Held

We spent the evening with friends of ours discussing the aches and opportunities of the church we're attending, and while our kids ran around their living room and up the stairs, and I scratched the ears of one of their pups, I said the thing I keep saying about this church community: I laugh every time I think about where we're at and how it doesn't make any sense, but here we are, filled with peace and joy for this place in spite of what would make more sense. Something has bound us here for the time being, for such a time as this, and that mystery and misty hope keeps me coming back, excited to see what's next.

The opposite is true for me with my mom and her health right now: wrapped up in that is fear and anxiety, worry and stress, uncertainty about what the holidays hold, what next year holds, what the future holds. It feels dangerous to plan for the future, even as God says he knows the plans he has for us, plans to give a hope and a future. It is much harder for me to trust that mystery in the face of the realities of disease - dis-ease - it is much harder to hang on to hope.

But that is what we have, isn't it, what we must have, what we say we have when we say we love Jesus and God loves us, we say we have hope. Joy. Peace.

Even on this rock life finds a way to keep on living.

Tonight I am warm, held in the majesty of love and communion with my family and with my friends. My husband is strumming his guitar. I spent 30 minutes holding my daughter, talking about sex and marriage and belly button lint and how the Earth was made and how babies are made. She asked whether Grandma Rose is feeling better and we talked about cancer and upcoming doctor's appointments and God's love, and Lydia said, even if she dies (oh God, oh God, oh God) it will be okay because we will see her in heaven again with Great Pop and Pop-O.

We are all made of dust, made of the stuff of Earth, all of which was made by the hands of God. We are held. We are held in this warmth and love, and it is this love--capital-L Love--that delivers joy. Peace. Hope.

I will say I love you and you are loved a thousand times in as many ways as I possibly can to every person I come in contact with every day because it is the only thing proven to conquer death and fear of death. It is the only thing that carries me over this chasm of fear and anxiety. It is holding my daughter who is holding me and it holds my mom, even now, even in her anxiety and my anxiety, in her worry and my worry, in all of the unknowns about tomorrow that are always there but strikingly clear now. What a gift to be reminded that today is all we know for certain? So, love.

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written:
“For your sake we face death all day long;we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.”
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Neither death nor life. Neither death nor life. Nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Love, love, love. I wish to stay right here, replicate tonight in its hope and vision for the future, extend that faith and hope and love out for all my days. No more fear. No more anxiety. Just peace and love and being held.

Basement After-Dinner Theater

Our kids have taken to putting on shows for us in our basement. They take turns choosing the plot, often involving a pirate queen, the Incredible Hulk, and either a cowboy or sheriff or good pirate or Star Wars character (take your pick). There is always some battle involved and there is always some mid-scene break from character during which one of my children will protest or give another child their next line. 

Lydia is loud and uses a gravelly pirate voice to announce each character, including herself. Elvis is the director and producer. Beware taking any liberties with his script; he has in mind exactly what is supposed to happen next. Henry generally just wants to smash and tackle things. Take a guess which character he is.

Last night, they introduced commercial breaks between scenes, which were solo performances by Lydia, singing along to a band called One Girl Nation. We hear her yell-singing the lyrics in the basement through the floorboards throughout the day.

"Okay, commercial time!" Lydia shouted, in her gravelly pirate voice. The boys skittered off to change costumes. Lydia pressed play on her CD player and stood on her mini-trampoline, pigtails in her hair, hairbrush microphone in hand.

You heard me say my first words
Watched me crawl before I walked

I grinned and wept, of course.

"Bahhh, bahhh, bahhh, bahhh," Elvis and Henry chanted.

Lydia turned to them in exasperation and tried to keep singing.

People say I have your eyes
But I've always wanted to have your heart

"Bahhh, bahhh, bahhh, bahhh," the boys continued. To be fair, it was right to the beat.

"Guys, stop," I pleaded.

"We're singing along!" Elvis giggled.

"You're ruining it!" Lydia cried, near tears, turning off the CD player.

Sigh. On to the next scene.

It takes so long to learn how to love each other well, doesn't it? How to cooperate, to lead, to follow, to serve, to take direction, to give over the spotlight, to discover our roles and how they work with everyone else's, to take turns on the stage, to make space for each other in your basement theater. I know my role down there: I am the audience. I throw my bouquets of bravos, my kisses, my applause, and cheer my three actors on in their beautiful roles. Become who you are made to become, darlings.

Me, I couldn't handle much more of One Girl Nation's song, "Daddy's Girl," sung with such sincerity and passion by my sweet daughter. My cup overfloweth, and with all this rain we've been getting lately, I don't think our basement sump pump could handle all of the overfloweth coming from my cup.

My three thespians

Reading the Bible with My Kids

We started reading the first book of the Bible, Genesis, with our kids this month. Up until now, besides praying with them and the occasional aside about God's love and being kind and other such directives throughout the day, we've left the Bible up to their Sunday school classes. Illustrated pictures and crafts are easier to handle, and really, I don't think our kids were ready to hear and make any sense out of the Bible. Now that we've moved and aren't part of a traditional church currently, I felt like we should be doing something.

I also read Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer to kick off the new year with some what I assumed would be butt-kicking spiritual writing, and I was right on that part. I didn't expect the how-tos of living in community to be as direct about daily readings with your family, even with young children. If you are looking for a simple, clear and inspiring account of what Christian community can look like and how to get there, read Life Together.

The trick with all things that seem clear and simple is implementation. "Love God and love one another" is so simple and yet here we are, wars, terrorism, greed, selfishness, murder, violence, etc.

I expected resistance from the kids and instead found anticipation. At dinner time, they remind me that we haven't read from the Bible yet today, and so I open it up and dive in.

The strangest truths come out of my mouth as I'm reading. Not so much the text itself, although they are fascinated by it, but my midrash of it. Beyond just reading what is on the page, midrash is a practice in Judaism of interpreting and analyzing the text, filling in the gaps where details are only hinted at. For instance, one might extrapolate "the beasts of the field and the birds of the air" to include the wallaby and the peacock, the platypus and the jellyfish.

We are only four chapters in to Genesis, and a lot has happened already. There was creation, to start. That was something. Then you've got the temptation and deception in the garden, the discovery of shame, sex and babies, murder, lying, pride, arrogance, and bigamy. That's a lot going on up in here. Without any kind of guidance or extrapolation, how are they to know what to take away from this book?

I've discovered by reading this to them for the first time a renewed energy and excitement over biblical texts. I am remembering why I read the Bible, how this book is sacred because it tells us about God's faithfulness even when we royally screw up. In this way, the bulk of the Bible is not "Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth," but one of the biggest soap operas of all time interwoven with the most faithful and true love story in history.

I tell my kids, "Every time we read the Bible, God's spirit speaks a new truth or conviction into the heart of the listener." We are talking about reading the Bible over ice cream at Sweet Henrie's. "It's the only book I read over and over again."

It is a living and breathing book because we are inhaling and exhaling it together with the Holy Spirit, bringing new human knowledge and information from all across the universe to expand upon a text that was written thousands of years ago. This combination of general revelation and divine revelation expand awe and wonder rather than deflate it. The narratives and poetry teach us how God relates to us and how we can relate to him. It gives us a common reference point in a world of stories, all of which seem to me to be mini-gospels, mini-Bibles of people pursuing truth, goodness, and beauty in its many colors and iterations against a backdrop of darkness.

I tend to find slivers of God in everything, even when the other person didn't intend for him to show up. We are walking Bibles with our own bruises and injustices, arrogance and pride, our own stories of how God has intersected our lives and when we have heard him and when we have not and when we've outright ignored him. The Bible gives us access to common stories across the ages we can relate to (or not relate to) in order to see God's grace.

These strange truths leak out as we're reading stories that are on the page confusing and odd, but I have the benefit of decades over my kids, years spent reading and being taught by others, and so I can explain bigamy in the Bible. I can talk about cultural differences. I can show them God's protection and provision over Adam and Eve and Cain and beyond. I can talk about how just like in science our understanding and knowledge of God is an ever-expanding universe of detail and depth and size, and even in our sacred texts we can see our own knowledge of God unfolding. It isn't God but our understanding of God that unfolds, like a flower bud, over these thousands of years.

