fresh slice of truth and a cold glass of grace. (Perhaps there is a kind parent who watches over this game of house after all...) I will guide and guard, praise and raise, teach and treasure my children each and every day. And, I will never, ever tell them what it's like to be a grownup - how earnest and serious life can be, and what indescribable difficulties and unparalleled joys you discover along the way -  because they deserve to discover it on their own.

Catching My Breath

So, I guess I haven't written in a while. Sorry 'bout that. I started this blog for  myself - a place to drop all the random little thoughts and tangents that rattle around in my brain all of the time. (It's very busy up there.) It surprised me that since the first entry it has emerged as a platform for cohesive messages and thoughts (at least most of the time)... a collection of essays more than a log of my daily comings and goings. Funny how that happens.

Now that my blog has started out thus, is it too late to change? Would my adoring fans (all 26 - and God bless each and every one of you) revolt? Stop reading? Complain to headquarters? Have me booted off the internet? Guess I'm going to have to take the leap of faith and hope I can make a giant U turn and redefine what this thing is all about, at least for a while. Apparently when I started this blog I needed a soapbox. Now I need a journal. Or a diary. Or a confessional. Maybe I don't know what I need, but that's never stopped me before. I guess what I think I need is just to be able to share everyday life in its simplicity, without having to have a point. After all, often life doesn't have a profound point, at least not one that can be immediately figured out. Sometimes the scattered events must be noted - jotted down and preserved for posterity - so that they can be examined later with more perspective. So - here goes.

It's been a long, hard 13 weeks. My beloved mother in law went into the hospital with end stage ovarian cancer in the end of February. She was there for 5 weeks, and in Hospice for another 2. That was 6 weeks ago, and it is still hard to think about it. It was a long haul, full of so many profound and difficult moments.  She taught me so much about myself during these past many years (we celebrated the 14th anniversary of our meeting a few days after she was admitted). She taught me about my husband. My children. My home. My God. It was not always easy, but it was good. She never lied to me, and we always loved each other.

Watching her slip away from us for the past 3 years since her diagnosis was awful. Watching her transition from this side of the veil to the other during her last 7 weeks was likewise awful, but also... well... life changing. Living without her for the past 6 weeks has been lonely. I am angry at God for what I thought He would do and didn't (I know - it's not logical or fair, but still feels pretty real nonetheless), but I am also so eternally grateful for the little graces and big lessons he granted during that time. He and I are still a bit on the outs, so to speak, but I can never again doubt that He is there, and He is listening, and His promises of life on the other side are real. She got to see it. Got to tell me about it. Got to pass on reassurances about beloved friends long gone. I was so caught up in caring for her, helping the rest of our family, participating in this enormous thing that was happening, that I am at a loss now that it's over.

I've never been a terribly 'slow and steady wins the race' type person. I move from one emergency to the next, expending every bit of energy I have with each and every one. If there's nothing particularly 'exciting' going on, I'll go and seek out someone who needs saving, a situation than needs to be fixed, a fire that needs to be put out. I breathe in (take a few days, sleep a lot, bum around in sweat pants, veg out), and then I breathe out (run! rescue! move! do! fix!).

I'm afraid, however, that I've broken myself this time. This event syncopated my life to the point of breaking my natural rhythm. In a very real way, I guess you could say that I haven't been able to catch my breath. I am quite literally 'exhausted' - consumed entirely, emptied, drawn off, a vacuum, void of previous content and value. I'm not even equipped to deal with the drama of dishes and laundry these days. Am I ever going to be able to go back to slaying dragons? Is there enough rest to be found to fix this worn out body and spirit? Will I ever draw that healing, deep breath again? I'm hoping that, just like the bigger picture - the "point" of life - that is often only found in the magical, mathematical formula of everyday life + some perspective, my healing will come one smile, one nap, one afternoon, one hug at a time. Guess I'll have to keep you posted.

Electron Annie!

Time and all my best laid plans
Cease to exist with shovel in hand...

 I garden the same way I clean house - randomly, and with reckless abandon. I often find myself out for a leisurely stroll around the yard or to pick up a bit of litter after church, and end up hours later with grass stains on the hem of my Sunday skirt and good, clean dirt under my fingernails. Oh, and a smile on my face. The same is true for cleaning (though it's less poetic to write about). I don't know how many times I've started in just to tidy up a little pile of papers and ended up mopping floors in good clothes. I'm not much of a planner, you see. Plus, life is so much more interesting that way, isn't it?

Do you remember looking at drawings of atoms in your high school chemistry book? They were so neat and ordered - the plump, happy protons with their cozy little neutron spouses, surrounded by a passel of electron babies whizzing around them in an orderly (albeit breakneck) manner. The diagram always implied that electrons followed a set pattern - much like the planets around the sun - always predictably in line and never bumping into one another or flying off into another 'nuclear' family's territory. In fact, scientists actually believe that electrons aren't quite the chubby little atomic cherubs we thought them to be. There is a theory called the Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle that describes electrons more in terms of being a wave than a particle. Bill Bryson (one of my favorite authors) summed it up thus in his excellent book A Short History of Nearly Everything:

What this means in practice is that you can never predict where an electron will be at any given moment. You can only list its probability of being there.... until it is observed, an electron must be regarded as being "at once everywhere and nowhere."

Well, there you have it. I must be an electron. At least, that's surely what my family must think of me. My children certainly believe me to be either everywhere or nowhere at once, apparently. Sometimes they can't hear me when I'm standing right next to them, and other times they marvel that I have seen or heard their devious little schemes. I guess you can say that this is one example of how well home schooling works. These three kids already have an innate and deep understanding of the complexities of  Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, and they're only 10, 6, and 3. For example, while they're not sure that it's totally possible for me to be in two places at once (or to disappear completely), they understand it, at least, as a theoretical possibility. They've also done some practical research on the topic, and have mapped out the most probable locations in which to find me. Apparently, according to them, I'm most likely to be in the bathroom or on the phone. Go figure. But, I digress...

I woke up today planning on cleaning, doing laundry, and catching up on bookwork. I'm not willing to concede that I'm still not going to do those things at some point today. Actually, I'm kind of already doing them, since I've got laundry in the machines, the dishwasher is open and half full, and my table is sprinkled with financial documents just waiting to be entered into the computer. There is still some probability that you might find me at one of those locations at some point today, albeit a low one. If I were a betting gal, though,  I'd say that it is much more likely that you'll find me outside today. After all, I've already felt the lure of the sunshine and gotten a bit of dirt under my nails while putting in some orphan plants given to me by a friend. (Of course, along the way I also started digging out an old tree stump, began weeding a flower bed, transferred a few strawberry plants, and got the yen to mow.) Whatever I end up doing, you can bet it will be seemingly random, but that's only to those uninitiated in the finer points of physics. After all, even those electric robot vacuums clean all the spots on the carpet eventually in their endless 'Roomba Rumba' dance through life.

