Monthly Archives: February 2016

Feb29

Average or Extraordinary?

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“The truth is maybe we are just average. But the way I see it — families where parents get up every morning and go to jobs that are hard so they can get their kids through school and through life, and struggle to make it all work and manage to do it with dignity and a little humor — well, that’s not average. That’s extraordinary.”
Frankie Heck, The Middle

cafeteria-662458_1920There she stood, her jet black hair in a perfect Laura Petrie flip. Unlike Rob’s wife in the 60’s sitcom, her features were harsh. She had a nasally voice and when she saw me she smirked and demanded an explanation. After all, students weren’t permitted in the cafeteria before school unless they had business there.

I had strict orders from my mother that I was to hand the sealed envelope to anyone but her. I must have been all of ten years old, and a most compliant child. I was torn between obeying my mother and respecting the Tasmanian she-devil adult in front of me. I have no idea what happened next.

Honest. It’s blocked from my memory and while I’m sure that spending precious time and money with a counselor might help me remember and sort it out, I’m not sure I that I want to go there. It was mean-spirited but I did learn at a tender age that I never wanted to make another person feel like that.

She was the mother of my friend, our neighbor across the street. And she thought our family had too many kids. Even I realized that. And I knew that the envelope contained an application for free lunches. Handing it to anyone else was safe, but handing it to her just confirmed her opinion.

Strangely, I admired the perfect little playhouse that was situated in the perfectly manicured back yard. Her children, one boy and one girl, completed a perfect family. They were even born in the correct order, boy first. Her home was so clean it shined.

I never, not even once, felt welcome or wanted there. I did feel shame and judgment, not able in my immaturity to fully comprehend the strong opinions behind them.

Hubby and I married young. It was our choice. I was ready for my own home and family. The reality of the cost of providing for a family and the social norm of the 70’s to have 2.5 children were a big part of our choice to limit our offspring to two. In fact, I was so naïve about the heart’s capacity to love that during my second pregnancy I worried that I could never love another child like I did my first.

I am incredibly grateful for my two daughters. The real joy in having lots of children is giving them siblings. The truth is, our brothers and sisters know us as we always were. They share family secrets, feuds and jokes. And they show up. Good times, bad times, hard times. Two daughters, born six years apart, with four hundred miles separating their homes. And yet, their hearts are in tune. And while I wish I had given them a larger family, peace floods my soul when I realize they have each other; that they will drop everything and run from everything else to each other.

Sometimes life comes full circle. As of this moment, I have eight grandchildren; my mom would be so proud of her granddaughter’s house full of babies and children. Yesterday, the youngest turned a year old. He’s a foster but he just might stick and that would oh so wonderful, because you see, I love him like crazy.

When the whole crew arrives for a visit our normally tidy home is cluttered and loud within minutes. Babies cry and toddlers act like, well, toddlers. The kitchen stays busy and the door to outside slams loud when the windows are open and the weather is perfect for outdoor play. There are disagreements over sharing toys and someone skins a knee and because we have a five year old girl in this mix, there is drama. Lots of drama. And poop – with three in diapers, someone always has poop. We deal.

But that’s not all. There are moments of baby snuggles and reading to toddlers. There are five year old secrets to share and hair to braid. Big boys build Lego models and share their favorite things about the new Star Wars movie. There are showers and tubbies every evening and lots of stern warnings about staying in bed, even at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I sneak in and warn them about nice Mommy being done for the day before she confirms that she’s not kidding.

The truth is, it’s a lot of work to manage a large family. Things that some families take for granted are not possible. The budget may allow for a meal out, but seriously, why wrangle so many littles to a restaurant when it’s so much easier to feed them at home? I marvel at the way that the older boys take responsibility, whether making sure all of the diaper bags get to the van or buckling and verifying everyone is safely seated.

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I’m mostly a spectator in the life of this big family. I can’t speak on their behalf and I have no experience parenting so many. I freely acknowledge all of that. But I am so thankful for a second chance at a big family.

When I think about them in twenty years, I can only imagine how great Thanksgiving will be at their house. I sure hope I live long enough to see it.

As it turns out, this heart of mine does have the capacity to love more than one child.

