what remains

The day began innocently enough as far as epiphanies go. After a slow start due to a late night the evening before, we were finally all up and moving—moving tubs and bags and boxes up from the basement to be dug through and sorted and stored or gotten rid of. I was nearly jubilant as I plowed through the last ten years worth of stuff (which had heretofore been accumulating en masse all over my basement, already a pit to begin with) trying to determine what were keepsakes and what was simply not worth keeping. Baby clothes, teething rings, books, baskets, tennis shoes, clothes out of date, out of style, out of size. Three carloads to Goodwill later, I was nearly finished.

Laid out before me were the remnants of babyhood to be sorted and stored, and then my work would be finished. I perused the items carefully—which child did they belong to? Was this handmade? By whom? Would they want this for their own children? I tried to identify all the important information one would want to remember but would never be able to in twenty-some years. It was at this point I picked up the dog.

He was cute—a soft, shaggy brown mutt about the size of a webkinz. I couldn't remember for the life of me to which child he belonged. I noticed he had stitching on each ear—one ear read "record," the other, "play." Easy enough, I figured. I'll press play and see if it gives me any clues.

I pressed play and out came my own voice. "Hi Buddy! I love you!" I crooned. Problem solved. It was my son's. I was not prepared for what happened next.

The recording wasn't over. After my own "I love you," there was a second's pause, and then an 18-month old voice echoed back, "I yuv you!!!"

If this afternoon in my life were a scene from a movie, that moment would look like the scene in Ratatouille when Anton Ego, the food critic, takes his first bite of Remy's ratatouille and is sucked back through a wooshing vortex of memory to his mother's kitchen some thirty or forty years earlier. I could almost feel my hair swoosh around my ears as I was transported instantly back to chubby cheeks and cherubic faces and wet kisses and infectious laughter. I lost it.

I sat there in the middle of what will never be again, and I couldn't pull myself back together. And that's when it all finally came clear in one heartbreakingly obvious moment. It was more than just mourning the passing of these stages in my children's lives, though I am wont to do that ad nauseum. No—it was something more, something deeper, something I've never spoken. Something I've ignored and stifled and stuffed and shrugged off but could never quite get rid of. And there it was, all messy and snotty and out in the open. I. Want. Another. Baby.

There. Will. Be. No. More. Babies.

There will be no more babies. After two difficult pregnancies, one of them with multiples, I couldn't have dreamed of putting my 34 year old body through that, let alone my nearly-40 body. I knew, when my son was born, we were done. I simply couldn't do that again. The nine months of terrible pain, the destruction of my body, the disruption to our lives, the months upon months upon MONTHS of screaming, diaper changing, screaming, sleepless nights, and did I mention the screaming? No. There will be no more babies. I knew this six and a half years ago. I know it still.

But there is a difference between knowing and knowing, and my heart began to understand that difference this Saturday knee-deep in blankets and bears and binkies and baby books. I grieved on and off all afternoon. I grieved lying awake in bed, unable to sleep with pre-meet nerves. And I grieve it now, wiping tears between paragraphs, putting it all into words for the first time and perhaps the last.

There will be no more babies. Surrounded with what remains, I closed that chapter yet again this weekend, flipping forward once again to the school-aged years where I will continue to suck every bit I can out of each and every moment available to me. As Buddy listened with curiosity to his younger self, he crawled in my lap, wrapping his slender arms around my neck. "I still love you, Momma," he reminded me. I held him too tight for a little too long, and I told him I loved him, too.

And then, yet again, I let him go.

airborn

Buster Brown raking with Poppa this weekend!

airborn, take two

Bub had her third meet of the season today. Fourth place all-around for her age bracket. Would have been higher, but learned a hard lesson about gravity on her dismount from the uneven bars. (Translation: she fell on her FANNY.)

Giving that the apple does not far from the Perfectionism Tree, she of course is not happy unless she's at the top of the podium. After a frank discussion about the fact that she's outscoring some of her teammates from last year even after being out for four months with a COMPOUND FRACTURE, she calmed down. But she's still aiming for that top spot...

Here's a couple shots of her in action!

No wonder I get so nervous!

Way to go, Bub!!!

stats

So, I posted ONCE in October. That could have something to do with having had two major sinus infections and a bout of bronchitis. It could also have something to do with having four weekends away within a five-weekend month. Furthermore, it could possibly have something to do with the general malaise that set in around here, likely as a result of both. At any rate, there was no writing taking place, here or anywhere.

I wonder sometimes what the heck I'm doing here. Blogs almost seem passe now, what with FaceBook and all. I know they are entirely different beasts, but who bothers to read a blog post when updates "thrown" up on the "wall" are so much quicker and easier to read? I try to remind myself that updates are not what I'm about here--that I'm trying to really write something of substance. But when most people just check in for updates, and they're all people I already know, how is that meeting my objective?