I'm sure there are elements of the atom that scientists will continue to unfold as the years go by. God's handiwork is not well or easily understood by mere human minds, much as some scientists like to think otherwise. However, until they come up with a better theory, I'm in agreement with ol' Heisenberg. After all, just because no one can actually predict with any certainty where an electron (or I)  will be or what it (or I) will be doing in any given moment, I am content to know that God makes His own perfect order and purpose in what appears to be a confounding, seemingly haphazard series of events. At least, that's the story I tell my husband and children, and I'm sticking to it!

(I'm throwing in a bonus picture with this blog entry. Just in case I didn't really express myself well in words, or if you're more of a picture type person, below is an excellent illustration of exactly what I was talking about.)

Loss

I am bereft, adrift without a tether. It was one loss, and there are so many still here who ground me solidly. Yet, there is still a part of me floating through space, free-falling through the atmosphere, sinking beneath the waves. The loss itself has been nibbling away at her for months, but dealt its final blow in but a moment - a beat, a beat, silence. Now comes the agony of having to re-enter the atmosphere, the coming back to earth, the grounding. What a difficult landing it is proving to be.

I am finding myself first grieving over my loss of the past. There is no one else who can share with me that history, her history. No matter what facts were fuzzy, what details were disconnected in her stories, they were none the less the truth. They were the truth in a way that no one else can recreate, not only because they were hers and only hers, but because no one else walked the miles, saw the sights, felt the feelings, loved the people, lived each moment like she did. And these are just the stories that only she knew. What about the stories that only she and I together knew, only she and I together lived? With no one left to share them, they become a burden too big to carry. What was once a word or phrase that brought knowing smiles, shared laughter, a twin twinkle in our eyes, now brings heaviness and hurt. I don't want to rid myself of them, but I don't want to be the only one to remember them either.

Next, I find myself grieving over my loss of the future. As much as it makes my heart ache to carry our shared stories alone, the hurt is tenfold to think that there will never again be any more of them.What adventures are left unexperienced? What places left unvisited? What people left unmet? What words left unspoken? What love left unshared? I feel stunted, limited, orphaned, cheated. Where will I go when I need only what she has been able to give me? Who will I call when I need to hear only what she has to say? How will I solve the problems to which she has been the only answer? I know there will always be another place, another voice, another answer, but I resent the searching I've now been burdened with since she is gone. Will I become all that I am to be since I do not have her anymore? The future will suffer because of this event at this moment in time.

And now I think of it - this moment. Forget yesterday. Forget tomorrow. My grief is focused now on now. If she were here, I would consult her. If she weren't gone, I would have her read this over, get her advice, reminisce, straighten my thoughts, laugh a little, get perspective. I know that our shared past isn't really gone, no matter how much it hurts to think of it. I will tuck it away and unfurl it bit by bit again as time goes by. I know that the loss of our shared future is, at this point, but a vague and intangible potential. It will become more real, but only gradually, and in keeping with the healing that I know will come to my heart.

I know all of these things. But, I also know, because every nerve in my body is screaming it at me, that the loss I feel now is real and immediate. It is not a paper dragon. It is not a threat of pain. It is pain right now. Right here. In this moment. It is tearing and aching. It is raw and hot and paralyzing, and it is mine. Much as I know she would have been willing to share it with me, I guess I'm going to have to field this one on my own. It will be my first hurt unshared with her - a new beginning born out of a new loss.

Pregnancy - Nature's Hostile Body Takeover

Warning: This blog contains mature content that is not suitable for children. Or men. Sorry, guys... This one is for the ladies only. Don't say you haven't been warned!


I am now just over three years out from my last pregnancy. It is a bit off putting to be in public, surrounded by pregnant women and nursing moms, and to realize that I have aged out (or, as I prefer to think of it, 'experienced out') of that club. I really thought that babies and bellies would be my reality for eternity. After all, I have spent 2 1/2 years pregnant, 5 years breastfeeding, 3 days in labor, and exactly 38,465,342.8 hours worrying about parenting decisions I've either made, am making, or have yet to make. Being a mom isn't for the fainthearted.

No one tells you what it's going to be like, do they? I mean, I know part of that is our fault, as new mothers, because we are so convinced we know what we're doing that when a well-meaning friend tries to give us advice, we roll our eyes and snicker behind our hands at them. "Well, sure you had to use a pacifier with YOUR baby, but MINE won't have any anxiety issues, and therefore won't need external comforting." Spoken like a true preggo or newbie. Just wait until the middle the night about 3 days in - you know, right after you've gone home from the hospital and it's just you and Angel Baby staring at each other by the glow of the nightlight. You'll be desperately digging in the bottom of the diaper bag to find that pacifier too, momma. Trust me on this one.

No, new moms aren't known for their willingness to take advice, but maybe that's because they feel ever so slightly lied to. Let me give you an example. When a pregnant mom asks me what pregnancy was like, I tell the truth - it was wonderful. I loved every minute of it. Couldn't believe what a magical experience it was. Would do it again in a heartbeat. Etc... This, of course, is the perspective I have about it now. You know, now that I'm on the other side of it. Now that it is becoming a memory. Now that I've reaped the rewards. I'm not lying when I say that pregnancy is awesome, but perhaps I'm also not telling the truth, the WHOLE truth, and nothing but the truth as I might have been experiencing it at the time.

The whole truth, of course, involves a bit of unpleasantness. It involves aches in body parts I didn't even know I had. Before I got pregnant I was only vaguely aware of being in possession of a cervix.  I had never seen said cervix. I didn't have an owner's manual on it, had never changed its oil or had it tuned, and I certainly didn't know it could hurt. Further, I never guessed that it would become fair game for discussions with colleagues after visits to the doctor. Let's face it - it's fair game for discussion with everyone near the end, when even great-aunt Lucy will ask how far dilated you are. (This is the same woman, by the way, who always chastised you for not acting like more of a lady when you were young, and now she's hollering into the phone to see how stretched and skewed your most private of parts has become.) By the end of it all, 3 doctors, 10 medical students, 18 nurses, and a cleaning lady who doesn't know how to knock before entering will all have seen the very same cervix you've still not been properly introduced to.

The whole truth also involves, shall we say... anatomical reorganization. These are similar to the theories discussed in college geology classes - poles shifting and causing wobbles and a loss of balance, new hilly eruptions and subsequent foliage cover, bulges in the equator, and the heartbreaking, gradual sinking of northern mountain ranges. Stuff just doesn't stay put when you're pregnant. Your belly button thrusts forward, as if trying to escape the disruptions to its previously-peaceful domain. Your feet widen. Your organs squish and slosh (sometimes even leaking). Fact of the matter is, you even get new body parts. It's true. Look it up. (Or, if you're pregnant, just look down.) Let me explain...


