Barnmaven

I meant to do that

 

Last Sunday at church we were finally back in our sanctuary.  Over a year past, a structural engineer working for the company who was trying to fix a roof leak (of the sort that really ought to be named "leakus herpesious" because, like a cold sore, it never really goes away) reported that in his professional opnion the roof was unsafe and caused a grave threat to human life in the case of rain or snow. 

We've been having church in the fireside room ever since.  I never had a problem with this, having been in many kinds of churches over the years both formal and informal.  It was a difficult change, though, for many of our older parishioners, some of whom have been attending our church for decades.  If you've been raised on a steady diet of stained-glass windows, pipe organ and pews with soft red seat cushions, not to mention a priest who stands at a lectern in full regalia, the informal nature of setting up "church" in the room where you normally have coffee and then staying there for more than a year is going to be difficult.   We had some real drama over it, and our priest ended up taking a position at another parish in large part, I think, because of the stress of it. 

The numbers at Sunday service dwindled considerably over the past year, but we made it through.  And by the grace of God, we were back in the main sanctuary just in time for Easter Sunday.  I almost cried for joy when I hear the first strains of the organ being played. 

Singing under the high roof with the good acoustics with the organ has a completely different feel than it does in a small room by the piano.  I do confess that there's more than one reason I prefer sitting in the choir loft to sitting in a row of chairs facing a room.  I feel a lot less "on display" back there.  I can also surreptitiously surf the web on my droid when no one's looking. 

There, my secret is out.

They did offer Sunday School for the kids on Easter but C opted out and wanted to play with his toys on the stairs.  He and another little girl played more or less nicely for most of the service, but at some point the yelling, even with the doors closed, was quite noticeable. 

Although many churches say that they "welcome children" very few actually mean it.  In most churches, children are welcome only up to the point where they actually make noise, cry or have a stinky diaper.  Beyond that, Mom and child are banished to the crying room.  Wandering the aisles is frowned upon, and God forbid your bipolar child should happen to be in a manic phase and fall into a rage. 

The church we attend is lovely in every way, not the least of which being that they  not only saychildren are welcome, they REALLY mean it.  I know this to be a fact because my children have put it to the test, vigorously.  My son has spent services where he wandered from the pews to the choir loft, on my lap, under my bench, behind the altar and back to the pews and nobody even looked crosseyed at him.  In fact, most of the ladies just smile and pat him on the head when he wanders by.  When the kids get antsy on the Sundays there is no kids group, the older kids take turns entertaining them.  My children have argued, loudly and vociferously, in the middle of service. 

One recent Sunday, a rather nice day,the kids were playing outside during service.  The very ending of the doxology, "Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost...." was punctuated by a banshee yell from C as he ran screaming away from a bug on the sidewalk right next to the windows of the fireside room.  I cringed, everyone else just laughed. 

We do, however, try and get them to keep the noise level somewhere below "thundering," and so on Easter Sunday, one of the ladies in the audience went out to the stairs to see if she could make a dent in the shrieking. 

C was, as I understand it, yelling at the other little girl for using a crayon that he had been using to color with, but then set aside.  As we all know, the Book of Nonsensical Children's Rules Meant to Drive Parents Insane, states implicitly that whether or not you are currently using an item is immaterial, only that you had been using and possibly meant to use it again at some point in the future - "future" being defined as anywhere between today and your eventual death from old age. 

The nice lady offered C a different crayon as a substitute, which he promptly rejected.  (The crayon that you were using that has been so rudely stolen by the other child is always better than the replacement you're being offered, regardless of condition or color.  Duuuu-uuuh.) 

She tried reasoning with him. "You know, it's just a crayon.  And besides, you don't really want to be yelling at your friend anyway, do you?"

My son looked up at her, cocked his head and said, quite matter of factly, "But I DO.  I really DO want to yell at her."

SO THERE. 

Fluid

Its so easy when things are good to think "they'll always be this way."  When they're bad, sometimes we think the same, though the more optimistic among us may think "it will get better."  All I know is, enjoy where you are because somewhere along the line, something will change the equation.

I've probably said this same thing in about twenty different ways on this blog.  Its one of those essential truths that I keep turning around to find myself facing.  Change. Fluidity.  Nothing stays the same.