 

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Feb21

A Habit of Faith

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It’s Sunday morning and in our house, that means we are going to church. It’s always been that way. As newlyweds, we slept in on Saturday mornings. My earliest irritation with my father in law (may he rest in peace) was with his Saturday morning drop in visits. The man just never got the hint that newly married couples 1) like to stay in bed on their day off and 2) even if they are up, they are not interested in entertaining a third. We loved our lazy mornings. We needed those lazy mornings.

However, on Sunday we were up and out the door to church. We were already serving as teachers and for you Millennials, there was also church on Sunday night. It would have been so easy to justify staying home, but we established a habit from the start.

I grew up around priests and nuns. They were easily recognized by their religious habits, the clothing that identified them as consecrated to God. The habit is an outward reminder to all  of their devotion to Christ and the church. Our faith “habits” are a regular reminder of the price that was paid for our redemption as well as our commitment to the Body of Christ, the church.

Kathy_1973_10_21

If memory serves me well, this was her first time to church.

With the addition of a baby we were even more determined to be there. Our firstborn entered the world on Sunday and the following Sunday morning she was dressed up and taken to church. You read that right…I took my newborn, one week old into the house of God, aka the Temple of Germs. I’m sure we were warned, but we were determined to be back in our community.

This paragraph is a little disclaimer: I didn’t put my precious little in the church nursery and I let no one – not even her grandmother (I didn’t want to put her in the awkward position of saying no) – hold her while we were there. I politely declined and explained that we would love for them to stop by our home where they could cuddle to their heart’s content. No. One. Ever. Came. People didn’t want to hold my baby, they wanted to hold a baby. They were not nearly as excited about getting to know her as they were about giving their uterus a baby fix. Not my baby.

Six years later our second little girl was born, also on a Sunday. After a Lamaze birth and a couple of days of rest we set out to church the following Sunday, continuing in our pattern. I returned to work five weeks after she was born. When not at my job, I hung cloth diapers on the line to dry while my husband worked in a very physically demanding job six days a week. It never once occurred to us to use Sunday mornings to recover from the week or get things done for the following one.

Of course we stayed home when we were sick. There were vacations and other things that kept us away, but it was our pattern, our habit to get up, get ready and go. There was never a Saturday night conversation about whether we would be going. It was our routine. Just like we went to work and school on Monday, we showed up at church every week.

Lest you think I was a conformist, I must tell you that I was the pioneer who (I’m sure of this) was the first person to introduce the notion of not having Sunday night church. Don’t get me wrong, Sunday night church was awesome. It was more casual and relaxed; from the music to the atmosphere in the sanctuary, it felt more like family than Sunday morning. Almost without fail, we traded hosting casual after church dinners with another family. That was the best time, whether we adults played cards or just chatted while the kids gathered in the other room.

The problem with this? By the time the evening was ending, it was past bedtimes and we were already behind in our normal weeknight schedule. I’m not known for boldly introducing groundbreaking new ideas but one morning as we sat in a fast food restaurant with our pastor and another local pastor, I made a bold statement: “Sunday night church isn’t good for families. I think we should consider not doing it.”

WHOA….I might as well have said that pastors could wear jeans in the pulpit and Baptists should speak to the Episcopalians in the liquor store. Based on their reaction, I was sure that if the Baptists excommunicated heretics, I was on my way out.

Needless to say, I now know that my vision was clearly anointed since this new enlightened generation realizes that Sunday nights are best spent with family, friends and neighbors, building relationships and sharing Jesus over supper. And therein is true Sunday Night Church, my friends.

I pop out of that rabbit hole to tell you that I’m so glad we have a habit of going to church. Last week, one week after my husband’s discharge from the hospital, I guided my car into a handicapped space, pulled his walker from the back seat and we made our way to the elevator that would carry us to the room where the church meets.

Walker at Church

It would have been easy to stay at home. He is recovering from major surgery. There are germs in such a large group of people. But the community that is the church was there, waiting for us. They greeted us with concern and care and open arms. We were with them again as we worshiped our Jesus, the one who knows our hearts and loves us anyway. The one who has brought healing and comfort in the midst of every storm. Our habit led us back to that place of imperfection and our hearts were encouraged.

The messages haven’t always been great. Sometimes things that were spoken from the pulpit made me cringe. We’ve been let down, hurt, overlooked and overworked. People have lied about us and to us. They are all flawed, these people who love God. We are all flawed. But the one who we seek is perfect. In his perfect love, we see the hope for redemption that is within every one of us. We encourage one another in that hope.