The human body is full of strange sounding parts. You have to wonder if the only reason some people go into medicine is because no other area of science or technology would hire them because of their funny names. They only backed into stellar careers in gastroenterology or otoloaryngology because their initial interviews at, say, NASA or the National Parks Service went something like this: 


"I'm terribly sorry, Mr... uh....Kiesselbach, is it? Though your credentials are excellent, we can't run the risk of you discovering something truly remarkable and then wanting to name it after yourself. It's just a PR nightmare. Have you ever considered medicine, though?" 

So, that's why we now have parts inside each and every one of us that sound like they're more likely to be out of a Star Wars movie than a medical text. I kid you not - if you looked hard enough (and knew where to look) you could find your very own Hydatid of Morgangi (didn't he rule the Mongols in the mid 1500's?), Islets of Langerhans (makes you want to vacation there some time, doesn't it?), Space of Moll (right next to the Black Hole of Moll), and White Line of Tolt (every bit as spectacular as the White Cliffs of Dover, but not nearly as crowded). 

Anyway, these funny little innards are silently working away inside you all the time. But, when you're pregnant and breastfeeding is the only time that your Montgomery's Tubercles kick into gear. They're actually little bumps around your nipples that secrete a special oil to keep things properly lubed for breastfeeding. Montgomery originally described these glands as "a constellation of miniature nipples scattered over a milky way." Very poetic. Most women, however, describe them as just another part of the hostile body takeover that is pregnancy. Oily bumps. On your breasts, no less. Great. Unfortunately, they go perfectly with those dark hairs you sprout on your upper lip and the unexpected gift that is urinary incontinence. You see why pregnant women don't exactly fall for my 'everything is beautiful' explanation of motherhood?

No, one cannot deny that there are some parts of pregnancy that aren't all glowing beauty. Here's the thing, though - that doesn't all magically go away when you give birth. That first post-baby look in the mirror is quite a shock. Your breasts sag. Your belly is floppy. Your stretch marks shine. Your leg hair is thicker. You see things you haven't seen in 9 months, and they're not pretty. Worst of all, you're convinced you're never going to be the same again. And, I've got to level with you here - you won't. Sure, things will get better. Heck, you might even get back into your old clothes and look just as smokin' as you did before, but you will still be forever changed. You will regard your body with new respect. You will cherish the memories, and honor the sacrifices it has made. Those aren't stretch marks - they're battle scars, and you've earned 'em, momma -  just like you've earned a special membership into the exclusive Mommy club, and the right to tell expectant mothers the same truth about pregnancy you heard all along- it's absolutely wonderful!

Friendship Happens

I am amazed at the process of friendship. It happens when you least expect it, often when you don't even want it to, and most of the time it is completely beyond your control. I mean, there I was one day going about my own business, when I happened to meet a boy. He was nice. I liked him. We talked on the phone, went out to dinner a few times. Next thing you know, we've been married 10 years and have 3 small children living with us. (I'm told they're our children. But, of course, we're far too young to have kids of our own. I think they just popped in from the neighbors' house and liked our food so they stuck around.)

Anyway, somewhere between that Friday night in September almost 15 years ago and now I've gained a best friend -  my husband, and three amazing young ladies with whom I am privileged to spend most of my waking hours. Let's be honest here, I spend much of my sleeping hours with the younger two as well, as they still tend to migrate to our room at night. There you go again - a perfect example of friendship occurring in the strangest of ways. Who else would I allow to cry at me, poop at me, vomit at me, and kick me all night and still love as much I do these children? And, don't forget - they're also eating all my food. Friendship is a funny, funny thing.

But, of course, it doesn't stop there. Attached to my husband (at least figuratively, if not sometimes literally) are relatives. He's got parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, grandparents. These people slowly started encroaching on my circle of acquaintances from the very first day I met Mark - initially as only as faceless characters in the stories my future-husband told me over dinner.  Of course, that soon changed. With each passing holiday or social gathering they gained standing in my friendship lineup - moving up from batboy into cleanup position. Now, these people are among my heavy hitters - often my go to batters. How did that happen? I'll tell you how...

Since I wasn't exactly out husband shopping that night in September almost 15 years ago (I know I've said that already, but 15 years... seriously!?), I wasn't thinking of the long-term consequences of that boy calling me up the next day. I know we need to educate young people about the effects that their youthful indiscretions and energetic actions can have on the rest of their lives. But, I'd say I was far better informed about sex, drugs, and rock and roll as a teenager than I was about the cold, hard facts about acquaintances, friendship, and love. Oh, you think you'll be able to play around and stop whenever you want to, but before you know it you'll wake up a dozen years later with an in-law habit that won't quit, craving time with your husband's friends, and (as long as we're being frank, here) hanging out with a totally different crowd than you used to when you were young and innocent.

Often, they'll expose you to bad habits - like baseball and seafood. You'll start inviting them over more and more often, spend your money on vacations and gifts. At some point in the process you will have to look at yourself in the mirror and admit that you are addicted. Not only that - but you've gone and spread the addiction to your own friends and family as well. There will be times when you'll look around you and see your family, his family, and families you never even dreamed of knowing all hopped up on sugar and good times together, and you'll have to admit that you're the one who brought this about. You're the one who created this chain of people addicted to each other. You're the one - you and that night 15 years ago. How did it all spiral out of your control so quickly?

Next time you're surrounded by these family and friends, brought together only by your actions, I hope you're pleased with yourself and the situation you've created. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize that the term 'in-law' has become obsolete and unnecessary. I hope you're pleased with yourself at night when you can't sleep because you're worried about people you didn't even know when you were a kid. I hope you're pleased with yourself when no one can remember who was on the groom's side or the bride's side at the wedding, since they're all piled in together at one table during the holidays now. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize the imperceptible process of friendship that has taken place in your life. I hope you're pleased with yourself and the people you're surrounded by. I do sincerely hope so, because I know I am....

Spring

It is time! The captives are returning home, the ravages of war are receding, and I'm beginning to believe that we just might live to see another day. It's a cyclical battle that rages around us - the combatants scheming in their lairs when not engaged in active warfare. When the forces collide they leave destruction on their wake, and it's come to the point where the locals barely notice a change in power. Invaders from the north? Terrorists from without? Factions within political parties? Nope - just Old Man Winter and Spring in their eternal tug of war.

Our snow is almost all melted now. I'm a combat veteran, so I know better than to think there won't be a few last barrages of snow before an official ceasefire is called, but the tide has turned and I think that Spring is most certainly going to be victorious. Trust me - there were times when I wasn't so sure. There's typically at least a temporary shift in power in mid-January, which didn't happen this year. Winter has apparently been improving its training techniques. No, one thaw does not a summer make, but just as surely as the first killing frost has power, so too does the pull of Spring.