What IS my objective? And could it better be met elsewhere?

And while we're at it, what the heck am I doing with my life? Ugh.

Two more days left on the antibiotic. Perhaps the malaise will lift when the steriod finally wears off and I stop wanting to crawl out of my skin. In the meantime, I'll try not to take myself too seriously.

I'd be much obliged if you'd do the same.

a few pix

With good friends at the lake a few weekends ago... Hiked, played tag, ate lots of good food. And saw five bald eagles at the wildlife refuge!

Me and the hubby (AKA "The Old Man")


Boo at the Zoo (Subtitle: The Lamest Year Ever)

Forty Things I Love About My Husband (On His Fortieth Birthday)

1. He does housework. The list could end right there.
   
2. He also does laundry. The list could end here, as well.
   
3. He also cooks. Need I go on?
   
4. I will go on. He is a fabulous father—loving, nurturing, almost always responsible. Almost.
   
5. He has a great sense of humor. The kids love it. I, on the other hand, mostly put up with it.
   
6. He loves adventure and living life, not watching other peoples' lives.
   
7. He is hard working and has more integrity than many men have in their pinky fingers alone.
   
8. He is disciplined. Half of the time I love this, the other half I can't stand it. Usually, it depends on whether or not the discipline works in my favor.
   
9. He honors his parents and his family.
   
10. He honors our family and treats me with respect and appreciation.
    
11. He tells alien stories to the kids around the fire out back. The kids love it. I, on the other hand…
    
12. He washes and cleans out my car. And he doesn't get too mad if I don't notice.
    
13. He helps with bedtime. All of it. And if I don't feel well, he does it ALL.
    
14. He has a great smile.
    
15. He has fabulous gray-green eyes that crinkle around the edges when he uses that smile.
    
16. He most often uses them both on me.
    
17. He has a great, um, errr, well… backside, shall we say?
    
18. It's the only spot on his body with any body fat—that is worth being happy about.
    
19. He gets a great tan with little to no effort. Unfortunately for me, his kids got lucky and inherited that gene, so I am the only pale one around here.
    
20. He has put up with me for twenty-one years now, and counting.
    
21. He hasn't left yet…
    
22. He promises he won't.
    
23. He's a man who keeps his promises. Always.
    
24. He supports my desire to write and encourages me in it.
    
25. He believes me when I say I have a headache. (Could be because I usually have a headache…)
    
26. He doesn't watch sports unless we're with someone else who does. The list could end here, as well.
    
27. He likes to play with the kids.
    
28. He likes to go on dates.
    
29. He likes to go to the theater or symphony. Or the art museum. Or…
    
30. He's fairly almost sort of patient with me much if not most of the time. Most…
    
31. He doesn't rub it in when I don't deserve any more patience.
    
32. He gets over things quickly and he doesn't hold a grudge.
    
33. He is kind and gentle and affectionate.
    
34. He is strong and powerful and provides for our family.
    
35. He is completely invested in being the man God has called him to be, and continues to pursue it, albeit imperfectly at times.
    
36. He is a man of faith, strength, and honor.
    
37. He reads my blog. (He and three other people…)
    
38. He is better to me than I deserve. Honestly.
    
39. He is truly, madly, deeply crazy in love with me. Still. And I know it.
    
40. And did I mention he has a nice, um, you know…
    

Happy Birthday, Babe. I love you. Truly.

catching up

I suppose it would be so much easier to share pictures on FaceBook, but I just can't bring myself to jump into that black hole of time-sucking oblivion. So, here is what we've been up to this fall!

Bub's first "official" USAG meet. 34.95 overall score (out of 40). Not bad for a kid who was out for five months with a broken arm!

The day after the meet, we met up with the rest of my family to go hiking in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. This is us with my folks and my "little" brother and his family.

The kiddos climbing on the rocks. My mom emailed me the next day and said she couldn't sleep that night because she kept having visions of her grandchildren falling off rocks. I had to laugh. No reason. I certainly did NOT have the same problem...



I love my Bub... She's such a happy kid!


This past weekend we camped at Pokagon State Park in northwestern Indiana. We used to camp here frequently when I was growing up--I've not been there for almost ten years. It was great to go back!



My Buddy! Could he be any cuter?!?!

Loving the fall color!

updates

The hubby came home for lunch to find the bird had made it's way back up and out of the vent. But not without leaving, um, well, traces, if you know what I mean...

In other news, I finished the rough draft of chapter two this afternoon. Word count is at 11,000, counting the intro and preface. Things are moving along, albeit not as I'd envisioned. It is an interesting and sometimes frustrating process. I don't have nearly as much time to dedicate to it as I would like...

Off to pick up kids from school, take Bub to gymnastics, and go eat ice cream with Buddy.