It is because of the community of Christ-believers that we have remained married for over forty-three years. The people in our community expected that of us; we know that they have counted on us to walk with them, learn from them and share with them our struggles and our victories. We owe it to them to show up, so if you’re looking for us this morning, we’ll be in the center row, about 2/3 of the way back.

HEbrews 10

“Let’s see how inventive we can be in encouraging love and helping out, not avoiding worshiping together as some do but spurring each other on, especially as we see the big Day approaching.” Hebrews 10:24-25 (The Message)

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Feb18

A Fitting Date

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sale-1149344_1920I’m not sure what prompted the urgency, but late last week I was sure that I had to have new bras. It might have been spillage (don’t judge – I’ve gained a few “el-bees” what with the meal train pulling into the station right on time with lots of amazing food and my commitment to not let a morsel go to waste). Perhaps wearing the same bra 24/7 at the hospital and seeing its dingy condition in the unforgiving light of a hospital room pushed me to this conclusion.

I love new “intimates”. Fresh and well-fitting lingerie makes clothing fit and look better. Truly, I love new undergarments when they are beautiful because they make me feel beautiful. However, finding the right fit in this particular category is challenging and even frustrating. Couple that with the obscene prices and it’s pretty easy to understand why I dread shopping for them.

 

For whatever reason, the stars aligned and there was a sale and a coupon and it was a Monday holiday for me. My hubby is recovering from back surgery and hasn’t been able to venture out much, so he was anxious to ride along. Note that he was a willing participant, lest any male readers think I dragged him along against his will. The poor man has been confined to the house, so even knowing how painfully frustrating this experience can be he was willing to tag along.

underwear-627302_1920We walked to the back corner of the store where there were no less than a few thousand bras on display. Seriously, I’m always overwhelmed by the “variety” and selection afforded. The next thing that amazes me in the process is the fact that no matter what size I am currently in search of in this vast array of garments, there is nothing in my size in any style that even remotely appeals to my taste or body size.

Hubby took a seat just outside the fitting room and I wandered the maze of white, beige and the occasional colorful options. He was helpful, encouraging me to select something other than white or beige and certainly nothing sensible, because you know, testosterone. That, and the fact that he’s still prone to thinking like a middle school boy.

I was thrilled to find a handful (no pun intended – now who’s thinking like 12 year old?) of options and proceeded to the fitting room. While he was willing to accompany me while trying on, I was not willing to be banned from returning to this particular store so I declined his kind offer. However, he continued call out encouragement to step out of the fitting room into his line of sight. His motive, of course, was to evaluate the fit. My motive was to maintain my current status of never being arrested, so again I declined. He maintained that his request was Biblical:

“Oh, get up, dear friend, my fair and beautiful lover—come to me! Come, my shy and modest dove—leave your seclusion, come out in the open. Let me see your face, let me hear your voice. For your voice is soothing and your face is ravishing.”
Song of Solomon: 13a-14

What is wrong with retailers? The lighting in most fitting rooms is harsh and honest. I don’t want honesty when stripping down to my skin, friends. Lie to me! If you can make me look tan, even better!

Part of the problem is figuring out the size. I felt really ignorant and alone in this until I read that Angelina Jolie said “I didn’t even know my bra size until I made a movie.” So, there’s that reassurance.

My rule of thumb is that if you are hanging out of any part of the garment, it might be too small. I err on this one a lot because I tend to underestimate my gradual growth in this area. When did I become a “full-figured” gal???

When I was a teenager, my brother made skinny girl jokes about me wearing skis in the shower (you know, so that I didn’t go down the drain). Even as a young mom, after two pregnancies and finally achieving a normal weight, there were some bold (rude) people who made inappropriate remarks about my lack of cleavage. I fantasized about making an equally inappropriate response about the size of his, well, you know, but I was timid and shy. His teasing was not was not okay and I would never let it fly today.

The first trip in yielded nothing, but with a more realistic idea of the proper size I ventured into the fitting room again with exactly three options. A veritable gold mine of choices were mine to make.