When winter comes, it often appears to do so suddenly, but only because we are not paying attention. We disregard the threats -  pretend we don't see the subtle shifting of the landscape, the invading army camouflaged in reds and oranges. We fool ourselves into thinking that early frosts are just heavy dews, that cold rains are a relief after the heat of summer. But, try as we might, there comes a point when we can no longer ignore the fact that the enemy has surrounded us, and has set up camp to stay. By the time we are pulling on the armor of sweaters and jackets, we've already lost the fight. The first heavy frost of the season kills the vegetative resistance. The geese and songbirds take flight. The squirrels and rabbits go underground. We often don't realize that the battle is lost until the snow slides in to claim the land for its own.

But, of course, even if winter won the battle, it never fully wins the war. All through the dreary months when we suffer under Winter's tyranny, Spring is gathering strength, calling for reinforcements, and planning for its victorious return. Sometimes it engages the enemy in an exhausting and drawn-out campaign. Some years it sneaks in, planting its forces until is has winter surrounded and calls for an immediate surrender. This year, though, it rode in strong and hit hard, striking a decisive blow. The tyrant, snow, has been unseated. Freezing temperatures are afraid to even make night-time attacks, and the first blush of green has returned to the landscape. Come back, you refugees. Come out from hiding, you prisoners of war. Spring has returned and is victorious once more!

Tonight I will fall asleep to the artillery of a beautiful Spring lightning storm. There will be more battles in the weeks to come - with winter throwing all the cold and snow and ice it has left at us, and Spring fighting back with glorious sunshine, sudden explosions of color and life, and the subtle strength of a warm, southern wind. At some point we will all cheer the final seasonal departure of Winter to his retreat. I know he will be plotting his revenge while I am reveling in the heat of summer, but that's ok. The eternal seasonal war may be never ending, but at least winter is not!

Dumb

Apparently people are dumb. At least, that's what I'm beginning to infer from the evidence around me. Speaking as a member of this elite group (currently a smidgen over 6.8 billion strong worldwide) I am reluctant to believe it, though apparently it must be so based on the warnings, advisories, threats, and even pleas found on products in our daily lives which urge us to exercise caution when interacting with the world around us. Case in point : toilet paper.

I was a captive audience in a public restroom yesterday, so to speak, and I noticed writing in the most unusual place. No, it was not etched into the wall, it did not list a phone number, and it wasn't even in regard to how to meet new people or have a good time. It was about toilet paper. Specifically, how to tear it off. Now, it's insulting enough to have the makers of a toilet paper dispenser presume that I cannot see the second roll of TP inside the unit ("this until contains 2 rolls"), and a bit more troubling that someone would be left to handle personal hygiene on their own if they couldn't figure out how to slide the door to get to that second roll ("slide door to access second roll"). But, the real stumper for me was the three words of wisdom written in raised letters at the bottom of the unit - "tear paper here." Really?

Let's say for just a moment that you've never seen a toilet paper dispenser before. Perhaps you've been living in a shanty somewhere and only had access to plain ol' TP with no holder. Or, for the sake of argument, let's even pretend that you've never seen toilet paper before in your life. There you are, suddenly transported to this dazzling public restroom with only your rugged, backwoods experience to guide you through the potty process. Will you be thinking, "Wow... thank goodness for these clear and insightful instructions? I might have really messed this up without the careful guidance and assistance that the toilet paper dispenser company so thoughtfully provided?" Probably not. Probably, you'd yank on the TP like everyone else - it's pretty intuitive, isn't it?  In the process, the paper would tear (it is only thin paper, after all... it's not like they're providing duct tape for the task at hand) and you'd finish your business and move on.

At least, that's what I would expect would happen. Apparently, however, I have overestimated the intelligence of the human race. These types of warnings are everywhere. My Sharpie marker tells me to re-cap when not in use - in case I hadn't yet figured out to keep it from drying out as it marked all over my couch and/or the inside of my purse. A little box of raisins tells me, in essence, that even though they've made my eating experience as sanitized as possible, bits of seed or stem might occasionally make their way into the product. Go figure. My computer charger tells me I should not stick electrical plugs where they do not belong - especially outside. This is sage advice, and might just help me avoid disaster next time I considered jump starting my car by plugging the charger into my cigarette lighter.  Heck - even my lotion advises that it's not for use in eyes. Pity, because a glop of lotion right in the eyeball sounds so appealing, too.

The worst part is, these are all just everyday items within easy reach of my chair. Heaven knows what kinds of warnings you find in more exciting areas, like the laundry room, kitchen, or even... the garage! The latter, I might add, is full of items with graphic drawings of stick people in various stages of injury. I guess these are for folks who don't take time to read instructions, but might take a quick glance at the packaging. Apparently artists who don't have sufficient skills to make it big drawing macabre comic books eventually give up and settle into a steady career in the 'product safety warning' industry. At least there's job security there!

I know, I know... these warnings are necessary to help make daily life go a little more smoothly and to protect companies from ridiculous lawsuits. I'd heard the rumors for years about outrageous legal action, but decided to check it out for myself. Here are a few examples from the past few years:

A woman sued the Mars candy company for $250,000 in "permanent personal injury", claiming that she knew the candies were chewy, but they were "so chewy they should come with a warning." You have to wonder what kinds of injuries she incurred from chewing a Starburst.

Then, of course, there was the case of the woman who sued a furniture store for tripping over a toddler in front of their store. She was awarded $80,000, despite the fact that the toddler her child. Who knew - you can actually get paid for being a negligent parent. All that extra time I'll have once I start ignoring my children can be spent hanging out by the mail box, waiting for my first check. 

The granddaddy of them all (or perhaps, more accurately, the grandmother of them all) was the case of 79 year old Stella Liebeck who sued McDonalds in 1992 and was awarded a whopping $640,000 for having burned herself on hot coffee. Next time you see the "caution - contents might be hot" warning on a lid, you can thank Stella.Of course, you can also thank her that products are significantly more expensive now than they used to be since companies have to cover their 'bottom lines" from every potential crazy person with access to a lawyer...

Ok - maybe people are deserving of patronizing labels and intelligence-insulting instructions if we are so stupid that we would sue over our own ineptitude. I'm beginning to think that there needs to some sort of entrance exam into this club called humanity. Better yet, in keeping with the pace of modern society, perhaps we could start putting a label on each new baby -  something like, "warning - this unit might grow into a litigious adult. Parent with extreme caution."

Cancer

I hate to re-state the obvious, but cancer sucks. Even as I write I am painfully aware of just how inadequate words are at expressing all that cancer entails - even more so since I am not the one with the disease, but merely along for the ride as my beloved friend struggles with it.