I want to believe that all change is good.  That even when things happen that seem unfortunate or even devastating, that eventually some good will come from them anyway.  I suppose that's true, in a way.   You run into a brick wall in life, you smash yourself against it a few times.  The bad part is you now have a big gash in the front of your forehead from repeated contact with brick and mortar; the good part is that eventually you recognize that your forehead hurts and you look for a different direction to go.  At some point you will find a direction that takes you somewhere useful.

I have reached a point lately where I understand that everything that has happened in my life in the last twenty-odd years has pointed me in this direction and that this is where I'm supposed to be.  Near my parents.  With this man.  On this horse.  With these kids.  At this job.  In this house. None of it is permanent, I know better than to expect that.  But right now, in this moment, I'm here.  And it feels right.

This man, I wish I'd met him a long time ago.  But would I have been in a place then where I could have appreciated what he brought to my life?  Would he have been in a place where he would have even seen in me the woman that attracts him today?  Perhaps not.  So its fun to imagine, but ultimately I think its even more fun to let go of the past and imagine the future.

There are challenges.  There are always challenges, and frankly the last couple of weeks have been up to the eyeballs with them.   Even so, the challenges themselves seem to be telling me "yes, this direction.  Without regret."

Its easy to look at other people and see what's wrong with them.  See the things they ought to change. 

You know what's even harder? 

Look at yourself.  Look at what's wrong with you.  See the things YOU ought to change.

Even harder than that?

Look at the person you have been judging.  Forget what you think they ought to change.  Accept them as they are.  Love them as a person, even if they're not particularly loving toward you. 

I know what my challenges are.  I know I'm learning what I'm supposed to be.  I know I'm where I'm supposed to be.

Its all good.

I already TOLD you I don't do blood

Remember that post I wrote about blood and needles and how I don't do them? 

I was sitting on the sofa with a friend chatting about horses and Easter and various things (yes, I know horses aren't related to Easter, but she's a horse friend so of course we talked about horses and then we also talked about Easter and I don't know why I'm explaining this but you know I live to be parenthetical) and suddenly from down the hallway, a high, piercing scream erupted.

This is the parenting moment when you brain kicks into control mode.  "OK, OK, if I just sit here and don't move there won't be anything wrong.  They're probably just playing and someone took someone else's crayon."  And so you sit there for a moment, frozen, waiting to be released from what is otherwise likely to be a trip to the emergency room.  And if you've earned some karmic leeway, that's exactly what it is, the kids come traipsing down the hallway and haha, don't get mad Mommy, I just got my finger caught on C's teeth a little bit and I'm not hurt at all!

On the other hand, you could be, like some people we know who for whatever poor behavior have NOT earned any good karma of late and so therefore its not just a hangnail or a splinter.  Your six year old son will come running down the hall screaming, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY I JUST STABBED MYSELF and you will look at the blood pouring out of his hand and in a very panicked sort of way wonder how long it will take his father to come here and handle the blood and then you will remember that his father is working and cannot possibly come and handle the blood.

This is the moment where, if you are very fortunate, ancient mommy instinct will kick in and you will forget that you "don't do blood" and you will scoop up your six year old, rush him to the sink, wash away the blood and determine from the size of the hole in his hand that you'd probably better go to the emergency room.  And if you are very, very fortunate, the two hour wait at the ER will have a big payoff whereby the doctor determines that stitches aren't necessary even though the hole is very deep and so you will be spared the necessity of holding your child still while they POKE HOLES IN HIM WITH NEEDLES. 

And so, even though the universe gave us a bloody hole in the hand, it did not give us needles and stitches.  I was very, very fortunate.

If you are wondering how it happened, C managed to stab himself with the pointy end of a sharp stick while poking holes through the bottom of a Lego box.  My son is very creative.  I could have titled this post "What's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick?"  Haha.

 

Time is against me

Ever since I got back from my trip a few weeks ago it feels like life is out of control.  As if while I've been out of Adderall, my life it appears, is on a double dose and I'm left scrambling to keep up all the while feeling as if my brains are scrambled.

My prescription arrived day before yesterday.  Thankfully.  Work is a haze of meetings that continue daily to cause me to be even more behind on the things I was already hopelessly behind on, and with appointments and parenting schedules and Things That Need Doing I'm surprised if I can find a moment to breathe.