Half an hour later I had selected not one, but two winners! One was even in the color choice that he was voting for! As we made our way to the front of the store, he pushing a walker and me victoriously grasping my new lovelies, I couldn’t help but notice a few stares. Apparently our foray was an anomaly! I just love being married to this man who makes life fun and reminds me that I am a beautiful, desirable woman even from behind a walker while completing the most dreaded of chores!

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Feb12

Great Expectations of the Heart

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Dear Valentine2Valentine’s Day is upon us. According to Bankrate, the typical basket of goods and services exceeds $500. Expectations are high, especially among women. That “basket” includes chocolate, diamonds, roses, dinner for two and a bottle of champagne. Individual expectations may vary from that, but for many the day won’t come anywhere close to their idealistic expectations for expressions of love and romance.

The basket referenced above didn’t include a card. I happen to love cards…any written expression of thoughts and feelings is dear to me. Hence, there is a keepsake box of cards on my closet shelf from, no kidding, the 1970’s. As I sorted through it recently, I found a folded sheet of notebook paper. It was a Valentine note from my husband.

We were new parents. Our little Kathy Jo, as we referred to her then, was not quite five months old and we were….well, economically challenged. There was no budget for chocolates or flowers, and in that era expectations didn’t yet include all of the extravagance outlined above. All of those were luxurious and honestly, not on my radar. In fact, even cards were not in our meager budget. So, this man took a sheet of notebook paper and penned words of love and devotion.

ValentineNote

Dear Valentine,
Though I have no fancy card today,
complete with sweet refrain,
you’ll always have the sweet assurance
of my love even when I’m old and on a cane.

When I read that again, I laughed. Out loud. I LOL’ed, something that I don’t do that often, but how sweet. I wasn’t laughing at his silliness as a young husband, rather at the irony of his prose.

How could we have known what he was prognosticating, that more than forty years later we would be walking through a season that we couldn’t have dreamed of then? He’s recovering from back surgery; and he’s relying on a walker. Face palm.

We can afford to buy cards these days, but ouch! I admit my irritation at paying $5 for a valentine. Over the years, he’s bought many beautiful cards; in fact, this man usually buys two for every occasion – one funny and one elaborate with lovely sentiments. As I pulled that box down and again sifted through its contents in preparation to write, the handwritten note is the one and only valentine remembrance there.

I married a romantic. He’s hired barbershop quartets to serenade me, one of my favorite and yet most awkward valentines. Four men surrounding your desk as coworkers gather round whilst they sing sweet songs of love and devotion is an original and fun idea. However, everyone watching your face for a reaction is a lot of pressure even if you aren’t an introvert! However, to this day, when I hear those sweet harmonies I remember his thoughtful surprise.

Roses, chocolates, dinner dates and jewelry – over the years as the budget allowed each has played a role in the annual observance of a day set aside to celebrate love. I’m a romantic as well. If you read my “We Kissed Dating Goodbye” post and think that I’m not into that, I misled you. I love making plans for a special evening out… planning an outfit that will thrill him, anticipating the foreplay of sweet talk and stolen kisses in an evening devoted to just us two. Now that’s a date that’s going somewhere.

I’ve been pondering all of this as the big day approaches. I listened to the woman who called the radio station complaining that her boyfriend refused to join the commercial madness that is Valentine’s Day (his opinion, not hers or mine). She had minimum requirements. Anything less than her expectations meant he didn’t care enough. Based on what I heard, they were significantly more than words penned on notebook paper, but somewhere south of the $500 estimate by Bankrate.

It’s ironic that in a time when lovers are sometimes cast off like last year’s fashion, the outward expressions of love are more extravagant than ever. It’s also easier than ever to make things happen with our access to virtually (no pun intended) everything on the internet. Faster than you can write a few lines of silly prose you can make dinner reservations, order flowers complete with candy and stuffed animal and check her Pinterest page for the perfect bracelet. Just a few more clicks and love is in the air.

That note I received all those years ago didn’t end with the silly poem. The sentiments that followed were filled with promises and hope for the future. The last paragraph is remarkably apropos:

“As a new phase of our life begins I look to you for encouragement and support and most of all, your love. I love you more today than ever before.”

Today more than ever, with your Facebook feed filling up with pictures of flowers and gifts and status updates from dinner dates, it’s tempting to devalue simple expressions of love. Compared to the highlight reel of others your love life may appear to be pretty normal.