Along for the ride, or perhaps more accurately, hijacked by it. Our family was on a lovely trip together, when cancer climbed into the car with us and began making demands. At first we tried to ignore him, pretending he wasn't there. When he finally became unavoidable, we started planning for how nice the trip would be once he left. Then we started scheming ways to get rid of him. We prayed. We bargained. We plead. Now we just ride in silence.

At some point very recently it became apparent that he was not going to leave. More than that, he was also not going to be joining us on our planned ride, but was commandeering the vehicle, and would choose when and where my friend got off. We politely asked if he would at least allow us to slow down a bit, that we might enjoy the scenery along the way, but he seems to be in an awful hurry. The best we know to do now is to sit and hold her hand as we draw close.

At least this is true - we find comfort in the fact that cancer may have driven her, but all roads lead to home. This was not the trip we planned, but there was a plan all along. We are to the point now where the car is starting to slow, and all that is left to do is to help her gather her things and await the destination. Though we are all sad for her end here, we are also looking forward to her new beginning, free from the seatmate that has made things so unpleasant.

It's true - this is not the trip we had hoped for, but I think we're all glad to have been along for the ride, nonetheless. How else would we have learned to say so much with so few words? More importantly, what else could teach us that sometimes we don't need words at all to say what we really mean? We have come to find peace even when we are not in control, patience when we want to scream, strength when we want to cry. Perhaps these are better souvenirs than the ten-cent trinkets we would have picked ourselves on this trip called life.

I guess it's clear now that this was not just a temporary detour. Our plans did not work out like we had hoped, though I can hardly even remember what those plans were now. To be sure, they might have been more fun or more exciting, but they could not have been more important, and certainly would never have taught us about grace and love so thoroughly.

When she departs, she will be loosed from the grip of our cruel co-passenger and will run into the open arms of a loving father. In that moment He will smile and motion us onward, for our journey is not done, though we must make the next leg without her. And, whatever sights we see, places we go, or passengers may yet climb, unbidden, into the car with us in years to come, I know that we will never regret the trip and can trust that our common destination will be worth every mile. And, when we all arrive there together, oh - what stories we will have to tell each other, and what plans we will once again make!

Success By Any Other Name...

I was voted most likely to succeed in my high school class. Well, most likely to succeed, or smartest. I don't really remember, and it's not worth digging out my yearbook to find out. To be honest with you, it didn't mean a whole lot to me then, and it still doesn't today. In fact, I haven't even thought about any of that stuff in over 10 years, until it was brought to mind in a somewhat jarring fashion today.

A colleague of mine recounted a conversation she had recently with  someone who 'knew me then'. When this woman found out that I was spending my time changing diapers and helping fellow home schoolers, she shook her head and said of me, "she had so much potential..." Apparently, at least according to her, I could have really been someone. I guess that's a nice vote of confidence, but I was as disappointed by her statement as she must have been by my lack of "success".

See, all this time I've been laboring under the misconception that I am not just someone waiting to be, but that I already am someone important. I guess I figure that I have been living up to my full potential - making a difference in the world in a meaningful way, doing good deeds, living a life of purpose and importance. A life of wiping noses and cleaning up spilled beverages, to be sure, but an important life, none the less.

I can't really blame her, I guess. I know that, by the standards of this world, I have failed to achieve the success that I could have. I don't have a high-falutin' job or a fat paycheck. I don't have a big, fancy house or an expensive car. I don't even have cable. My children still wear hand-me-downs, and I shop at secondhand stores for clothing, and discount stores for everything else. How can I be sure I'm meeting my full potential when I don't even meet any of the standard measures of a success these days?

Well, it turns out that there are better measures to be found. Just this evening my youngest child came up to me, in all of her innocent, earnest, three-year-old wisdom, and asked, "Mommy, how tall do you weigh?" I replied (in what I thought was the most appropriate answer to such a question)  "I weigh 5' 10".

Apparently I was wrong. She said I weigh 22 minutes, and that that's too big. Hmm.Who knew? Just goes to show you, even valedictorians get the answer wrong once in a while. (Ok, technically I wasn't valedictorian of my class, since I graduated early and wasn't eligible to be considered for the honor, but it fit into the theme of the blog nicely, so I just went with it.)

I know, I know... my three-year-old's unit of measure doesn't make any sense. (And, who said that 22 minutes is too big, anyway? Sure, I could stand to lose a few seconds here and there... But, I think that I'm very healthy at 22 minutes, especially if you take into account that I'm a tall girl - I do weigh almost six feet, after all!)  Anyway, her unit of measure may be not be logical, but neither is any other if you think about it. The fact that I had the time to talk with my daughter tonight is worth far more than a six-figure salary. Having her help me make supper was better than a power lunch any day, and the fact that she really knows me and I really know her are far, far better things than any amount of fame or world-wide notoriety I could have achieved.

When I graduated from high school, I was ready to take on the world. To leave my mark in life. I wanted to reach for the stars. I wanted to succeed.  I finally realize what that all means. What good is it to gain the whole world, but lose your soul by selling out, giving in, and giving up what matters most? How can you leave your mark in life when you are so much like everyone else that you don't leave a lasting impression?  This summer I laid on the lawn with my giggly girls watching a meteor shower. My five-year-old would gleefully reach up and try to catch God's fireworks as they shot across the sky. We may have failed to actually ever reach any of those blazing stars, but the fact that we were there and trying together is its own kind of success...

The Putting On and the Taking Off

Tonight we had dinner with some friends. Their kids played with our kids. We laughed and reminisced, and eventually my life-long friend and I ended up at the computer looking at pictures of our children. I held her 10 month old, looking past his chubby fingers as he grabbed my nose and poked my cheeks. We struggled to identify which newborn baby was which in the photos - they were all so other world-ly, so present but so distant.

I remember when my babies were first born. They were so vigorous and alive - constantly moving, as if to explore and prove their vitality, though perhaps only to themselves. Each movement was practiced over and over again. Each limb and digit exercised carefully. They were trying on their bodies, testing out the parameters of this new dimension. It was clear enough that the physical part was new, but they certainly were not.

I often thought of my children as old souls. I guess, really, all babies are. The inability to focus, the cries of frustration, the depth of slumber required to bring rest - they all spoke of the incredible amount of work that it was taking for their little spirits - their little selves - to remain present in this realm. To learn it. To experience it. To stick with it. Oh, how much easier must the world they came from only a short while before have been?

Tonight as I held my friend's ten month old son - who had learned to control his hands, to focus his eyes, to engage his spirit - I realized that he had adapted already to his body and this world. If I listened hard enough, I could still hear the hush of a newborn in his deliberate breathing, but it was clear that he was firmly and almost entirely settled in the here and now, even at only 10 months old.