Yeah, I've imparted all of this wisdom on my kids four chapters into Genesis.

Their journey is just beginning, their capacity for understanding is just opening, and I am excited to be a part of that. I expect they will spin their own midrash in our readings and reveal other truths to me as well so that we can all grow together. This coupling of knowledge and wonder, this life together, it is wonderful.

What are we going to do today?

We are going to do nothing. Nothing at all, nothing planned, nothing scheduled, no agenda, no calendar items, no outings, no play dates, not even laundry. We are doing nothing.

I am out of the office (again) after the two-week summer residency. Because I worked so much during the last two weeks, I've been itching to schedule out all kinds of fun during this week of vacation, this final week of honest-to-goodness summer before I go back to regular hours and they get ready for school. It has taken me a few days to feel like a thinking human being instead of a gray lump of motionless clay, but now, there are plenty of things-to-do on our things-to-do calendar, like the zoo, a Rubber Ducks ballgame, a wedding, a birthday party.

But TODAY, there is nothing. I laughed at Lydia and Elvis as they whined, "There's nothing to doooo," creating two syllables where there's only supposed to be one. Yes, there's nothing!

I feel a certain mix of guilt and delight knowing that my kids have to figure out for themselves what to do to keep entertained without the default television or video game. I have to resist the urge to monologue, "When I was your age..." but in my head, I remember it being just me and my brothers, or me and my cousins, inventing games and playing for hours. Or reading, how many hours did I sit and just... read?

Today, the kids have thirteen potential playmates within 500 feet of our house. It is a rare occasion when none of them are home, but it does happen, like this morning, when some are off to camp and others off to daycare and others still off to dentist appointments. It takes a little perseverance to break through the whining, but sooner rather than later, the default settings of boredom are overridden by creativity, and now they play Spy or build castles in the sand, or, like right this minute, they go to the pound and bark like dogs.

Meanwhile, my "nothing" is reading The Circus Train by Judith Kitchen, a novella-length essay that turns inward and outward, tracing trains of thought and circus trains and memory itself the way that one can only do when sitting still. Paused. Besides following Henry from the front of the house to the back and then to the front again in some subconscious attempts by him to keep me from being productive, I have wandered with her through memory and into my own past, where cousins counted different colored cars as they passed, where we stretched out on a blanket and stared up at the clouds, making shapes and figures out of vapors.

Now, I have sat here long enough to hear the dozen honey bees humming in the Russian sage. I have sat here long enough to watch a monarch butterfly dart from flower to flower, its lemon wings folding and unfolding. I have sat here long enough to watch a hundred cars accelerate and brake up and down our street, darting along their roads between somewhere and somewhere else, off to do something, and I have done nothing except observe and travel through Judith Kitchen's memory into my own and back again, back to the monarch on the flower, back to the buzz of cars and bees and children, back to the nothingness of activity.

Just One More

I am confident that everything I have to give to my kids is never enough. All night long, they ask for things, all the things, every single thing. Just one more kiss. Just one more hug. Just one more song. Just one more book. Just one more game of tag. Just one more slow gathering of the outdoor toys. And if I ask them to do something beyond themselves, like, say, pick up their shoes and put them in the closet, it is as if I have shot their dog and sentenced them to a lifetime of slave labor.

I hate that all of the asking for more all of the time makes me so angry and irritated. I don't want to give you another hug because I just gave you SIX, AND we read a story, and you've gone to the bathroom twice, and before that I rocked you and sang "Wagon Wheel," and before that, you took a bath that lasted ten minutes longer than I wanted it to because you started to whine about letting the water out of the tub, and no, you can't watch until the next commercial break, because that's what you said the last commercial break.

Noooooooooooooooooo.

Just, just, just be content, please! I love you so much and I don't want to yell or make you cry or turn you down or leave you kicking and screaming in bed because you pushed us all beyond your regular bedtime and now you are over-tired and I am angry that you aren't listening. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Just be content. What more can I give?

I think this is why this job of mothering is so exhausting. I can do the dishes and the laundry and make the dinners and vacuum (occasionally). I can do those things with ease and a jolly spirit. It's the Just-One-More disease that kills me. It wipes me clean out. After a night of severe Just-One-More-itis, I am bankrupt. Fill me with American Honey and send me to the couch for a romantic comedy or a dozen rounds of Candy Crush Saga or a book. Or just send me to bed.

I don't know the antidote to Just-One-More-itis. It appears as if I will daily disappoint my children by denying them just one more of something.

Unfortunately, it's the human condition. Ambition bites the heels of contentment all day, every day - in my case, it's just one more publication, just one more essay. I have to fight against my successes and failures defining my self-worth and instead remind myself that the things that I find most satisfying do not come with an acceptance letter: planting seeds and watching them grow, laughing with my husband, snuggling with my kids on the couch, writing for the sake of creating art, reading a good book, long talks with wine or coffee with friends, eating together with family... these activities dwell in the land of contentment. Ambition runs right over those things. Just one more level on Candy Crush Saga. Just one more.

What does it take to kill Just-One-More-itis? Persistence. Rationale. Setting priorities. Prayer. Patience. I think it's one of those diseases that keeps dormant for a time, and then just when you think you're cured, the symptoms start popping up again: oh, maybe just one more. It's no big deal. Just one more.

No more. Be content.

Advent Day Five: But They Were Childless

"In the time of Herod king of Judea there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly division of Abijah; his wife Elizabeth was also a descendant of Aaron. Both of them were righteous in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commands and decrees blamelessly. But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old. Once when Zechariah’s division was on duty and he was serving as priest before God, he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to go into the temple of the Lord and burn incense. And when the time for the burning of incense came, all the assembled worshipers were praying outside." - Luke 1:5-10

You might know what comes next, but it might not hurt to pause here and remember that Zechariah and Elizabeth didn't know what would come next.  

After our second miscarriage, I remember my disdain for God.  I burned with anger at him.  To hearken back to yesterday's post, I stomped my feet and yelled to my father in heaven, It's not fair!  Even while I threw myself into work and professed to be "okay," I found myself retreating inward, into the chasm of grief and doubt where I spent most of my thought life asking, Why? Why? Why? Who are you anyway?!

That seemed like a long season.  I didn't know whether we'd ever conceive and carry a child to term.  What I thought I knew to be true about God was shaken.  I don't think most of our family members and friends knew the burden I carried (well, that's probably not true: I'm not exactly a private person).  We don't all go around broadcasting our fears and our doubts, our inner struggles and wrestling with God.  But that doesn't mean the wrestling match isn't taking place.  

Underneath the exterior, underneath their obedience and their righteousness, Zechariah and Elizabeth struggled with infertility.  They passed their childbearing years childless.  Maybe it had been decades.  

Do you think Zechariah ever raised his fists to the heavens?  Do you think Elizabeth ever collapsed in a heap of shuddering flesh and bones on the floor of her home, grief a puddle of tears?  I bet they did.

Maybe Zechariah and Elizabeth had long since abandoned hope of ever conceiving.  Maybe the hurt of that burden had yet to wear off.  Maybe they had settled into their lives as husband and wife, joyfully serving, the pang of childlessness dull-- maybe so far muted they hardly noticed the absence anymore.  

How silent, how unresponsive did God seem during those years?

And yet, in the mercy of stillness, in the grace of silence, Zechariah entered the temple of the Lord.

Sometimes, all we can do is enter the temple of the Lord.  And be still.  And wait.  Wait for glory to fall.  Wait for the Light.  Wait for the peace that passes understanding.  

Advent Activity: Look through Family Photo Albums

This might be one of my favorite activities during the advent season.  Each year since we moved to Ashland, I've put together an annual family photo album using Shutterfly, so now we have something like six photo albums cataloging all that we've done together the last six years.  It is heartwarming to reminisce together with our children, especially as they recall memories they've made and invent memories they couldn't possibly have acquired on their own.  Flipping through these photo albums reminds us of our family's story.  They map out our family's adventures through all of the valleys and mountains to where we have arrived today.

Bad People Go to Hell and Other Parental Panic Moments

My lovely blue-eyed seven-year-old daughter giggled. "Bad people go to the devil when they die," and my charming bow-tie and button-down-shirt wearing son giggled, too, "Yeah, but we're going to heaven because of JESUS."