Ciao!

just "venting"

With a full day of no kids ahead of me, and a sinus infection that persuades me not to go to the gym this morning, I sit down to the computer with a cup of Vanilla Chai with cream (real cream, because I'm not losing weight anyway) and anticipate a full day of writing and, quite possibly, napping. As my tea steeps, I bustle about getting things in place, so as to be undisturbed for the rest of my morning. I pull up pandora.com, "tune" it to my George Winston station, and settle in.

As I boot up the computer, I hear a metal clanking outside my kitchen window that sounds as if it's coming from my driveway. There should not be metal noises coming from my driveway. I stop and listen for a second or two, conclude our neighbor must be home and getting ready to mow his yard, and go ahead and pull up my email. Then I hear it again.

It really sounds like it's closer than his yard, I think. But it has to be the lawn mower. Can't think of what else it could be. I go on reading. I hear it again. Finally curiosity gets the best of me, and I get up to look out the kitchen window. Nothing. I look out the back door. Nothing. I look out the kitchen window again. Nothing. Then, I hear it again. And I realize it's not coming from the kitchen window, it's coming from the kitchen.

I turn toward to noise, coming from above my refrigerator, to find a tiny beaked head sticking out from my kitchen vent into my kitchen. Then a little foot. Then a wing. Then the noise, again, and all appendages disappear. I freeze in shock, then, as its head appears again, realize I need to do something before I have a freaked out sparrow flying around my house, freaking out both myself and the cat.

But what do I do? As much as I like birds, I certainly don't like them that much that I want one flipping out and flapping in my face! I start to dial my husband at work, then realize he probably is not going to come back home at 9 AM to deal with this. I know that Beth, though on her way to the grocery, has just dropped her kids off at school near my house and I may be able to catch her before she's too far north to come back. I breathe a prayer, something like Dear God please let her answer her phone and come help me even though she is going to be even more freaked out than I am, and hit the button for her cell phone. God is merciful, as is Beth. Help is on the way.

But help to do WHAT? I don't know how to open the vent, nor do I want to open the vent. It is becoming apparent I need to call my husband. I speed dial the office and the new receptionist answers. "Good morning, Lorie! How are you today?"

"Um, I'm good, all except for this BIRD in my KITCHEN--is my husband there?"

She transfers me with an "Oh my!" and puts my husband on the line, who is less than enthusiastic about the issue. Of course, he's not the one watching the bird try to escape into the kitchen, where it's going to freak out and flap all over and, let's be honest, likely POOP all over everything. He says he can come home at lunch. That's not working for me. He instructs me to pull apart a cereal box and tape it up around the vent until he can come home. That, I can do.

Beth arrives, questioning what, exactly, the cat that sits at the front door to greet her is good for, if he can't deal with the bird in the vent. She reminds me she's terrified of animals. I remind her I'm aware of that, and assign her the task of handing me the tape.

I climb up on the chair, just seconds after the last escape attempt, and the bird goes still out of survival instinct. Yes, that's right, I soothe, you just be real still and I'll pretend I don't see you, okay? I manage, despite my height deficit, to finally get the box secured around the vent, and Beth goes on her merry grocery-shopping way.

All is eerily quiet now, with an occasional flutter or clank from above the fridge. (Why is "fridge" spelled with a "d" and "refrigerator" is not?) It is 9:45, and it will be a few hours before my husband comes to free the little critter, hopefully without my help, but most likely with. I regard the poor creature--stuck in a deep, dark place, unable to get help, light and open space on the other side, just out of reach. I know how this little bird feels. I want out, too.

But freedom is coming. Help is on the way.

As long as my attempt to keep it from escaping doesn't suffocate it in the meantime.

Sure is quiet up there now...

on (not) singing

Normally, my mail doesn't make me cry. Normally. But today's mail was an exception. Today's mail contained the season brochure for The Toledo Masterworks Chorale, and it pressed on a tender spot in my spirit I have gone to great lengths to avoid over the past several years. This blog began as an effort to avoid that tender spot. And I'd done pretty well, as of late. But tender spots always seem to be found, somehow. Someone presses on them by mentioning the unmentionable, asking the unaskable, or mailing you a brochure that gets delivered right into your hands and says, "Hey—pay attention to me now, would you?"

We moved here nine years ago, leaving behind this fine group of semi-professional musicians with whom we had developed deep friendships and made incredible music for eight years. It was the first time since kindergarten that I had not been a part of a choir. I am still, nine years later, choir-less, and today, in particular, that makes me very, very sad.

In a season of life within which women already tend to feel every shred of their identity is laid on the altar of motherhood, it was particularly excruciating to take this part of my heart and lay it down, not knowing when or if it would ever be restored to me. Singing was not just a part of my identity, it was the entirety of who I thought myself to be. I loved singing choral music with a passion that nothing else—nothing else—in my life has ever even come close to. Passion deferred, I am discovering, makes the spirit sick.