Her two-year-old ran by, sturdy and sure on her little legs, and smiled in passing. She mumbled something about the mission she was on - probably to get more pizza or another dress up dress. Then my three-year-old hollered from the other room, asking for water. So it continued throughout the evening with our respective four, five, and nine-year-old children. Each of them so much more capable than the last. So much more comfortable and in control in their bodies and minds. So much farther from the squinty-eyed, heaven-drenched newborns they had been.

It takes us years to fully adapt to this realm, this reality, this space and time and place that we live in. Our spirits, so present and developed already at birth, stretching out to learn our bodies, and fill each niche. Eventually, we come to be adults - sure and seamless. We (that is, our spirits, which have been here since the beginning) become empowered by the very bodies that took us so long to learn and control. Our arms and legs, hands and feet, fingers and toes - they no longer hold us back by their stubborn rebellion. But, having filled and fully integrated with them, they now free us to express our true selves.

I marveled at that this evening. Rejoiced at it. Let the miracle of that reality settle in. But, as the photos passed by on the screen I began to look beyond the babies - to the hands and faces of the ones holding those infants. The mothers. The fathers. The grandparents. It was then that I started to think about not only the coupling of our bodies with our spirits, but the uncoupling that comes eventually - the process of taking off and laying aside.

Near the end, the fingers numb and become clumsy. Movements slow. The shuffling gait belies not just an aging of the body, but a yearning of the spirit to move freely, once again. Where we find ourselves forgetting is not so much an inability to recall, but perhaps a disentangling of our forever selves from our temporary selves. As hard as it is to fill the body, how much more so to empty it.

I am in the middle - eyes newly opened to the miracle process that unites body and spirit at birth and babyhood, and just beginning to watch those I've loved for so long start their own process of release, of letting go. I find myself wishing that I could encompass all of those around me - lasso them, embrace them - pulling them also to the middle. That through willing it to be so, the babies might hurry to gain their voices, and those slipping from me might turn back from the journey they are on.

But, it is not meant to be. I would not, really, wish to hasten any child from the freshness of God's presence, though I linger near to catch a glimpse of His light, a breath of His presence when I am with them, and count those moments as a privileged worship before the Lord.

And, as much as I would like to hold on forever to my loved ones, I would not presume that my best forever could rival even the first moment of their joyful freedom on the other side of this realm. So, I will linger near to them as well, and surely also catch a glimpse of His light and a breath of His presence, even as the light and breath of those dear ones fade. And when that final moment comes that they have fully stepped out of their robes of flesh -  that moment, too, I will count as a privileged worship before the Lord, who gives order to all things.

The Things I Put Up With Around Here!

I've been thinking about writing a book lately. Sure, there are plenty of useful and brilliant things I could write about - the great American novel, profound thoughts that would change peoples' lives, inspiring words of wisdom that would frame a generation... But, what I really feel compelled to write about is all the everyday stuff that we put up with.

Don't take me wrong, here. When I say 'put up with,' there is no negative connotation implied. I am a firm believer in living an empowered life, and never being a victim of circumstances. Indeed, I don't believe in being a victim at all, and loathe all forms of self pity and spinelessness.  I don't dole out the band aids or Kleenex without really good reason, and believe that the best way to get ahead is by a firm pulling upward on one's own bootstraps - and no slacking off when doing so either. You best be sure you're helping others along the way. (Imagine having to have ME as a mother!)

No, when I say that there are things that I have to put up with, it's really a reflection of my priorities. If something gets problematic enough to stop the effective flow of my life, I'll deal with it. If it's just a minor annoyance, I'm likely to leave it alone. Since I'm not really a detail oriented person, the list of little things that I'm willing to put up with has gotten progressively longer the older I get.

Most of these little hitches in my get a long, so to speak, are minor. I'm sure that, if I set my mind to it, I could probably fix half the list in the course a single long afternoon and with only a few of my hard-earned dollars expended in the process. But, where am I going to find a free afternoon and few dollars that converge all at once? If I have free time and money, I'm certainly going to find more interesting ways to spend them! Plus, if I fixed all the little stuff, what would I have to write about?

Here's a list of my favorite little problems that I put up with in everyday life. Feel free to share yours. Who knows - they might even make it into my book! ;)

• My dryer isn't level. When I open the door to load or unload clothes, the door swings shut automatically. I often find myself propping the door open with one leg, as I lean over to the front-load washer and drag an armload of wet clothes into the dryer's gaping mouth. Sometimes I prop it open by putting the broom in front of the door, or require one of my younger children to hold it open for me. Occasionally I'll have had a day full of minor annoyances, and (unable to face another) I will just give the task of switching loads to my oldest child. On the up side - for the first year we lived here the dryer was not level AND the washer door swung the wrong direction, causing me to have to drag wet clothes over the door in order to get them into the dryer. Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes. Cost : $0

• I have a Betty Crocker Cookbook from 1968 that has a permanent place of honor on my kitchen counter. It rocks. I use it at least 3 times a week. It has everything you could possibly want to make, including some recipes (like scrambled brains) that I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to cook. Short of some Julia Child-esque masterpiece dish, I'm pretty sure I can make anything life would require of me out of that cook book. The only problem - the last few pages of the index have come loose. They're stowed away on a bookshelf in my dining room under the rest of my cookbooks.  I'm fine as long the dish I want to make starts with A-P. Anything else, well... it becomes a little tricky. I once found a recipe for pear tart (which you would usually find under either the 'p' or 't' sections) by looking up 'fruit' and working my way back from there. The cross referencing and logical layout make the book easy to use, even with the missing index pages. Occasionally I find myself unable to find a particular recipe that I'm looking for. So, on those nights, we have a nifty jello salad instead of tapioca, or just plain potatoes instead of turnip gratin. (Not found under the 'g's' - just so you know.) Perhaps I am missing out on a world of recipes (or at least 10 letters worth), but who really likes turnips anyway!? Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes. Cost : $3 (including the cost for ring-reinforcing stickers). 

•  I still have three separate remotes. I know it's possible to get a universal remote that would control my TV, my converter box, and my DVD player all at once. But then, where would that leave us when my youngest stole that remote and put it in the freezer? None of my remotes have batteries in them right now, either. Well, they never have batteries in them... ever. To be fair, they do have some batteries. One is full of dead batteries. One has 2 good batteries and one bad one. The other has no batteries at all. In fact, the back is missing. There are still the remnants of the scotch tape that used to hold it on. You'd think this little problem would stop us from watching too much TV. Alas, the only effect it has had is that we can no longer access special functions on DVDs. Who needs to watch the director's commentary, anyway? Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes (including programming a new remote). Cost: $10, including batteries

• We have had 2 lamps in our living room - one on either side of the couch - for 2 years now. One of them didn't have a light bulb for about 10 months. We sure appreciated the extra light once we put one in, but we did take our sweet time in getting that job done. Now comes inconvenience number two - sometime in the past two weeks our youngest child screwed the little twirly knob that you twist to turn the light on (I'm sure there's a real name for it, but it's not worth looking up right now) in the wrong direction until it came off. I know it's bound to be somewhere on the floor close by. However, I've not taken (found? used?) the time to look. So, at least twice a day, every day, I have been  twisting the threaded, skinny nubbin left in order to turn the lamp on and off. I have a groove worn in my index finger. Of course, the logical thing to do would be to get down on my hands and knees and search for the knob. Or, better yet, I could go to the hardware store and buy a new one. Most likely, however, I will stop using the light, or wait until the bulb burns out, therefore buying myself at least six months before I really have to think about the problem again. Total estimated fix time : 3 minutes. Cost : potentially up to $0.50 for a replacement knob.