I stuttered and stammered, "Well, it's true that Jesus saves us," I said, "but I'm not sure about the devil. It'd be a bad place to go, that far away from God.  I don't know about the devil." Or something like that. Yammer. Stammer. Pause. Continue eating pizza. End of theological discussion.

Oh, Lord.  Lord, Lord, Lord.  It's moments like this that cause my adult brain to short circuit. What do I say?  What do I believe?  How do I say what I believe without oversimplifying to the point of error?  Can I even communicate a non-deistic, grace over deeds, mercy over judgment concept to my children?  

Can I just hand them some Popsicle sticks and glue?  Here, stick these together. They make a cross! Wee!

I've thought about and pondered the existence of God for twenty years, ever since my best friend scribbled, "At least I know where I'm going when I die," in a folded and creased sheet of notebook paper, ever since I asked my mom, "Do you believe in God?" and I thought to myself, Of course she does, everyone believes in God, but she sat on the beach blanket next to me and said, I don't know.

I don't know.

It's possible that the greatest gift my mom ever gave me was this uncertainty.  Maybe that sounds crazy.  Maybe if she had said, "Of course I do," I would have nodded and thought, "well then, there you have it. There is a god."  

But wrapped in that single, simple, honest answer was this: permission. Permission to doubt. Permission to seek. Permission to question. Permission to believe.

Freedom.

She could have said, "Of course I do," her heart racing, ready to deliver the sinner's prayer to me right there on the shore of Lake Erie, right there, perform the accept-Jesus-into-your-heart prayer, and maybe it would have meant something to me.  She could have said, "No, I don't. I think it's ridiculous to believe in god," and I might have nodded, okay, that takes care of that, Lisa can eat her perfect cursive handwritten note.

But no, with one sentence a door opened, because paired with faith is always doubt, and what is the good news of Christ if not freedom?  Freedom to question?  Freedom to wonder?  Freedom to demand answers and freedom to rest in mystery?  

And then there was that note.  I think about that note often, how it's hot poker burned and I flinched.  Where will I go when I die?  Is there an afterlife?  Oh, the many ways I've answered this question, heaven, hell, dust, earth, eternity, purgatory, asleep in the ground, awake in the clouds... and yet even today Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknow.  

Oh, I believe in an afterlife.  I believe in heaven, the love of Christ, ever-presence in a place as good as and better than this world, a place of wholeness and healing.  But also there is (or can be) heaven on earth, healing and redemption here, now.  That is a message I can hear and understand with more clarity and immediacy than any eternal heavenly location - that which is unfathomable, mysterious, but no less real... or possible.

But the question of the devil, well, maybe?  Why not?  I don't know anything about hell, its physical location, whether a loving God would condemn a mortal being to burn for all eternity, but I know there is (or can be) hell on earth, a life spent in bitterness and ruin, destruction and vanity and greed, a life spent entirely separate from God, serving one master, serving one's own interests, or maybe even serving the burning desires of Satan who wants to kill and destroy, to drive people away from God.  Maybe?  

"At least I know where I'm going when I die."  My best friend's note was a catalyst.  What do I know?  What do I believe?  That note was followed not by condemnation but by invitations, to Bible studies, dinners with her parents praying, the Billy Graham revival in Cleveland, our shared college dorm room, worship services we attended together, prayers we uttered together, and Bible verses we exchanged. All of the merciful, miraculous, and mysterious ways our paths have intersected these twenty years are an entirely other kind of testimony to the grace and power of Christ.

Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.  Grace.  Permission.  Freedom.

So what do you give your children?  I want to give them an open hand.  I want to invite them into "Here's what I believe, but."  Yes, I believe in a huge, loving, powerful, merciful, just, faithful, mysterious God of the universe.  Let me show him to you as best I can.  I hope that you will see him and feel that presence in your life, that faith will surpass doubt.  I hope that the love of Christ will be real to you, that it will ever change you, ever humble you, ever shape you into a fuller version of yourself, the very best version of yourself, and that the same love of Christ will compel you to love others deeply and fully, so they too may experience the love of Christ.

And when you ask me a question I don't yet know the answer to, please dear God let me have the humility to simply say, "I don't know," and may the mystery be enough to keep both of us searching.

Right Where I Need To Be

A few weeks ago, after Brandon and I returned from celebrating our tenth anniversary, I looked ahead at our calendar for October.  There were a lot of commitments that required a lot of babysitters, which translated to many nights and weekends away from the kids (and several hundred dollars in childcare and travel expenses).  I of course love to get away, especially when it is for good things, like time with my husband, writing conferences, and poetry retreats, but with Brandon gone every weekend and me working full time, it just didn't seem fair to the kids to escape leave so much.  I emailed my friend in Kentucky and reluctantly pulled out of the poetry retreat that was to take place this weekend.  I let my cousin (awesome babysitter) know that I decided not to go, and promptly willed myself to forget about the retreat.

This Thursday, my poet friends posted photos of their road trip south, and from my office desk I pouted.  I was supposed to be getting ready to head out for Louisville.  I sighed.  It would have been such a good time to hang out with these friends.  I reminded myself of the much-needed downtime with the kids, the bushel of apples ready to be sauced, and the cash that was staying obediently and responsibly in my bank account because of this decision.  But that doesn't mean I didn't throw a small tantrum on their Facebook comment section.

After work, the kids and I were off to a great start to the weekend.  Everyone ate dinner without whining.  The paved path through the woods and field behind our house beckoned.

"Do we have to wear a helmet?" Lydia asked, and I considered for a moment saying no. We had ridden the path in the field without helmets lately.  Elvis was nearby, getting ready to ride his bike, listening for my decision.

"Yes, you should still wear your helmet, since we're planning to ride through the woods."  She strapped it on.  Elvis did, too, and we set out for a leisurely ride through the woods.

The new path is only paved for about fifty feet into the woods before it transitions to gravel and dirt.  Since the weather began to turn a few weeks ago, pine needles and leaves have begun to fall across the trail.  I love the pine needle floor of the forest, the canopy high above our heads, the scratch and rustle of the squirrels through the fallen leaves.  We rode along, Henry in the tow-behind trailer and Elvis and Lydia speeding ahead.

Just over the peak of a small hill, I heard Elvis scream.  I rolled my eyes and smiled and sighed.  He is always falling, and every little bump and bruise causes him to erupt into tears.  I pedaled my way over the hill, Henry sitting in the tow-behind trailer.  There he was, splayed out on the trail, still on top of his bike.  Lydia was slowly making her way back to Elvis.

"Oh, buddy, are you okay?" I asked him, helping him to get untangled from the red Lightning McQueen bike and stand up.  He looked up at me with tears streaming and blood dripping from his lip and chin.  "Oh my goodness, Elvis, come here." I gave him a hug and worked his fingers and wrists, asked him to move his arms and legs to make sure nothing was broken.  It was clear he split his lip.  There was a small cut on his nose and a small bruise forming on his forehead where his helmet likely jammed into his skin, a couple small cuts under his chin and on his neck.  I stood for a minute, balancing my bike and Henry and holding Elvis.  A man with a dog came down the hill and held my bike for me while I inspected Elvis some more, considering what to do next.  It wouldn't make sense to take Henry out of the bike trailer and walk all three of us back, and the handlebars of Elvis's bike were bent out of shape.

"Elvis, can you walk back beside me?  I'll go real slow with Henry, and we'll leave your bike here," I said.  He nodded while wailing and hiccuping, still shaking from his fall.

"I'll ride back to the house and then come back for his bike," Lydia offered, and I said that was a good idea.

"Be careful!" I yelled.

We walked/rode back out of the woods, Elvis rubbing his neck and crying, me rotating between "Oh, buddy," and "It's okay, you're okay, you'll be fine," and "I love you, little man," until we were out of the woods.  It was still early, and we passed others running and walking along the trail.  He kept touching his fingers to his bloody lip.  Each time he did this and saw the blood, he cried harder.  Almost back to the house, Elvis spoke for the first time since his fall.

"My tooth," he muffled.  I stopped.