You know its bad when breakfast AND dinner for all of us has been the kids' cereal more times than it has not.  I haven't seen my boyfriend in days, and my horses seem surprised when I come out to feed them -- "Hey, we know you.  You used to come talk to us a lot.  You don't like us anymore?"  "Hey, at least I'm not giving YOU cereal for dinner."

Finding time to write is challenging, and unlike those organized bloggers who have half a dozen spare posts written up and neatly tied with ribbons, ready to be published in just this kind of instance, I got nothin'.  And so my only bright idea is to write a post complaining to you about why I don't have time to write a post.  That's working for me, right?

I assure there's a bright side to this.  I'll try to think of what it is as soon as I have time.

 

 

On being the stable bow

I think life must be far simpler at age 6 than it is at 9.  I also consider the truth that my children are not the same person and each reacts to life's challenges differently, individually.

For instance:  My little race-car man capital L and italicized LOVES S.  They have been fast friends since shortly after they met and watching them together and listening to their conversations makes my heart go thump-thump in my chest.  So much love between them, and the love inside of me swells and surges up through me in response.   My amazonian princess is a bit of a different story.  Her reactions to S are more complex.  She is very reserved with her affections for him.  At first she was insistent that she liked him, but eventually her father informed me otherwise, which prompted some gentle conversations between us.  Its not that I insist she like S, not at all.  Her feelings are not mine to dictate.  I'd rather have a loving conversation about how she really feels than waste my energy ruining our relationship and ensuring that she never share anything important with me.  So we talk.  Its not that she doesn't think he's a nice guy.  She's not uncomfortable with him - but with the concept that I have a boyfriend. 

(I hate that word, honestly.  I'm in my middle forties.  I really don't think boyfriend is the appropriate term, but we don't live together and we're not married, so partner isn't quite the right term, friend is too vague, and both lover and special friend are just too...ewww....so I continue to use "boyfriend."  I just want you to know that I loathe it.)

Its not that she doesn't want S to be my boyfriend - its that she doesn't want anyone to be my boyfriend.

So we talk.  And I hear her and I acknowledge her feelings.  And I let her know, gently, that I understand how she must feel, still wishing that her parents were together.  I say that I am sorry that we hurt her by not being able to stay married to one another.  I say that I wish that it were different, but that it is not and cannot be.  And I let her know also, that I love and care for her so very much.  And that I am a grownup and that I am going to make grownup decisions for myself, such as having a boyfriend.  And she is more than perfectly welcome to share her feelings about that.  And we talk some more, and we hug each other and put our love for one another to words and we move forward.  I hope that someday she is able to cognitively separate her feelings about me having a boyfriend from her feelings from S.  In the meantime, this will do.  She is friendly to him, if aloof, and she is not rude or disrespectful.  I could not ask for better behavior, and I feel that all things considered, she's doing the best she can.  Its more than enough for me.

I'm learning too to put a tight lid on my feelings in regards to parenting time.  She loves her dad, so does my son, and their dad loves them.  There are times they want to be with me when its not my parenting time and there are times they want to be with their dad when they are currently with me.  Its hard sometimes to hear your children say, for whatever reason, that they'd really rather see their dad right now and not feel like you're failing at some level.  Its hard to put personal feelings aside, but nothing else will do.    Logic rarely informs the initial emotional response, and so I am learning to school my features carefully, to refrain from saying anything until I can put a smile on my face and into my voice and accept their feelings for what they are.  Even when I wish they felt differently. 

Its not just that I hope there is payback for this someday in the form of being loved more than the other parent, or that there is some sort of karmic return (although I wouldn't mind a winning MegaMillions ticket, thankyouverymuch) for being a good person.  I think maybe the motivation is more along the "do no harm" scale than anything else.  Common sense and experience tell me that if I attempt to dictate or control my children's feelings that I will be harming them, unforgivably.

Its just more of the growing pains of being a parent, I suppose.

 

 

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you,

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

    ~The Prophet, Khalil Gibran, 1923

Common Ground

My children have spent the last three hours not fighting.

Let me repeat that slowly, for those of you who might not grasp the improbability of that statement.

MY CHILDREN HAVE NOT FOUGHT IN WELL OVER THREE HOURS.

I'm sure you realize how bone-deep I wish that I could chalk this one-in-a-million event up to my stellar parenting, the ungodly amount of money I've spent on doctors, therapy and medication or even the alignment of the planets.  Alas, all for nought.  (Well, probably not for nought, but you know I'm all about the drama, kids.  Get real.)