For many, normal is no longer an option. Today, I read this, Rory Feek’s plans for his last Valentine’s Day with his beloved Joey: “…I’m hoping for a few soft kisses. The passion for each other that Joey and I once had has been replaced by the sweetest, gentlest kisses. I live for those kisses. They are enough.”

This year, consider this: the purest expressions of love from a sincere heart will not only be enough, they will endure.

 

 

 

 

 

Feb8

Medicine, Mirth and Marriage Vows

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My husband had major surgery last week. You know how I know it was major? Because minor surgery is any surgery performed on someone other than you or your loved one. Truly, though, a spinal fusion is major surgery.

In these days of healthcare reform, a five day/four night stay in the hospital is not common. However, if they had discharged us one day sooner I might have staged a revolt. And yet, I’ve never wanted to leave a place more.

hospital sunrise.JPGThe room was spacious and contemporary; the view was beautiful. We watched the sunrise every morning. There was a flat screen television with cable and meals were delivered by room service (for the patient, anyway).

But hospitals are, after all, institutions. Things tend to happen at a snail’s pace and by day three it feels like Groundhog Day. I stayed with my hubby 24/7 because he is my life and I was not about to trust complete strangers with taking care of him after surgery.

I think he appreciated that I was there to help him with things like using the bathroom, but he may have had second thoughts the night that as I was standing behind him holding his gown up, I dropped it. Two people, weary and one under the influence of narcotic pain medication, laughing hysterically over pee. And let me tell you, that announcement on flights about placing your own oxygen mask before assisting others? Applies to assisting with bathroom needs in the middle of the night. There should have been a sign on the door; perhaps I would have avoided falling into a half giggling/half crying heap in a puddle of my own urine.

hospitalbed

Roomies making the best of it

The best part of “rooming in’ is middle of the night visits from nurses for medication and vitals. It was sweet when they mentioned that we are so in love and remarked about how tenderly we spoke to each other. They see things, apparently.

 

 

Little did they know, I was right on the edge several times. Last year, we chose to “divorce” cable and I’ve been missing one of my favorites, HGTV. I was very excited when I realized that the hospital cable stations included my channel. After the first day, every time Mike was taking a rest, he would say, “Watch anything you like, but not HGTV.”

Seriously? I knew he was about to fall into a drug-induced semi-coma in two minutes. I cried out from my anguished soul and dug deep in the vault of forty-three years of commitment for the strength to love him in spite of this decree. As it turns out, in a drug-induced coma you hear a lot; as he “slept” he was very involved in the renovation projects and he was totally stressed out. Only my sweet hubby could be stressed while under the influence of narcotics and muscle relaxers!

Hospitals are lonely. They are noisy and busy places, but behind the door of a patient

hospitalfood

This is hospital food – have mercy.

room time drags. Visitors are awesome, especially when they come bearing food and drinks from “outside”. Please, if you are going to visit – for the love – stop by Starbucks or Panera and pick up a treat! Otherwise, your presence will simply be tolerated. My daughter brought me her leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory and a huge Starbucks mocha. I kissed her. I probably would have anyway, but I was sleep deprived and literally had been scavenging from the leftovers on my hubby’s tray. I might not have recognized her, but black beans and tacos smelled like love.

 

 

The place was a labyrinth. The few times I ventured from the room in search of coffee and snacks I was tempted to drop bread crumbs. Somehow, though, I found the gift shop.

When my oldest daughter was in high school, after a weekend that will prevent me from ever being nominated for Mother of the Year (that’s a story for another day), she was hospitalized at a small local hospital. A friend visited and brought a gift that was obviously from the gift shop in the lobby. A new family joke was born…just stop in the gift shop and by a box of tissues or chap stick. No thought required. Yes, we are classy like that.

Let me just say, hospital gift shops have changed. There were cases filled with fancy chocolates and pastries that looked nothing like the sugar free Jello that I managed to add to my hubby’s tray without pushing him over the carb count for the meal. As I passed into the Brighton purses and jewelry I knew this was a place that I needed to escape in my current vulnerable state. Fortunately, my compulsion to remain at his side overpowered the temptation to linger over the Vera Bradley display marked 25% off.