"Your what?"  I asked, bending over to look closer at his face.  When he fell and looked up at me, I could have sworn he was missing a tooth, but maybe he had recently lost one and I just mis-remembered?

"I lost my tooth," he cried again.

"Let me see, open up a little so I can get a good look."  His mouth was bloody; there was a dark gap where one of his front teeth had been.  "Oh no, Elvis, do you remember if you had already lost a baby tooth, or was that one of your adult teeth?"

"It was one of my adult teeth," he said, his big brown eyes watery.  I couldn't remember -- had he lost his top teeth already, or was it the bottom that were permanent?

"It's okay, buddy, it'll be okay.  We'll figure out what to do."

So began our weekend.

His other front tooth was loose, too, and I urged him not to play with it.  The next morning, I woke up congested -- tell-tale symptoms of a sinus infection brewing -- and Henry seemed a little congested himself.  Elvis threw up twice.  Concussion?  Probably.  I took him to the dentist.  She confirmed that they were, in fact, his baby teeth (thank God), and his permanent teeth had not suffered any damage from his fall.  Whew.  Crisis averted.

The boys and I enjoyed some time with my mom Friday morning, and after I put Henry down for his nap, I fell asleep on the couch.  For almost three hours.  Henry slept just as long, and Elvis put together four puzzles, colored two pages of a coloring book and some posters, and played with his Legos.  Other than a fat lip and a couple of scrapes, Elvis seemed back to normal.

I had some girlfriends over Friday evening, and after they left, Henry proceeded to wake up every 90 minutes until 6 a.m. the next morning, thoroughly congested and struggling to breathe.  My sinus symptoms worsened throughout the night.  When it comes to sicknesses, my tendency is to head to the doctor's office at the first sign of symptoms rather than let it hang on for days and days, but I've been trying to break myself of this.  Most things need to run their course, and I've paid enough co-pays to know this now.  I spent Saturday hunting on Pinterest for home remedies to treat my sinus issues and Hank's chest congestion.

Me and Henry at the football game a couple weeks ago

By Saturday night, Henry's breathing was frighteningly forced.  I called my friend Julie who came over with some essential oils, and even though I had tried steaming up the bathroom, a humidifier, chamomile oil and peppermint oil, honey, and hot tea, we gave her treatment one last shot.  Still no major improvement.  So, it was off to the emergency room.

You know, of course, that my husband was out of town this weekend, as he is every weekend in the fall.  This is how it goes, tragically funny how these things happen.  The last major incident was Elvis's kidney stone back in March, which set me further down the spiral of an unconfirmed mental breakdown.

As soon as I scooped Elvis up off of the bike path, I knew why I had to call off my weekend poetry retreat.  And when the sinus congestion clogged up my nasal cavities, and when Henry's chest heaved and wheezed on Saturday night, I knew why I was home this weekend.  It felt like God providentially said, "Nope, not this time," two weeks ago.  "Nope, you need to be with your kids.  You need to be Mom.  The poetry can wait."

I don't always feel this way, of course.  I leap at opportunities to get away, and I think that's healthy for me and for my kids.  But other than a smidgen of envy at the laughing, eating faces of my poet friends, I felt no regret about being home this weekend.  Disappointment, yes.  Disappointed that we had to spend it sick, nursing fat lips and receiving breathing treatments at 11 p.m., cancelling plans to watch the Browns with my husband at the stadium.

But I was here.  I was present.  I was available to snuggle my loved ones on the couch, to watch Despicable Me and Cars 2 and several dozen episodes of Looney Tunes, and to rest.  Sometimes that is exactly what we need.  Exactly where we're supposed to be.

Most Memorable Moment: Ten Years Later

Last night, we went to Bull and Bones Brewhaus and Grill in Blackburg, Virginia (look at that nice alliteration... it's even a poetic location) for karaoke and drinks.  Brandon asked me what moment is most memorable for me from the last ten years together, not counting our wedding day and the births of our children, and I was stumped.  Most memorable?  God.

Maybe singing "Love Shack" with Brandon on the stage of our honeymoon cruise, or the long walk back from nearly drowning my new husband off a Key West beach, sandy flippers and snorkles in hand.

Maybe the day we came home to the house on Leland to find that our dog, Tex, had eaten everything in the kitchen.  The loaf of bread.  The plastic around the loaf of bread.  A candle.  A coffeepot.  A chocolate Easter bunny.  We were stunned.  We were certain he would die, but he didn't!

Maybe the night I brought both pregnancy tests downstairs grinning to Brandon sitting on the couch watching the Indians with Tex stretched out next to him, and he said, "Wow.  Wow."  And I said, "I know!"

Maybe driving all over Akron and Hartville looking at houses under $50,000 feeling downtrodden, rolling over the tip of a hill and seeing a for sale sign on a burned down house, or walking through the house that was sinking at such an angle into the earth that we could barrel roll down the living room floor, until finally we found the house on Ardella, olive green siding and a fenced-in backyard for Tex, enough bedrooms for a bunch of babies.

Maybe the day we expected to find out that we were twelve weeks along only to find out that we had miscarried our first baby, and we stood alone in the parking lot, summer sun bright and hot above us.  "I guess I should go back to work," I sniffled, head low and tears a slow leak, and Brandon put his hands on my face and whispered, "Be strong and courageous, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go," and we held each other, facing the first intimate grief of marriage together.

Maybe six months later, standing in a restaurant after the boys basketball team won a tournament game in East Liverpool (right? was that where we were?), getting the call that our nephew was born but that he was struggling in the NICU and feeling so helpless there, states away from our brother and sister-in-law, how the parents and basketball team all bowed their heads and prayed for Braden, for Ben and Kelly, for health and miracles and life.

Maybe when we brought Lydia home to that house on Ardella, our two crazy redbone coonhounds ready to meet the new addition.

Maybe "I see a firetruck, a bright red SHINY firetruck!" for Thanksgiving, celebrating Braden's second birthday (was it his second? do you remember? time goes so quickly and it all runs together, and now I don't know, was Lydia there for the firetruck or was that the next year?).

Maybe our trip to Butler, PA, when we felt the push to start looking at seminary, the need to move on to the next big thing.

Maybe the day we realized if I took the job at Ashland, he could quit his job, and we'd still be fine, actually better than fine, and maybe even start seminary.

Maybe walking on the towpath in the valley with Lydia right after Elvis came home from the NICU himself, and Brandon wore our strong, fragile, healthy but so sick before little boy in the Baby Bjorn, and the light danced through the leaves, and we prepared to go house hunting again, and then how every house was like something from Flip This House - the Bacon House, the Flea House, the Power Line House, the Putt Putt House - until we found the house on Morgan, a clean slate of white with so many walls to paint, so many ways to make it ours.

Maybe the day we decided to step out on faith and start to tithe regularly.  Maybe the call later that afternoon asking Brandon to work for ESPN.

Maybe every trip we've taken tagged on to work where we've eaten good meals and drank good drinks and slept in large beds, work as the brackets around relaxation.

Maybe every time I've worshiped next to Brandon in church, our fingers intertwined, or the time at Hudson during the sermon when we watched the bump of Lydia's elbow or knee move across my abdomen, or every time we have held a baby during a praise song, or every time we've walked with Lydia and Elvis to the communion table, the kids eager for bread to fill the empty spaces.

Maybe every time Brandon and the kids have walked over to my office on campus just to stop by.

Maybe every time we have sung, "Jackson" by Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash.

Maybe every time we've quoted Dumb and Dumber or When Harry Met Sally or The Anchorman or Forget Paris.

Maybe every time we have walked nine holes in the fading fall light.

Maybe every time Henry says, "Juice, Dad, Mom?"

Maybe every family picnic or backyard barbecue with friends.  Maybe every fourth of July picnic.  Every Christmas morning.

Maybe every time we have danced slow or fast, in our kitchen, in our living room, after a Christmas party with Lisa and Zack, at the Boot, at the Dusty Armadillo, at Thirsty Cowboy, at weddings, singing "and we'll remember them!", singing "He stopped loving her today..." and always, always laughing, always smiling, always his rough cheek against mine.

Maybe every time we have forgiven each other.  Maybe every time I have been forgiven.