Singing with the Chorale was a source of joy, of emotional outlet, of pride. It connected me with God and with others in a way few other things can. I ache for that, and there is nothing I can do about it. There is still, nine years later, no ram in the bush to spare this offering. And so today, thanks to the Chorale's 38^th season, I am sitting here at my computer wiping tears and grieving this empty, achy place in my spirit that cannot be comforted by anything less than being a part of that glorious sound again, and again, and again.

Best wishes to the MWC for a fabulous season. Looks like fun. Wish I could be there.

Sing loud, old friends. Sing loud.

how i spent my weekend

Marmon Valley with a crew of fifth grade girls. I am still recouperating!

This whole "having more time when the kids are both in school full time" thing is more challenging than I'd hoped. Sure wish I could get in a regular pattern of blogging. How do y'all do it? At any rate, I have about 6000 words done on "the book." They're rough, but they're on paper. Well, theoretically speaking. Tomorrow my goal, for the whole four hours I will have free, is to write chapter two. Wish me luck! And don't email me, okay? I'll be too tempted to respond... Gotta stay out of my email!!! Ugh!!!

a conversation of my own

Just finished reading Angry Conversations With God: A Snarky But Authentic Spiritual Memoir, by Susan E. Isaacs, within which a disgruntled spiritual spouse decides to take God, whom she has been told all her single life will be her husband, to couples counseling.

Near the beginning, Susan imagines, after having heard about the very popular Conversations With God, what a conversation with the God she currently is "married" to would sound like. It goes something like this:

Susan: God, what the **** are you doing?

God: Shut the **** up or I'll kill you or something.

Of course, this is not what God really sounds like. And, of course, she and God reconcile in the end. But I found the book intriguing, as both a counselor and fellow conversant, and began to imagine my own conversations.

Mine goes something like this:

(I see God across the room, standing alone, looking around at the crowd.)

Me: (Approaching him because he doesn't make eye contact with me.) Hello? God? Do you remember me?

God: Oh! (His eyes register a blank look, but he smiles and shakes my hand.) Sure. I remember you. What was your name again?

(I smile awkwardly, embarrassed that I've remembered his name but he's not remembered mine. Happens all the time.)

Me: It's Lorie. Remember? We grew up together. I go to your church.

God: Oh, yeah! That's right! I thought you looked familiar. How is Scott? (He looks around the room again, scanning faces. He waves at someone.)

Me: Tom. (I smile another politely strained smile, embarrassed all the more.) My husband's name is Tom.

God: That's right—good ol' Scott. (His hand is on my arm, but he's already moving toward someone else.) Hey, listen—I'd love to chat, but I need to go shower blessings on people and heal some stuff and get to know some folks for a while, so, I'll catch you 'round, okay? Good talkin' with you, Leslie! Don't be a stranger!

I stand there, smarting, as he makes a bee-line for a beautiful couple with the right clothes and the right hair and the right stuff and embraces them warmly. I overhear him:

God: Hey guys! Great to see you again—last night was great, wasn't it? Hey—did you get that new job I sent you? Oh, good! And how about the tuition payment? Yes? Great. And how are the kids enjoying the new pool? Fabulous. Just wanted to bless you guys—love to love on ya! We'll get together again tomorrow night, okay?

The sting grows warm, spreading, a stupid don't-you-dare-cry smile plastered to my bewildered face, as I watch God go from person to person, working the room. I observe with jealousy, with hurt, with anger. And I wonder why, after 35 years of trying to get his attention, he still doesn't notice me. As I turn to escape, I hear him laughing, see him embracing others, observe him gaze deeply, affectionately into their eyes.

I walk out into the parking lot, the cool fall air mixing with my tears, soothing my red cheeks but little else. A life-time of trying, in my own insecure, imperfect way, to try to get to know this man, and he still doesn't really know I exist, much less give me the time of day. Why do I continue to pursue him?

more blue skies

Wrote this over the summer on a long, sunny drive. Thought it was fitting for today.

Green upon green upon blue upon green,

Spreading wide and long and high and deep.

What touches the earth, reaches the sky,

Bringing heaven within reach.

Spreading wide and long and high and deep—

Fruited branches ride the breeze,

Bringing heaven within reach,

Rooting peace in the soil of my soul.

Fruited branches ride the breeze—

What touches the earth, touches the sky,

Rooting peace in the soil of my soul…

Green upon green upon blue upon green.

nothin' but blue skies...

Clear blue skies, mild temperatures, days at home to my self. THIS is what I love about September.

These next four months are my absolute favorite time of the year. I welcome them with the first bit of hope I've felt for a LONG time.