Why, then, you ask, are my children getting along so well?

(You did ask, right?)

 

Or, as I like to phrase it, EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW AGAIN AND SPEED RACER ROCKS THE CASBAH.

Climb into the time machine and let us take a trip back to 1971.

I am almost six years old.  I have fallen off a horse and (as we later find out) broken my arm.  As my mother frantically dials the doctor to describe my symptoms and ask what she should do, the only thing preventing me from shrieking like a banshee and ripping the bag of ice off my forearm is the fact that my crush , my love, the man I fully intend to someday marry is on television.   His show comes on and I am spellbound. 

He is Speed Racer.

Who does that crazy chick Trixie think she is, horning in on my boyfriend?

Its 1972 and me and my best friend Rich Butler play Speed Racer endlessly.  We turn my rope swing into an elevator that we ride down to the lab where we do crazy modifications on the Mach 5 and turn it into a space ship, a submarine, a horse drawn buggy, an armored tank.  We fight evil.  We win races.  GO SPEED RACER, GO!

It is 2011.

My son, he is in love.  The object of his affection?  A car.  Oh, not just any car, mind you.  The Mach 5 has been replaced, in Speed Racer:  The Next Generation, by the Mach 6. My son is rapt, and I can see he imagines himself behind the wheel, navigating every turn, repelling every danger. He is a hero.

My daughter?  She is in love as well.

Somebody needs to tell her that Speed Racer is already taken. 

 But it won't be me.  I'll gladly trade away my first crush for the blissful quiet that ensues when one cartoon wraps itself around this generation's heart and gives them, for one afternoon, something they can agree on.  SPEED RACER IS WICKED AWESOME.  And my kids are not fighting.

Unfocused

ADD is fun.

No, really.

I ran out of my meds because I was not paying attention to how many pills I had left, and then I went out of town on a trip and then I got my doctor to write the prescription but I forgot to pick it up and then when I finally DID pick it up and took it to the pharmacy, they didn't have any of my particular medication in stock and so now I have to mail it to my prescription insurer to fill and it will be a few more days until I get it and I've been out of it since Wednesday.  (RUNON SENTENCE FOR THE WIN!)

I could take my kids' meds, I suppose, but they don't take the same thing I do and I get generally crabby on my daughter's dose and my son's dose doesn't help me focus quite so much as my own meds do, so I'm resigned to being the poster child for ADD for the next several days.

That's not all that bad, really. 

No, really.

Things don't get done with quite the same precision as when I'm medicated, but I manage to do a LOT of things when I'm this scattered.  None of them well, granted, but still... I reorganized the laundry room (except for the stuff I left sitting on top of the cabinet I pulled in there because it belongs somewhere else and I keep forgetting to move it) and I moved the cat stuff (except I keep forgetting to buy more cat food and now they're out and I have to go to the store today) and I got several loads of laundry done (not folded, but hey, its a START) and I even got my irrigation up and running (even if I still have two zones I can't use because I haven't replaced broken pipes yet).  See?  I'm still useful.

It was also very useful this morning when I spent more than a half an hour tearing my house and garage apart looking for my car keys.  I think I emptied out my purse three times, looked in every drawer in the kitchen, every coat pocket, even in the garbage can (ewww, stinky) before I finally found them IN MY CAR.

If I could manage to keep my brain still for two seconds I'd probably appreciate the irony in that story. 

 

Survivor

 

 

A few years back, my sister Vicki sent me a draft copy of what was meant to be the beginnings of a book.  She's spent a good number of years exorcising her demons, and she knew that the act of telling her story would be a valuable tool in the healing process.

In all honesty, the first time I read through her account of what happened to her as a child, I threw up.  I cried.  I raged.  I HATED.  Vicki and I have talked so much over the years, usually into the wee hours of the morning and well into several bottles of wine (mine) and whiskey (hers) about what she and my other birth siblings endured, the impact it has had on her life, her relationships, how to deal with it in ways that were useful.  I've expressed to her the survivor's guilt that gnaws at the core of me, the guilt of having escaped what happened to the rest of my siblings.  We've talked about these stories, about how to tell them.  i know that one day she and I are going to sit down together and the entire story will be told.  We'll write the book and we'll get it to a publisher.  For now, its mostly in her head and partially on paper.  Several months ago I reread some of what I had edited for her and decided to at least get the beginnings of it out there.