These, yes, these, and so many, so many other memorable moments that have comprised ten years of laughter, ten years of learning, ten years of growth, ten years of grace, ten years of choosing each other, and yes of course ten years of love, ten years, ten years, ten years.

Favorite memorable moment?  If a moment can stretch across a decade, then, this last one.  This last decade, with my husband.  Every happy second, every difficult season, every grief, every mercy.  Everything.

Looking for the Goods

First off, sarahmwells.com is broken, and I'm unhappy about it.  I kept hoping it would reset itself or just reappear, and after multiple attempts to contact customer service people at Google and at GoDaddy.com, I have given up, deleted the domain name entirely, and with any luck it'll become available again in the next couple of days, so I can register it once more for my use.

This is one of the reasons I haven't written lately.  Another reason is because I've had two weeks of vacation over the last three (I wedged in five workdays somewhere in there), and most of this time has been dedicated to my husband and the three little people.  Heavenly, I tell you.  And the last reason is that I actually have been writing, quite a bit, but it's all super-secret-awesome stuff.  Not really.  It's for school, though, which means it is hopefully going toward my thesis, which is HOPEFULLY going to turn into a book.  

But before any of that can happen, I need to go yell at the circus animals hooting in the room above me.

Sigh. Okay. Threats of separation delivered.  I don't know why it is that they respond so well to this threat - I would think it a treat to get the whole room to one's self while the other one snuggles into my bed.  I like having the bed all to myself... once in a while.

I have the bed all to myself this weekend, a foretaste of things to come.  I admit I'm already panicking about Brandon's road trip days beginning again in August.  In fact, my heart rate just jumped a little.  It feels like summer is already over now that my vacation days are nearing an end and the MFA residency is approaching.  Before I know it, we'll be back to soccer games with an angry toddler and the husband out of the house half the week.

The quickened pace of life that will begin in a few short weeks makes me tired already.  I don't think I've had a long enough reprieve.  I don't want to feel like a single parent for half of the week again.  It is not easy.  

There are times, of course, when it isn't so bad.  A few weeks ago as Brandon worked to settle back into the full-time dad routine, every. little. thing. I. did. was. wrong.  Every thing.  Not wrong, but different from what he does, I should say.

"Did you put my water glass into the dishwasher, Gary?" he teased one morning after I had prepared breakfast, loaded the dishwasher, and cleared off the counter.  His dad, Gary, is known for the quick snatching and cleansing of the glassware, almost before your lips have left the rim of the cup.  I sighed.  "... The kitchen looks nice," he said with a smile, reaching to pinch my butt.

"When do you go back to work?!" I squeaked.  "Can't you call ESPN and ask them for work?"  This, after counting down the days until he was done with work for the summer.  This, after a mental breakdown this spring, after childcare challenges and scheduling conflicts and children who miss him and ME ME ME who missed him over and over again.  Go back to work, I said.  Leave me alone.

We laughed and squeezed each other.  "You have to stop critiquing everything I do, husband of mine. It's driving me bonkers."

I had gotten used to running things my way without Brandon around.  And then he was back, full-scale, with not much to distract him from the household and our children except the occasional round of golf and softball.  We had gotten out of step and in turn kept stepping on each other's toes as we did or did not take out the recycling, did or did not load the dishwasher, did or did not take Henry to the potty fifteen minutes or forty-five minutes after the last time he went.  

The trouble is now that we've worked out a few of these kinks, now that we've learned how to live together again, kinda, well, now he's going to go away again.  This is not the norm, this more laid back summer of temperate weather and short-distance road trips, of golf and barbecues and softball and boats and drinks with friends.

No, the norm is more like the last two days alone with the kids after Brandon left for the weekend to spend time with a friend.  The norm is me and my three little people eating pizza on a picnic bench at the park, walking across the lawn for ice cream, home in time for baths and bed.  The norm is me and my three little people on the couch for Saturday morning cartoons, the slow rise for scrambled eggs with cheese, and then a ride around northeast Ohio, to the tall ships in Cleveland with my mom, to the backyard swimming pool at my in-laws.  The norm is the long ride home with Henry sideways slouching in the backseat while the older two watch a movie and I seek through the stations for tunes I can sing to.  The norm is small feet stomping and giggles from the floor above me, empty threats of separation until they are quiet, sound asleep with feet and arms draped broadly across their beds.  The norm is this silent living room, the clicking of my fingernails on the keyboard, the flick of the paper as I turn the page on a memoir, the clock ticking past the time I'd go to bed if Brandon was here.

If Brandon was here, the Indians game would be on, and he'd be yelling at the TV or talking to the commentators about the last play or commenting on the job the stats guys are doing or laughing at the local evening news anchors.  If Brandon was here, the computer would be sitting on the floor charging, my book would be cast aside, and I'd be cradled between his chest and his arm, listening to the sounds of his stomach and heart (because if he had any of that pizza tonight, his stomach would have been talking louder than his heart).  We might be sipping whiskey (oh, who am I kidding, we would definitely be sipping whiskey) and listening to music, or maybe he'd be playing his guitar, or maybe none of that, maybe just us, alone in our living room, being husband and wife, occupying this space we've created together.

It is good when he is here.  It is good when he is gone.  Both are good.  In fact, when both are in their best gear, both are very good.

I don't always see it this way because I want both goods simultaneously and that isn't possible.  He cannot be here and not here all of the time, and if he was here and not here all of the time I would resent him for not being here when he is here.  You totally get that, right?

It is hard to learn how to balance this life.  How to make room for each other when we're together.  How to appreciate the space when we're apart.  How to shore up the foundation when the support beam goes missing.  How to lean into each other when the rain washes everything away.  How to be content - even when I want him near.  Even when I want him gone.  How to love deeply in every season.  It is hard.  But it is very good.

(That's what she said.)

Sick Day, Part Two

I felt it coming. Something not quite right in the belly, all day yesterday.  Generally someone starts to get sick within twelve hours of my husband packing his suitcase for a couple of days away on business.  Someone in the house starts to cough or sniffle, or someone runs a fever, or someone spends the evening on the toilet or vomiting on the staircase.  

This time, it was me.

I didn't vomit on the stairs, but I did spend the dark hours of the night stumbling from bed to the bathroom for... various bathroom activities I don't really like to talk about.  When my alarm went off this morning, I groaned.  Is it really only Tuesday? Am I really sick?  Is Brandon really out of town?

Brandon and I rehearse the schedule for childcare and work each week, probably every day he's home.  There are many advantages to Brandon's work schedule but a significant disadvantage is the unpredictability of when he'll be out of town.  Sometimes it is Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday, sometimes it is Friday, sometimes it's half-day Monday, Thursday, and half-day Friday.  It would be easier if I knew he worked two or three specific days a week because then I could just say, "Hey, can you watch my kid these three days a week for the next four months?"  

This works real well in the fall when I'm off on Fridays (see my previous post about my ideal work scenario).  But in the winter and spring, the schedule goes kaboom.  A great thing, money wise; a crazy thing, sanity-wise.

Because of this unpredictability, my mom-in-law had planned to drive down from Akron this morning with Brandon's 89-year-old grandma who is suffering from Alzheimer's disease in order to watch Henry for me.  And then, I found out yesterday that my dear, dear friend who often watches Henry was actually available, so I called off Rhonda and Garnet.  Rhonda was grateful, and I was relieved that she didn't need to worry about getting grandma ready by 7 a.m. to get here.

Back to this morning, lying in bed pressing snooze.  Dilemma: I'm sick.  I'm not going to go to work because I'm sick.  Do I send the kids to their respective schools and childcare centers all day, or do I call off the troops and keep Henry here, with me, even with the aforementioned bathroom emergencies, and then leave at 11:30 to get Elvis, and then leave again at 3 to get Lydia?  Then there's all the mess of making lunches for people, and snacks for people, and changing Henry's diaper, and keeping them entertained all day.

We all woke up, eventually, and I shuffled about, working this out in my mind.  If I send the kids all day to Park Street and Henry all day to my friend's house, what will people think? Adults have to care for their young children by themselves when they are sick all the time.  I've done it dozens of times before; we gather around the television and watch Disney flick after Pixar clip until it's time for lunch and then we nuke whatever is available to eat from the fridge and keep on at the movies until it's dinnertime and then bedtime.  It's manageable.  