•  Speaking of light - the lightbulb in my oven has been burned out for over a year and a half. Ditto the one on the freezer in the garage. I think these little problems make mealtime a bit adventurous - you never know what you're going to dig out of the freezer, or what it's going to look like when it comes out of the oven. Replacing these bulbs (at least one of which I'm almost certain we already have in the office) would take away some of the spontaneity of life (or at least dinner) in La Casa Farrier. Total estimated fix time : 3 minutes. Cost : $1.98. 

So, that's what it's like at our house. The appliances (like the people) are a bit unbalanced and occasionally on the dim side. It may not be pretty, but things get done. Lest you think that my "Leave R Be" (as opposed to "Get R Done") attitude stems from some sort of laziness, let me just remind you that the total investment involved in fixing just these five things alone would add up to over $15.00 and over 20 minutes. That's plenty of resources to both buy AND read two brand new books with my children, which I consider a MUCH better investment of my time and money. Plus, don't forget that there's still a sticky toilet handle, drippy faucet, lack of sharpened pencils or working pens, sliding closet door off its track, and so many other minor things to deal with that I'm hesitant to start down that road. Perhaps after I'm rich from writing my book I can hire someone to fix these things. I'll keep you posted.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Forever more I reject the titles 'overbooked', 'too busy', or 'procrastinator.' Instead, I would appreciate it if from this point forward you would just refer to me as 'The Evil Knievel of Scheduling.' Thank you very much.

It's not that I feel cheated, per se, in the fact that I only have 24 hours in my day, like everyone else. But, seriously - if they're talking about selling carbon credits, can't we at least discuss the option of selling spare time too? I can see it now - special banks and exchanges for you to make deposits and withdrawals of, well... time. Choose increments from 10 minutes (for unexpected bouts of constipation or a bonus game of solitaire) all the way up to one week (helpful for vacationers and college students cramming for those final exams). Everyone's always worried that social security alone is not enough to cover the expenses of seniors. Well - I say, let them sell their extra time! What else are the sleepless hours from 6:00 a.m to 8:00 a.m good for, anyway? Bored teenagers getting into trouble after school? Sell that time and put the money in your college fund! Better yet - plan ahead and invest that time so you won't end up a frazzled home schooling mother of 3 with a part time job and a lobbying addiction that cuts into even her Facebook activities.

Oh, who am I fooling? Even if they did create a Time Exchange Bank it would probably be taxed to the point of being worthless, ultimately costing millions in bail outs and user fees. After a lengthy Congressional Investigation and the involvement of the UN Commission on Banking Practices the whole thing would be shut down, defaulting on time loans left and right. Millions would end up late for work, late on bills, late handing in homework, and with no extra time to see to their stress-induced digestive complaints. I suppose the best answer for those who find themselves short on time is the age-old, tried-and-true, common sense solution of staying up too late every night to get things done. (And you thought I was going to say something about planning ahead and using wise time management techniques. Hah!) After all, why would a candle have two ends if we're not supposed to burn both of them at the same time?

I am a night owl by nature. Even as a kid I never went to bed early. I'm lucky if I've got my teeth brushed by midnight these days. The post -10 p.m. hours are the only time I've got to myself. Much as I love having company while I do dishes (and fold clothes, and make supper, and sweep the floor, and talk on the phone, and take a bath) it is nice every once in a while to have my brain to myself. Today I was typing up an email to send out to hundreds of families about a very important legislative meeting. I was mumbling aloud in order to hear if the email made sense. I had just said, "... meet under the rotunda for lunch..." when I was suddenly assaulted by a barrage of questions.

Five Year Old: Lunch? Did she say lunch? I love lunch!
Three Year Old : Why you say lunch, Mommy? Mommy? Why you say lunch?
Nine Year Old : Yeah, that reminds me. I'm hungry. Can we have noodles for lunch?

That'll teach me to proofread aloud! Befuddled by the confusion, I was compelled to hastily wrap up the email (I'm not entirely sure, but the words hungry and/or mommy might have slipped into it, unbidden) and go make lunch for the girls. Yes, it was noodles. Like someone struggling to rise to consciousness, I am slow to understand and vulnerable to the power of suggestion when I multi-task. I think my children know to wait until the very moment when my eyebrows lower, my lips purse, and I exhale lightly, ready to finally coalesce a brilliant idea I'd been working on for months, before they ask for something.Well, either that, or they wait for when I'm on the phone. That seems to work for them as well.

The net result of all this is that my productivity and focus are not what they could be. I suppose I could send my children off to school each day and really get down to business in my nice, quiet home. Better yet, I could get an office, with my own computer dedicated only to work, its keyboard never covered in anything sticky. I could even have an assistant who would follow me to meetings and carry my file folders, rather than the assistants I have now who follow me to the bathroom carrying broken toys for me to mend. I could enter the world of high finance instead of the world of low-slung diapers; mingle with CEOs instead of mangling PBJs; make my mark instead of cleaning up the marks left by others. But, where would the fun be in any of that?

Evil Knievel didn't jump puddles with a Schwinn, baby, and the Evil Knievel of Scheduling doesn't take the easy way out either. Let 'em have their cubicles and meetings, their secretaries and their powerpoint presentations. I'll take the risky path any day, and love every minute of it. The high yields of happy, healthy children are far more important to me than a safe investment in the status quo. Besides - what else are the hours from 10:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. for, anyway? It's not like I can sell that time...

Blogettes

I often find myself with great blog one-liners that never get the chance to see the light of day because they don't lend themselves to another topic or a longer post. Seems a shame to deny these little blogettes their five minutes of fame. Here are some of the random thoughts that have gone through my head this past few weeks. Feel free to try to extrapolate the situation in which they occurred if it will increase the comedic value for you...