We are home now. Managing pain meds and praying for poop have kept us humble  but so far, but we are still laughing and can’t believe that we’ve been doing this for almost forty-four years. If you have to stay a few nights in the hospital, take your best friend and your sense of humor.

Feb1

Familiarity Breeds Compassion

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a little bit swirly

It’s been an interesting week in blogging world. My post on dating resulted in lots of comments online and some moments of uncomfortable silence face to face. Apparently, everyone now thinks that I’m opposed to married couples dating. When they rolled the announcement video for the next dating night in our church yesterday I could feel the tension. After all, I had shared my opinion that dating is not “the” key to marital bliss with the entire World Wide Web.

It may be true that I am occasionally melodramatic and perhaps only a few people among the hundred had actually read my post. Nevertheless, I felt it.

It also was my most viewed post ever. And by ever, I mean the last seven months that I’ve been at this. Today an edited version appeared on foreverymom.com (check it out here)!! If you don’t follow that one, you should. It’s a great compilation of posts related to moms. Twice. Twice now, Jenny Rapson, the editor, has chosen my stuff to share. I’m amazed and grateful and I might have thought I was doing pretty well at this blogging thing until…

I got my first rejection last week. Already this blogging journey is teaching me that I have a lot to learn. And I’ve got some things to learn about writing, too.

I might have been devastated for a while if not for my honest blogger friend who shared her history of rejections, even as one of her wildly popular posts about….wait for it…vomit, was going viral. If you missed it, do yourself a favor and head over here to read it. Over 90K readers can’t be wrong about that one.

Last week I also started a Facebook fan page. It was one of the things that I knew I needed to do to grow my blog, but I had been wrestling with indecision. I needed a push. And a graphic for the banner page. Again, a nudge and an assist by Jami and the page is up and beautiful!  Please check it out and “like” it. There’s a link at the bottom if this post.

At the end of a very eventful and exciting week, I looked back and realized that I made new friends in this journey simply by reaching out to people with shared passion and they have joined hands with me. It is through these friendships that I’ve been encouraged to take the next step or to just keep writing in spite of setbacks.

There are times that most every heart waxes pitiful or sad and feels like the world is unaware or indifferent to it. It’s tempting to look around and wonder if anyone cares to share or even knows about our current struggle or even success.

A momma in the trenches wearily faces the day after a sleepless night, knowing there isn’t enough coffee in Brazil to ward off the fatigue that threatens to overcome her best intentions to do better today. She might have been nursing a baby or waiting for a teenager who missed curfew, but she’s tired and her patience is thin.

The parents of a newborn wait anxiously outside the NICU for an opportunity to just standbebe-616418_1280 next to the bassinet where their newborn son lies half-naked, connected to wires and tubes, alarms beeping.

A widow, living alone, misses physical contact…a hug or a lingering touch on her hand. It seems that the world has gone back to normal, but normal eludes her.

A daughter is separated from her aged parents by fifteen hundred miles, her father’s health precarious and mother caring from him as best she can on an island that’s barely five miles wide. Good health care is a prop plane trip across an ocean. Helpless to lend a hand and worried, she carries on with her toddler, preparing for the birth of a daughter who may never meet her grandparents.

seniorhandsA grandmother, missing her grandchildren, longs to snuggle with a baby or play Go Fish with a toddler. She’s so desperate she would welcome a mini lecture from an eight year old on the fine points of playing Minecraft!

 

 

I work full time and when not working, I alternate between cleaning frenzies and wandering aimlessly around Hobby Lobby. And yet, I witnessed every one of the scenarios in the last few days among people in my circle of influence.

I might have missed them; I often do because I’m lost in the details of my life. Listening is way less fun than talking, and I am a woman of many words.

Experience has taught me that the fault I see in another is often noticeable because of my familiarity with it. Without fail, it’s something that is also a struggle for me. I’m also learning that when I begin to listen to others with compassion, I recognize familiar fears, anxieties and passions.

We are never alone in our thing, whatever it may be. Finding a fellow sojourner may require revealing that vulnerable spot, the place that is most tender, but I promise that you will make a friend and your burden will be lighter even as you take up the weight of another. Familiarity will breed compassion.

I’m aware of the things I can’t do, but every day, I long to do what I can to make a difference and I’m so grateful for those who are making a difference for me.

When you do the things that you can do, you will find a way.” ― A.A. Milne

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