My sister has survived things the weight of which would crumple most people.  Much of what she has endured is practically unspeakable.  It is the kind of abuse you never want to imagine happens to children, the stuff of nightmare and denial.  It is the kind of abuse that once exposed to the light causes you to never look at another human being in the same way again, because you realize that people who walk around looking like normal men and women very well could be, in the privacy of their own homes, horrible monsters.

The first step to publicising Vicki's story was published today at Violence Unsilenced. 

It is graphic.  It is true.  It is one reason among many that I choose to have no relationship with my birthmother.

Please honor my sister.  Read her story, leave a comment over at VU.  Thank her for being a voice for other survivors, for being courageous enough to let her personal truth be public in hopes that it will encourage other victims of violence to speak up.  To know that they do not suffer alone, that there are people out there who understand, who have been there or are there right now, people who want to help.

If you or anyone you know is a victim of domestic violence or abuse, I encourage you to call your local domestic violence hotline or call the national hotline at 1−800−799−SAFE(7233) or TTY 1−800−787−3224.

 

This is love

They crowd around me, dancing slightly, grinning, ears cocked, eyes sparkling.  They are so happy.  Life is simple for them -- eat, sleep, poop, chase things.  Mama loves us and we love her.  The short people love us and sometimes they poke us in the eyeballs and pull on our ears, but we love them too and Mama praises us when we are patient with this.  Kitties make treats from their butts that are good to snack on.

And when I free my hands and I pet their big heads, scratch their chests, kiss their noses, the look in their eyes melts into ecstasy.  Life is perfect RIGHT NOW.  She is petting us. She will always pet us.  We are happy. 

I think briefly, "they're so silly," and then I recall a moment this weekend, a snippet of time forever captured in my mind's eye.  A warm afternoon, a weekend spent together.  His large warm hands pull me close, I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of him.  He strokes my hair.  I sigh.  Life is perfect right now.  I am happy.  No words are needed.

Not silly at all. 

Normal is extraordinary

I'll never forget A's kindergarten graduation.

Here she is with her class on stage, waving at me:

And then here she is afterwards, having ice cream with me:

What these two pictures don't show is what happened in between, after she waved at me in that picture.  She realized that the gymnasium was full of people and that those people were looking at her.  She fled the stage and we watched her kindergarten graduation together, from the audience.  It wasn't the first time she'd done this.  Both she and her brother refused to participate in their preschool's "graduation" ceremonies too, where they celebrated each advancing class.  It wasn't until the end of second grade that I got to enjoy seeing my daughter perform with her classmates in a spring offering of musical selections.

When we got the note home that the kindergarten classes were going to present a Nursery Rhyme Rap Night, I smiled and tucked it away.  We would go, of course, but I had no expectation that C-man would join his classmates in the front of the gym.  His teacher and I had discussed it during our conference, there were days when the classes were practicing that he just couldn't bring himself to participate, although there were times that he joined in just fine.  The noise in the gym, the knowing that other people were looking at him, these are incredibly difficult things for a kiddo with his issues to process. 

The first time I thought that I might never see my kids do a school play or a Christmas pageant, I cried.  I mourned.  I felt cheated and robbed.  Over time, though, I grew to accept.  There are lots of things my kids can do, so what if being on stage isn't one of them?  I got over myself.

God is funny.

When we arrived at the school and we saw the other kindergartners lining up to go in, I said "Look, there's your teacher!  Go ahead and go up there so you can stand with your class!"

He gave me a somewhat desperate look, but then he surprised me by actually leaving his sister and I and walking over to his class.  A and I went into the gym and found chairs in the second row just as the three classrooms filed in onto the risers.

As the teachers moved the kids around to get them lined up and centered, he found me in the audience.  He looked very uncomfortable but much to my surprise he didn't try to flee the stage. 

 

 

And up there he stayed the entire time.

He didn't sing much and he got just a few of the hand movements in there,but up there he stayed.  And when they were done he was so proud of himself.  And I of him.

I'm still smiling from ear to ear.

For your viewing pleasure, MY SON.  ON STAGE.

 

 Things look pretty awesome up here from cloud nine.