Monday Recap

I am still bubbling over a bit about this whole chapbook thing. Chapbooks, for those who aren't as bookish and nerdy as me, are kind of like mini-books or half the typical poetry manuscript. They generally consist of 15-25 pages of poems by one author. They are printed in limited edition print runs and usually centered around a particular theme. Mine is titled, Acquiesce and has poems wrapped around the idea of accepting loss, giving in to God's will, and letting go. I'm still a bit taken aback that it happened just like that... but it did!

Besides the sudden and random onslaught of "oh yeah! I'm published! Eep!", this weekend was a mixed bag. I had a great time with the kids, Bible study was great, church was great, hanging out with a bunch of college students was a blast, and I painted the living room red, again, while listening to the presidential nominees debate. Good times.

There were some less pleasant moments, but all in all, a good weekend.

I am debating whether to go database some more or just work on poetry. There are two days until the boss-man gets back in the office and then we can start going over the "Stuff for Steve" folder. At that point, I imagine my writing taking a backseat, or perhaps the trunk, to all of the business-related work I have coming up. And that's a good thing. I have a lot of plans and ideas I want to start executing for the program, but I haven't been able to do any of it because he's out of the office so much. How do I sign up for his job?

Ecstatic

I just got off the phone with the editor at Finishing Line Press, and they are going to publish my chapbook! I didn't really even know I had enough material for a chapbook and voila! here it is. I am still shocked and flattered and honored and amazed. Can I elaborate on how I'm feeling any more than that?

Not Not Not :)

NOT pregnant! Woooooooo!

Okay, so it has been 47 days since my D&C and I was really starting to over-analyze all daily bodily functions like eating and sleeping, wondering and worrying whether I might-could be pregnant again. Not only has the whole content-with-two thing been hovering over my head, but physically it's a baaaad idea to get pregnant again immediately after this procedure. It's a lot more likely to miscarry again. BUT hurrah hurrah happy crampy mama this morning! Which explains my crankiness and critical attitude yesterday.

It annoys me that hormones have such an ability to manipulate emotions and perception. Fortunately for me, these "symptoms" are pretty mild usually, but unfortunately it doesn't occur to me until afterward that that's what was going on - I was just hormonal and exaggerating all emotional tendencies. Nice. I've come to realize that it is best to just keep my mouth shut for a day or so before I explode or implode, just to make sure I am in my right mind. Occasionally there's the hysterical crying outburst and blathering that dredges up every wrong ever committed by Brandon (he's the immediate bystander most of the time), followed by the next mornings, "Oh. Sorry. That's what was going on."

The peculiarity of this rejoicing is that four years ago, we were just beginning to wonder whether we would have children at all. After miscarriage #1 and the fears that a partial-mole pregnancy would spring cancerous cells on my insides, and then tests and tests, and then ovarian cysts and then miscarriage #2, every passing period felt like failure. Now we have two beautiful healthy children, and the thought of more terrifies my husband and launches a series of complicated emotions and anxieties in me. Have I forgotten how precious, fragile, and rare life actually is?

I see now how women in more desperate situations would contemplate abortions, have abortions even. Without the belief that every child is indeed a miracle, womb stirred by the finger of God, that tiny life could be "just another baby." It's just another mouth to feed. Granted, I am alll in favor of women and men being educated about prevention. For a woman who does not want babies immediately and cannot provide for a baby, better to not get pregnant than to deal with the complicated emotions that follow - keep the baby, abort the baby, put the baby up for adoption - and the complicated emotions that follow all of those options.

At the end of the day, my son literally jumps for joy to see me. Lydia buries her face in the folds of my skirt, wraps her arms around my legs. They both squeal with delight. How can I not squeal with delight as well? I am VERY grateful to be sitting here, all achy and recovering from an emotional uprising, but if the world turned a little differently for me today with different results, I would celebrate the outcome, hope for healthy babies, and know that I am blessed with yet another miracle.

You Can't Have It All

This morning, Lydia wouldn't let go of me. She stood on her booster seat at the kitchen table and hugged my neck, her tears dripping onto my jacket. She has never done this before when I have left for work, and I have left for work regularly at or before 8 AM every day since moving to Ashland last fall. It sucked.

Lately I have been dwelling on the stay-at-home mom. Brandon is great with the kids and I love my job, but it'd be really great to just stay home, for weeks at a time, and when I'd had my fill with homelife, caught up with laundry and done all of the deep cleaning that needs to be done, I'd just go back and work some more until all the work at work got done, and so on until Elvis enters kindergarten. That sounds good, doesn't it? Why don't employers offer these work structures? Probably because they are completely unrealistic.

As cliche as it is, you can't have it all. I try, no doubt, but it isn't possible.

What I really want right now is some apple crisp. It's fall and I am ready for harvest food. So I'm going to make apple crisp tonight after the kids go to bed, or I'm going to get it all ready and make it tomorrow. I don't know yet. It's for small group, anyway, so that I don't eat it all myself. Mmmmmm I do love the apple crisp. In partial fulfillment of the apple craving, I shared a cup of hot apple cider with a friend yesterday and it was OH so good. I have overactive tear ducts. When I laugh, I also cry. Something is wrong with me.