But I had already gone through all this trouble to arrange for childcare, all this finagling to make life happen the way it needs to happen on a normal, regular day, and after all of that work, why should I call it off just because I've been up all night sick?  Isn't my wellness worth the childcare expenses?

So I changed from pajama pants to sweatpants, which are obviously more respectable, bundled up everyone in winter wear, packed Lydia's lunch, and dropped them off at school and preschool and childcare.

Let me interject a moment to say that we have some great friends who help us out in big and small ways constantly.  I didn't actually take Lydia to school; our friends down the street took her when I dropped Henry off at his sitter's.  They do this often, as do our friends right next door.  It's these favors that seem so small but make a world of difference for me, every day.  I breathe easier knowing they're around.

When I dropped off Elvis, I had to get out of the car and sign him in.  His teacher greeted us at the door and offered to take Elvis's stuffed animal for naptime while he took off his coat.  "Thanks for taking him today," I said, "I'm not actually going to work today; I was up all night with a stomach flu or something."  I don't know why I felt like I needed to explain, except that I don't get the feeling that this particular teacher likes me much.  I think I'm one of the anonymous parents in the school who forgets to send in bookfair money and never remembers to buy the teachers Christmas presents, and every time I pull up at 8:10 a.m. and hustle around the car in high heels to open the door for Elvis, urging him to hurry, hurry, hurry, unbuckle your seatbelt, let's go, buddy, she smiles a pitying smile, as if to say, "Running late again?" 

So I guess I needed to explain why I was still in sweatpants, a pink hooded sweatshirt bunched up underneath my winter coat, to explain why today I'm being a lazy mom and unloading my beloved children onto several other people so that I can sleep on the couch, watch several hours of Mad Men and make chicken soup.  And visit the restroom.  

Yes, that's right, that's what I did.  Self-care.  And by three o'clock, after two long naps, several cups of hot tea and honey, a banana snack and chicken broth lunch, and disc two of season two, I changed out of my sweatpants and into jeans to give the appearance of showering and getting dressed today.  By four, I felt like a human, albeit a shaky one, and was ready to retrieve my kids.  Park Street said, "My, you're early today!" and I offered up the same line as this morning, "Well, actually, I didn't go to work today because I felt ill."  "Ah," she said, and walked off.  Ah.  Yes.  Let's go home, kids.

Advent Day 13: A Special Treat

Public Service Announcement: Tonight's post is written with chocolate and merlot, preceded by a chocolate chip cookie, potentially followed by more chocolate. And more merlot.

I'm not sure why tonight beat the snot out of me. Maybe several weeks of whizzing about has finally provoked the over-tired toddler in me to throw a tantrum.  After I picked up the kids from their respective child care locales, we grabbed a hot-and-ready pizza from Little Caesars and darted home to eat in a hurry before Lydia's basketball practice.  After last time, there was no way in heaven or on Earth I was going to wrestle Henry into captivity for an entire hour in the gym, so while Lydia practiced, the boys and I went to Hawkins to pick up some groceries (yay, no grocery shopping tomorrow!) and to cash in the advent activity for today-- pick out a special treat.  We visited the delicious Hawkins bakery and bought two iced sugar cookies for Lydia and Elvis, a spritz snowman for Henry, and a chocolate chip cookie for mama.

Let. Me. Go!

Lyd had pictures tonight, too, so there was no avoiding bringing the boys back into the gym for the remainder of practice.  I should've gotten Henry a bigger cookie, ("Stillwell, angel, have another chocolate bar!") because he gobbled up the spritz snowman before I could say, Frosty the Snowman had to hurry on his way... which is what I wanted to do, hurry on our way.  Henry tried to escape but I was too fast for him and found some Thomas the Tank Engine video through the YouTube app on my phone, which pacified him long enough for practice to end.  Then, it was standing about with a 30-pound squirming worm in my arms and a 5-year-old clinging to my pantleg like I asked him not to five THOUSAND times while we waited for every girl on the team to get her picture taken.  On the way to the car, Henry kept squawking, "AWK! AWK!" so I let him walk but forced him to hold my hand, which he hated and did the wet-noodle-collapse-on-the-asphalt trick.  I picked his arched self up, which he hated even more, and tried to put him in his carseat, but it's hard to bend a U-shaped body back to a sitting position.  "Sit DOWN!  Mama's gonna lose it in a minute, Henry!" I squeaked.  All three kids laughed at me.

God, I love parenting.

Then it was home to take the fastest bath on the planet-- in fact, I'm not sure the boys got wet at all-- and then to bed to bed to bed!  Yay!  The older two were out before I headed back down the stairs, but I don't think Henry stopped singing and talking to himself until almost 9 p.m. He'll be buckets of fun tomorrow. 

The tantrum-throwing, over-tired toddler in me could've crawled underneath a crocheted blanket and watched a romantic comedy, but tomorrow is trash day, and thank God I saw the Hawkins plastic bag on the table because I would've forgotten all about the bags of eggs, sausage, bacon, and yogurt just waiting to spoil in the back of the kid hauler.  Trash can on the curb, groceries in the refrigerator, sticky spot on the floor grabbing my sock every time I walk past the silverware drawer.  Oh. Well.

I unloaded the dishwasher but turned off the light in the kitchen before I could notice the sink still full of dishes from this morning. But I had to flick the switch back on to find the wine and chocolate.  Don't worry, I was careful to shield my eyes and then dashed away again.  I'm safe now in the living room away from those oatmeal-crusted bowls and those lipstick-stained coffee mugs.

I thought about the laundry briefly, but blogging about advent seemed like a much better use of my time, even though I don't think Henry is going to be wearing any pants tomorrow. 

All of this to say tonight was one of those nights that makes me want to quit. All things. Am I absolutely insane to think I can do this AND take classes toward a master's degree?  I can't keep all of *this* (waving arms frantically, the universal symbol for utter chaos and disorder) together as it is.  Yeah, I see you --  o.O  -- stop looking at me like that.  We serve crazy here every night.

My advent calendar could've ended December 19-- all I'm anticipating right this minute is the end of work for 2012 and the beginning of agenda-free Christmas vacation.  That whole waiting-to-celebrate-the-birth-of-baby-Jesus-God-with-us-prince-of-peace thing is totally overrated.  Okay, not really.  I just want to see my husband for more than a couple of hours before he takes a plane to another state, to disengage my alarm for two whole weeks, to shift into a slower pace of life instead of this frantic running all the time.

And all I really want for Christmas is to think only about family, friends, love, joy, and peace... and to indulge in tasty food and good wine.  Bring it, Advent.  Bring. It. On. 

Advent Day 12: Deliver Cookies to Neighbors

When I got home from work today, Brandon was busy with our friend Bill installing an electric outlet and hanging a couple of cabinets in the kitchen, in preparation for an over-the-range microwave Christmas present from my in-laws (yeeeeeee hawwwwww!).  Never did I imagine in my pre-married life that I would be so excited about kitchen upgrades, but time and time again I prove that you really can find bliss in new appliances. 

The kids and I took another crisp walk around the neighborhood, this time to deliver our gingerbread cookies to neighbors, along with our homemade cards.  Henry loves to walk by himself and now yells, "ALK! ALK!" if I even attempt to carry him anywhere.  I wouldn't mind this one bit since he weighs nearly 30 pounds now except that he fights holding my hand and thinks it's really funny to try to run into traffic.  This is especially exciting at night wearing non-reflective clothing.  Praise God, nobody died running into traffic on Morgan Avenue tonight, and no one had to swerve off of the road to avoid a marching toddler.  And, our neighbors got their cookies.

Look what a nice job my husband and Bill did on the cabinets!  Someday, we'll take out all of the old ones in the rest of the kitchen and put in new ones like these.  Someday.

I finished one Christmas project tonight, although I keep thinking of others that it would be fun to make something for, but sorry nameless ones, you'll have to wait til next year, or your birthdays, or another occasion.  It is onward to the other other homemade Christmas gifts.

