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.

About "Field Guide to Resisting Temptation"

Today, a short essay I wrote appears on Brevity, a journal for brief nonfiction, called "Field Guide to Resisting Temptation."

I wrote this essay after it occurred to me for the first time that I could be the one to screw up my marriage. Even though my husband and I had talked about temptation abstractly, about bar scenes and dinners out when he’s on the road for work, I thought we were talking about him and his temptations. Not me. I felt infidelity-proof. This could never happen to me; I love him too much to ever be tempted, and who would be attracted to me anyway?

So when the circumstances of this essay came to pass, I was surprised by how easy it could be. How fast. How immediately painless. How could this happen to me? I was stunned and pleasantly surprised that someone besides my husband found me—three c-sectioned mom, married, average intelligence, occasionally humorous, recently leaner and healthier but still so not attractive—desirable. I wanted to keep hearing these things.
What scared me the most was that my husband and I had just come back from an amazing weekend away, a weekend of laughter, relaxation, vulnerability, and intimacy. We spent the weekend reminiscing over career changes, our three children, the future, the bright and uncertain and beautiful future we imagined always with us together. Married. Forever. We were in about as solid a place as we had been in the nine years we’d been married. 

Even this contented, even this satisfied in my marriage, I could be the one to drive us into a guardrail.

But this didn’t just “happen” to me. I had let it happen, and I was making a choice by allowing it to continue, the flirting and the compliments and the texts, I was letting them arrive, I was receiving them. I was a threat.

I didn’t realize at first that I had a choice, that I had the power to say yes or say no, to protect my marriage or maim it beyond recognition to the point that reconstructive surgery or, God forbid, amputation might be necessary. I could turn one way, or I could run the other. I could choose to let it keep playing and wrecking my heart, or I could turn it off even though it was crazy ridiculous hard, the kind of hard that shamed me because I felt so weak against it. 

Out of that realization, out of that place of shame and weakness, I wrote myself this essay. I wrote down the things my best friend had said to me and the things I needed to tell myself in those moments of insecurity when I felt ugly and undesirable or just temporarily lonely and wanted a quick fix. I had to write myself a way out. I had to write down what I was choosing into and what I was choosing out of. I don’t have to give in or just let this happen as if I have no control over my emotions or my fate or what pain or joy I inflict or deliver. I have a choice.

Writing this essay was shaky hand, racing heart, peeling skin back kind of work. And when I sent it to my husband, it was shaky hand, racing heart, peeling skin back kind of work. But after he read what I had said out loud to him in far fewer words, he heard me, and that confession shrunk my Goliath down to the puny little monster he is. It handed me a few stones and a slingshot.

“Field Guide to Resisting Temptation” empowered me to look for ways to protect my marriage, to own up to the truth underneath the desires, to realize that “it isn’t the full story, it’s only a moment, this moment when you are small and insecure,” and to face those insecurities head-on. Through bearing witness to my weaknesses, I found strength.