In spite of this morning's episode with Lydia, I have had the cup-overfloweth feeling lately. Ah, the trees! Ah, the blue sky and sunshine! Ah, children and their funny voices and warm hugs and wet kisses! Ah, food! Ah, friends! Ah, God is good! It's all rather nauseating if you aren't in this place reading this. I just finished a book, called Leaping: Revelations and Epiphanies by Brian Doyle which was basically celebrating all of these good things without the sappy sentimentality that usually accompanies expressions of joy. It is a great book if you are looking for quirky, smart, short essays on good things.

I am going to continue salivating at the thought of apple crisp. That's just how it is. This is. How. It is. You can't have it all. :) BUT, you can have long walks to the playground with your kids and a pretend cup of tea and muffins on the front stoop of a stranger's house.

Being Blessed

Tonight was one of those nights that enlarge my heart so dramatically it's a miracle it doesn't swell right out of my chest. Nothing out of the ordinary, just hugs, walks, and simple miraculous conversation with a two year old. Standing butt-naked and squeaky clean, Lydia sang patty-cake all of the way through with Elvis over the edge of the tub, and then the two of them erupted in laughter, thus sending Brandon and I into a fit of laughter, which made Elvis and Lydia laugh some more - both so excited and giddy that they bounced up and down laughing.

Ah, to laugh. Our children beg to laugh - please, please tickle me! And then they wriggle and scream in joy until we stop, catch our breath, and then launch in again. Tickle tickle tickle tickle!

We laugh when Elvis hears the Sesame Street theme song and waddles into the living room, his rear end stuck out as he walks, like an old man, over to the television and then starts to march around in a circle, dancing to the tune.

We laugh when Lydia pulls her pants up past her belly button, her buttocks hanging out the back end.

We laugh when one of us is in a cranky mood and asks, "Aren't you going to make me some tea?"

We laugh at one-liners from Anchorman (I'm kind of a big deal...) and Office Space (You know, he made a million dollars...) and a billion other movies that sneak into daily life.

We laugh at our dog Tex rolling around on his back trying to scratch that one itchy spot, his 80 lb. body twisting, legs lurching back and forth, and then the delighted shake when it's all done.

We laugh at ourselves, our crabby tendencies, our silly self-mocking faces and comments.

There's nothing like a good chuckle to let you know that you are blessed. To have this overflow of joy on a daily basis, a "cup of good cheer" to accompany the slice of humble pie... that is blessed.

Sonnetizing Free Verse

A neat task given me by a friend a few weeks ago has brought new life to a few of my poems. I'm calling it sonnetizing free verse - taking something already written that is lacking that oomph to make it decent and shaping it into a sonnet. Up until this point, I haven't been much a sonnet supporter. I don't know why - I like to write in form because it forces new words and creative ways of saying things that free verse doesn't always push. I've taken two poems and changed them into sonnets.

I've been reworking this particular poem for quite a while, but I like what happened when I shaped it into a sonnet. Thoughts?

*poof!*

What are ya, Chicken?

After tucking Lydia in and finishing the nighttime routine of praying and singing, I began the usual series of evening duties - laundry, in particular - and settled in for some good mind-numbing television. That's when I witnessed the "Natural History of the Chicken". Yes, chickens. In HD, even.

Because one of our children (Elvis) discovered the glowing blue button on the cable box, and because one of our children (Elvis) also likes to gnaw on the remote, it takes a few minutes or longer for our remote to function properly. It will turn on the TV and turn down the volume, but to change the channel or pull up the TV guide, you have to crawl across the living room floor and physically press the up and down buttons on the cable box. You have to crawl, because this is the most physical representation of how frustrating it is to not have a functioning remote. Or you could try to make the remote work like my husband, who hovers five feet from the TV repeatedly pushing buttons on the remote and nearly launching it at the set. Maybe, just maybe, if you gradually migrate closer to the television pressing buttons, it will work.

Left with these two options, I am more likely to sit and watch whatever was last on the television than to battle. PBS happened to be on earlier (big surprise), and much to my fascination and wonder, someone made a documentary about a chicken named Liza. At first, I thought perhaps I should be recording this. Lydia would LOVE it. I smiled to myself and continued hunting for matching socks.

But as the old farmer narrator shared the tale of Liza, the chicken who was intimidated by the rest of the coop's egg-laying capacities until a separate coop was built, I was captivated. This funny looking chicken laid six eggs in her Westin-coop and waited for them to hatch. It was really lovely, actually, and impressive videography.

I resumed folding shirts and mini-panties. Thinking the story over, I considered the remote, waiting patiently for instructions. But the narrator continued his story, and the next thing I knew, the chickens were scattering. They all retreated to some really great hiding spot, and the video flashed to a hawk high in the sky. And then something funny happened. Liza came out. In the middle of the yard were six chicks... her six chicks. She trotted out, in the presence of the enemy, and spread her wings for the chicks. She landed on the grenade, kind of. The video reenacted the hawk diving down to grab the chicken. And the narrator said, "Greater love hath no one..."

The chicken actually lived, and so did all of the chicks. But how about that? How about a chicken - a chicken - risking its own neck for its young. That might have to happen someday.

The best part of the show, though, was when the narrator closed with, "From now on, I am proud to be called, 'chicken.'" Classic.