Tomorrow night is basketball practice.  Dread.  At least this time, I know I don't have to be there for the full practice and can take Elvis and Hank somewhere else.  The bad news is that it is also picture night, which means I'm sure to forget some key component of the uniform, or forget to pull Lydia's hair back into a ponytail, or forget about practice entirely and get a frantic call from the coach about it fifteen minutes before I put the kids to bed.  Egads, I better make sure the reminder on my phone is operating.

Paleo Parenting Update

It's been seven solid months since we dramatically changed the way that the Wells family eats, from a primarily grain-based diet (cereal for breakfast, sandwiches at lunch, pasta/rice at dinner) to a more fruit, vegetable, nuts, seeds, and meat focused diet, with an emphasis on food that is not processed or packaged.  If it comes in a package, we can read the name of the ingredients on the package and know where it's coming from.  It's called "Paleo" because it's supposed to be closer to what our pre-packaged, pre-GMO ancestors ate.  It isn't so much a diet or weight-loss strategy as it is an attempt at living healthier lifestyles.

We kickstarted our food change by following a detox-type diet for 30 days - the Whole30 Program - which we found out about through one of our friends.  The Whole9Life is a cool concept worth reading about, too.

BW and I knew, based off of the positive impact it has had on us, we would keep on eating this way as much as possible, with the occasional cheat and indulgence, but it seemed almost too much to ask to get the kids to skip peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cereal, mac and cheese, and pizza, their four main food groups.

We started with breakfast because that was easiest.  They like eggs well enough, and when we discovered paleo pancakes, well, breakfast became a piece of cake... er... paleo pancake.  Throw in some bacon or sausage frequently and the kids are set for breakfast.  The default bowl of cereal is history.  Henry, our squishy Paleo baby, typically eats scrambled eggs with turkey, kale, or spinach in 'em and a banana.  The older kids almost always have eggs and meat, and if they are still hungry maybe a banana or an apple. 

Dinners were the second beast.  Our kids (except the Paleo prince) balked at all things vegetable for quite a while, unless it was broccoli (with cheese), carrots (coated with honey), or potatoes (with sour cream, cheese, deep fried, or french fried).  They whined.  They sometimes cried.  They sometimes didn't finish their food.

Just the other day I marveled at our three children at dinner.  On their plates: grilled chicken, roasted carrots (no honey), steamed broccoli (no cheese), and a cucumber/tomato salad.  There were no complaints, no pouting, no whining, just eating.  And asking for more!  It was amazing. 

I never thought we'd get to the point where they would stop asking for candy and sweets as a snack or begging for the gut bomb foods that dominated their lives before, but here we are.

Lunch has been slower going, but I think we're just about there.  Lydia seems to have a more sensitive stomach than Elvis, and white bread especially seems to give her a belly ache.  She gets this now, and so she's suggested a few things for her lunch.  Instead of packing a PBJ sandwich, Lydia usually gets something with peanut butter - either celery or sliced apples - or if no peanut butter, a couple of slices of turkey, plus a couple of other add-ons: grapes, banana, raisins, greek yogurt, sweet potato chips, carrots, etc.  We try to pack her stuff we know she'll eat or let her pick out what she wants us to pack.  It seems to be working out well.

It might just be that Elvis is getting older and maturing, but I also think that his diet changes have affected his behavior and his ability to pay attention and listen at school.  Since school started he has "stayed on green" every day.  This is a big change from last year.  In fact, last week he OPTED OUT of the "good listener treat" that is given at the end of each week to the kids who stayed on green all week long.  As a reward, he had a "banana sundae" for lunch - banana with peanut butter, plus strawberries and blueberries and some honey.  He was one happy little man.

I am really proud of my kids and the choices they are making.  It seems to be true that the more we incorporate healthy lifestyle choices into our family, the more they seem to get it.  We aren't psycho about it (I am going to order a pizza tonight, after all), but we want them to understand that, like everything else in life, we have a choice -- whether to eat healthy and feel good, or whether to eat something that tastes good but might make us feel icky later, and knowing that, to indulge or abstain.  Sometimes we indulge and love it (fair food!), and sometimes we choose to skip junk and wait for the good fuel.

So far, so good.

Here are some foods that we eat a lot and places that we refer to frequently for recipes:

Sweet potato fries
Paleo pancakes
Roasted carrots (nomnompaleo.com - love her stuff)
Roasted chicken
Baked sweet potatoes
Grilled anything
Steamed broccoli
Cabbage
Guacamole (awesome with the sweet potato fries)
Avocado salad
Avocados straight-up
Lots of salads with veggies and chicken or turkey on top
Roasted butternut squash mmmmm
Omelets
Kale chips
Sauteed spinach or kale
Sauteed peppers and onions
Sauteed apples or homemade applesauce mmmmm

and more, of course.  Usually I just google "Paleo +" whatever I am wanting to cook in order to find quick and easy meal solutions with what I have on hand.  The greatest thing about eating this way is that most of the food prep is quick and simple food prep that brings out the natural flavors in foods.  The trick is to find the things that you can return to over and over again -- for us, sweet potatoes are a must on our shopping list, and so are bananas and eggs -- figuring out what staples are going to replace your defaults from before really helps when dinnertime rolls around.

We love eating this way, and not just because we feel (and look) so much better, but because food actually tastes good this way.  Once you've killed your need to add sugar to everything, suddenly your tastebuds can actually taste the natural sweetness in foods like carrots, sweet potatoes, and so on.  And they are way more delicious and satisfying than any added sweetener.  We also have the added benefit of knowing exactly what it is we are ingesting.

We'll keep working on the lunches and let you know what we come up with.  There's a few websites that have been referred to me recently with some lunch options for kids that I'm excited to look into more - Paleo Parenting, Eat Like a Dinosaur, and NomNomPaleo all have some great lunch suggestions. 

Feel good and enjoy food! :)

Corrective Lenses and Parenting

I have been cranky all night and the peanut butter and banana plus chocolate dessert is not helping. It is a shame, too, because it’s just about as perfect of a night as there could be in mid-June. It is still light at 8:30 and the neighborhood is milking every last second of daylight. The night air is active with dogs and motorcycles, laughing children up later than mine, the hum of the air-conditioner kicking on, several different birds chirping. There’s nothing quiet about sitting outside right now. It’s downright noisy.

I don’t know why I’m such a grump tonight. When Elvis ran his front wheel up the back of Lydia’s Big Wheel and fell over onto the sidewalk crying, I checked his knee for blood and told him to stop running into her and that won’t happen. Oh, and are you okay? Want me to kiss it? You’re alright, get back on your bike.

And Lydia is talking back. But I don’t want to eat my sweet potato. But I want to go to the Seminary Park. But I don’t want to read that book. But but but but I don’t freaking care what you want I want ice cream and silence and you all to do what I want you to do right this instant. Now!

Sigh. This is a bad parenting night for me. I’ll own it, especially now that everyone is in bed and I’m trying to enjoy the cool night with all of its chatter and buzzing. I think I can even hear the highway, and it is miles away. Go away, cars! Go away, people! Go away, stupid happy chirping birds!

Maybe it is because the day started off with a baby poop explosion that made me late for my vision exam.  I found out that my near-sightedness got worse and that my prescription is such that I am ineligible for laser eye surgery.  Usually I can roll with these things, though, so I don't know what it is about this particular day that's got me all twisted in knots.  Plenty of good things happened, too, but I've been too busy scrunching up my nose and grumbling to pay much attention to those.

The kids are in Vacation Bible School this week, and of course they are learning about God things, so today after work in the midst of my crankiness, Lydia asked me if I had a “God sighting” today.

I chuckled—joke’s on me, eh God?—and looked about for some kind of a God sighting because I sure hadn’t put on any sort of spiritual lenses today. I said something about how the flowers growing made me think of God, which was a total cop-out response given that our backyard is in full bloom while I’m feeling like six feet of snow.

If I had any eyes to see today, though, I am sure I would have seen God shaking his head at my need to control my kids, to manipulate their eating habits, to force them to behave exactly how I’d have them behave when I’d like them to behave. I turned parenting into a performance in which I am the director and my kids are the cast. Play your part, children, or the director will cut you and call up the understudy.