• Potty Update: In one week my youngest child will be 3 years old. She frequently pretends to be a kitty.  She absolutely refuses to use the potty, though when asked to she will consider sitting on the porcelain "litterbox".
• How is it that I can scoop until my hands are numb and never get down to the gravel in my driveway - leaving me spinning for traction on packed snow all winter. And, yet - when spring comes, there is gravel where my snow pile once was? 
• It's no wonder that most yoga poses have animal names. Everyone's heard of 'downward dog' and 'cobra pose'. Want a real workout? Try barnyard yoga - 'stretching hen' (one wing out front, the opposite leg stretched behind), 'bored goat' (head through fence, contorted at a 90 degree angle), or 'bottle fed calf' (legs akimbo, neck extended to its fullest extent, eyes rolled back in head).
  
• Why is it that cats always need to use the litterbox while you are scooping it? I do not feel the need to pee into the toilet while it's being flushed... And, how come the water in our cups always seems to taste better to them than the water in their bowl?
• I recently overheard my oldest daughter asking her sisters questions like this, "Will you please give me that toy? ... Say yes." I have to admit - she has moxie, and it was working for her before I put a stop to it. I'm thinking of borrowing the move for a day or two, just to see how it works out for me. 
• Here's a public service announcement - Most people are not as interested in the features on your new cell phone as you are. Just an FYI.
• Why don't TV stations put better shows on late at night? If you're up at 1:00 a.m. you're already suffering from insomnia. Why should you have to suffer from bad television too?
• How come I can get 200 friends on Facebook within a week of starting my page, but I can never find a babysitter on a Wednesday night? 
• Free range chickens don't range far when it's 10 below zero.
  
• It's no wonder the cost of living is cheaper down south. Our little town here in Iowa has had to pay tens of thousands of dollars in man hours and equipment just to keep the roads clear. In my hometown in Oklahoma the winter road crew consisted of (and I'm totally not making this up) a guy in the back of a 2 wheel drive pick up with a grain scoop and a pile of sand. Wasn't the most effective way to keep the roads safe, but it didn't really matter. South of the Mason Dixon line cars are pre-programmed to drive off the road automatically if there are more than 17 snowflakes on the pavement.
  
• My hens live in our old outhouse by the road. It's drafty, to say the least, and in order to keep them warm in this frigid weather I put in a heat lamp. The red glow seeps out of the cracks in the boards at night. Yep, we have now officially given our Amish neighbors yet another thing to talk about.
• I want a tractor. No - I want enough land to need a tractor. Come to think of it - I want to be the kind of person who knows how to drive a tractor. Better yet - I want to be the kind of person who can fix a tractor. While wearing a feed store cap. And I want to wipe my hands on a red rag tucked into my back pocket. Tractors are the gateway drug to rural girls' fantasies...
• Why do so many people drink soda, beer, and coffee when the natural instinct of 99.9% of children the first time they try these beverages is to spit them out? I've been told that you have to 'acquire a taste for it.' Yes, but why would I want to? Surely I can get my empty calories and caffeine somewhere else, can't I? Isn't that why chocolate was invented?
  
• Why is it that we keep cigarettes legal so we can tax the daylights out of them for revenue, and then turn around and use taxpayer dollars to launch aggressive campaigns to try to get people to stop smoking? Ditto gambling.
  
• Why does anyone buy anything from infomercials? Those black and white sections where the voice over says, "has this ever happened to you" make people look like complete idiots - totally unable to even wield a knife or turn on a blender without creating some pulpy disaster. And who, really, is surprised at this point when they dramatically announce that they'll drop one whole payment if we call in the next five minutes? If a salesperson in a store insulted my intelligence as much as an infomercial does I'd sue, and yet these sheisters are selling Magic Bullets and NuWave Ovens by the hundreds. I just don't get it. 
• And, finally - how is it that the mind droppings of an over-scheduled homeschooling mom can be interesting enough to have garnered 20 dedicated readers? More importantly, how can I turn that into a lucrative career? :)
  

Winter

You know, there are a million different ways to exercise. In Oregon they hike in majestic redwood forests. In California they jog on sandy beaches. In Florida they play tennis in the citrus-scented breeze. In Iowa - we scoop snow. I just shoveled our driveway. Well, that's only partly true. I just shoveled 1/2 or our driveway. I'll do the rest when the feeling returns to my toes. Plus, is it fair to call it shoveling when at this point I'm just making tunnels? Whatever you call it, at least I got a good workout. Despite the fact that it is a balmy 6 degrees outside (with a -13 windchill) I was stripping layers and sweating under my Carharts. I guess busting 4 foot drifts will do that for you.

So far I've not found a website or diet book that tells me exactly what kind of workout you get shoveling snow, but I'm going to estimate (conservatively, of course) that I burned 42,878 calories out there - give or take a few. Of course, it doesn't help that I've taken in 43,952 in the last two days in hot chocolate and homemade bread alone. (Hot chocolate and fresh baked goods are frequently prescribed by physicians in the north to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder, Hypothermia, Cabin Fever and other common serious winter maladies.) I'm hoping that my afternoon scooping will put me back in balance, calorie wise, but I did promise to bake cookies for my daughter's 4-H club tomorrow...

I've never liked winter. I used to attribute it to the fact that I was born in Oklahoma and lived there until I was 6 years old. Winter there meant a light frost occasionally and a reprieve from weeding the garden. Leading child psychologists often say that the first 5 years shape the rest of your life. So, as a child, I assumed that I abhored December thru February because of my warm upbringing during my formative years. Now I've come to realize that it's just because winter sucks.

Don't get me wrong - I know there are people who just love the crisp, clean look of a fresh layer of snow. They don their parka and matching hat and glove set with glee, sometimes even strapping on a pair of snowshoes or cross country skis. These are the people who have jaunty snowmen in their yard. They are out cheerfully scooping by the time the fourth flake has hit the ground. They decorate with snowflake window clings and glittery snowmen figurines. I'm not sure - but they probably even make snow angels. Surely there is as village in Maine (or perhaps the Himalayas somewhere) that is missing them...

There isn't a single family in Iowa who doesn't have at least a half dozen grainy photos from each generation of bundled human shapes standing next to enormous snow drifts, snow men, snow piles and/or snow forts. It is often impossible to tell who is in the picture, since they are covered in 18 layers of clothing. Relative size, at that point, also is no help. A lone person standing next to a snow drift taller than his head could be little six-year-old Bobby (from the blizzard of '73) or Dad going out to hay the cattle (from the blizzard of '62). Living in Iowa gives you grit, and so we carry on. We scoop. We scrape windshields. We don boots and hats, gloves and scarves, wool socks and thermal underwear. We get chapped lips, chapped cheeks, and chapped hands. In short - we we make the best of it.

The coal stove needs to be stoked and shaken down, and I need to empty the ash pan. The chickens will need to have their waterer de-iced and filled, and the snow shovel is still calling my name. I guess it's time to throw on the insulated overalls and boots and get back outside. There may be drifts in the driveway, but at least I've got grit to get me through...