Tonight I boxed in my kids, more than usual, forced them to acquiesce to what I wanted, and when they didn’t care for that plan, I was quick to bark orders and cancel rewards. On better parenting days, my hope is that I teach them about the right decisions and then let them choose into those, and if they choose into something else, then depending on the outcome I’ll respond accordingly, with mercy and grace instead of fast justice and snappy discipline.

Maybe then my God sighting will be acknowledging the beauty in the chaos of the night.  Or thanking God that I live in an age that has developed corrective lenses, since during any other time in history, I'd be considered legally blind.  Me and Milton, you know.  Or that it was warm and sunny and I ate a delicious salad on our patio with my family at lunch and then walked around the block after dinner. 

Now, after I've carried my laptop back into the house, I am sure that God is in the silence and the churning of my thoughts, listening to the hum and click of the computer, waiting for me to quit my belly-aching and acknowledge the stillness, sit in it and wait and know.

May Days

The River Teeth Nonfiction Conference wrapped up nicely this weekend.  I don't think we could have asked for a better experience (save for, perhaps, the mice... I could have done without the mice incident).  For a taste of what happened, visit the River Teeth website, where I've posted a few videos from the panels and presentations.  I didn't know how to zoom in as I was operating the camera (boooo) but the audio is what people care about anyway, right?

This last week, Henry has started to nod yes and shake his head no, indiscriminately.  He has also started to point.  This is a step up in the communication department for him, even if he says yes and no to anything you ask, and it is so entertaining to ask him questions.  He understands that something is being asked of him and he ought to reply.  Such a delight, he is. 

Our patio project is progressing - we now have the paver sand tamped and started to lay down bricks, except, like last time, we forgot that the square bricks are about a third less thick than the rectangular bricks, which means we need to fill in the spots where the square bricks go with a little more paver sand.  It's a tedious process, but it's better than spending the next five years stubbing our toes on bricks that protrude from the patio.

Lydia and Elvis wrap up the school year this coming week - we are all looking forward to summer and the freedom to come and go and stay up later and sleep in (ha).  I started running again the other day and hope to work my way back up to the Ashland Balloonfest 5K.  I did two miles at a horribly slow pace, mostly because I'm still nervous about my knee and its tendency to ache afterward, but it wasn't too bad. 

The good news I have to share is that my essay, "Those Summers, These Days," which appeared in Ascent, will be listed as a notable essay in this year's Best American Essays.  Woo hoo!  I'm still beaming about this news.  I have another essay I've just started that could prove to be a real challenge, on self-image, insecurity, boys/men, daughters, and lots more.  I made a bulleted list of topics I think could fit in this essay.  Now I just need to write it.  Just.

Haiku for Kindergarteners

Tomorrow I'm going to Lydia's kindergarten class to talk a little about poetry.  Her teacher is pretty stinkin' awesome at everything, but one of the things I love is that the kids typically have a poem homework assignment each week where they read and analyze the poem for syllables, sounds, and rhymes.  Since it's National Poetry Month, I thought it might be fun to finally make an appearance in Lydia's class.  So tomorrow, I'm going to talk about haiku.

For those who don't know, haiku are cute little poems that do not have to rhyme.  They are three lines long - the first line has five syllables, the second has seven, and the last has five.  My plan is to start with a haiku, count each line's syllables and then explain the "rules" of haiku and talk about its origin.  Then, I am going to read a few more haiku and let the students pick an activity - they can illustrate one of the haiku, copy the haiku, or try to write their own haiku... or, if her teacher has some other ideas, something else entirely.

So for my poem-a-day today, I wrote a few haiku that I think the kids could relate to or illustrate.  I don't usually write haiku - I prefer longer poem forms - but like the limerick project, I really enjoyed this little exercise.  It's also been a good break from longer, more stretching poems.  And, I have a few ideas I'm excited to jump into tomorrow night to continue the poem-a-day challenge.

Haiku for Kindergarteners

Cherry blossoms pop;

the sidewalk is littered white

with petals like snow.

I walked with my friend

through the woods, sunbeam halos

landing on our heads.

In the bright green field,

yellow dandelions wave.

Little girls wave back.

Playground stairs and slides,

cowboys and Indians chase

princesses and queens.

Grapes and bananas,

peanut butter sandwiches,

lunch of champions!

Three Limericks for My Kids

It's day eight of Poem-a-day April, and I'm feeling fresh out of ideas today, so for fun, I wrote a few limericks for Lydia, Elvis, and Henry.  It was a fun little project, actually.  Here they are:

There once was a girl named Lydia
who flew to a town in Australia.
She arrived too late
for her dinner date
but made it for the koala polka.

There once was a boy named Elvis
who went to the moon on some business.
He wore a red tie
and the aliens asked, "Why?
We only dress formal on Venus."

There once was a boy named Henry
who climbed to the top of a tree.
He looked all around
from the sky to the ground
and then said, "I saw all I can see."

I didn't pick easy names to rhyme, apparently.

Laws and Ordinances

I've been reading in the psalms lately and have noticed a common trend that I found bizarre.  The psalmists spend a lot of time thanking God for his rules/law/precepts/ordinances etc.  I don't know that I have ever thanked God for his law, so I've been thinking about this a bit and have come up with some parallels in my every day life that help me to understand gratitude for rules.

1. Job Descriptions
Imagine being hired for a job with no specific job description.  Or being a builder without a blueprint to follow.  Or perhaps just having a supervisor who has vague expectations for each task-- write a letter, crunch the numbers, give me a budget.  A letter to whom?   About what?  Is it formal?  Informal?  And what numbers do you want crunched?  (I think of the Office here.)  How much money do I have to work with in order to establish this budget?  What are your priorities?  I think you get the idea.  When there are no clear objectives, no clear guidelines or rules, there is no basis by which to begin a relationship.  No definition of the terms -- are you my boss, my co-worker, or am I your boss?  But when I have a clear and specific objective for a task or position, I operate much better because I know exactly what is expected of me.  The framework within which I work might be very rigid and defined, but it is within that definition that I find the freedom to do the work I've been given.  I am not chained to doubt and confusion.

2. Children
There are days when we need to shake up our schedule a bit.  We stay out later, push back dinner, skip a nap, wake up earlier.  Once in a while doesn't seem to do too much damage, but several days in a row of missed sleep or poor eating habits and my children turn into demons in training, or begin to appear as if they are possessed by demons.  They wake up screaming in the middle of the night (night terrors?) and have a hard time waking up in the morning.  They cry about everything.  But, when we get them back on a schedule, give them the proper foods to eat at the proper times of the day, and make sure they are sleeping enough, they return to the energetic happy people they were before the shift in their lives.  The structure provided them gives them the boundaries within which to live the fullest and healthiest life.

3. Diet
I love sugar.  Three spoonfuls in my tea in the mornings, three spoonfuls in my tea at lunch, several semi-sweet chocolates a day, a couple of scoops of brown sugar in my oatmeal, a quick munch on a chocolate-covered cookie dough truffle... mmmm.  Sugar. 

Brandon and I are on day three of the Whole-30 Challenge, a detox type diet that eliminates all grains, sugar, dairy, legumes, white potatoes, and other unpronouncable ingredients in food.  There's a specific list of foods we are supposed to avoid in order to help our systems "reset" from all of the junk we put into our bodies.  On day one of this diet, I had the maddest craving for sugar I have ever had in my life.  All I could think about was how badly I wanted chocolate.  I needed chocolate.  It was nuts.  I even had a headache most of the day from the sugar withdrawal.

But after just two days of following this regimented diet, both Brandon and I are feeling markedly better.  I feel less heavy and slow; his stomach isn't bothering him nearly as much as it usually does.  We are disciplining ourselves to cook and eat healthier, to deprive ourselves of fulfilling every desire of the flesh (SUGAR!!!!) and to feed ourselves the food that will make the vehicle run the best.


I am thankful for these kinds of systems and guidelines in my life, because by operating within clear precepts and laws, I have the freedom to live a full and healthy life.  It only makes sense, then, to praise God for the same laws and rules he's provided to give structure and direction for how to live the healthiest and fullest of lives on Earth.  Even more so with the Holy Spirit living within us to serve as our guide.  So, praise God for his laws and his rules, for the system he has established to instruct, rebuke, correct, and restore.