Barnmaven

Small moments

Aunt Becky's post at Mommy Wants Vodka today got me thinking.  I commented on her post that I think both the biggest things we do and the smallest carry equal measure of importance.  Then I started remembering.

I read an article in Prevention a month or two ago that discussed how we do some of our best thinking in the shower.  And why not?  We are warm, comfortable, relaxed.  As we go about the routine motions, soaping, scrubbing, rinsing, things we could do with our eyes closed or in our sleep (and we often do, or at least I do) our minds are free to roam at will.  Drawing this thought out into greater context, there are a thousand things we do every day that lead our minds to larger places.  Thoughts that change the directions of our lives. 

It was a summer day nearly eight years ago.  My daughter was in the high chair alternating between eating little bits of ham and peas and throwing them on the floor for the dogs.  I was cleaning the counter and putting dishes away and singing to the song on the radio.  Landslide.  And as I sang the verses, relaxed and lost in my mundane tasks, the words I was singing lodged in my mind and changed my life.  But time makes you bolder, children get older.  I'm getting older too.  And from that moment in time, the idea of my son was born.  

It was a stormy day in the early spring.  I was working from home, tired after an overnight call with the software developers in India as we released the latest patch.  The rain was banging on the windows of my room and my mind was everywhere but thinking about the emails I was reading, filing, deleting, answering.  For once, instead of deleting the weekly email I'd been receiving from the logistics job site for literally years now, I accidentally clicked it open.  And I saw my job.  The one I have now.  The one I would have never known existed except for that small thing, that I opened the email instead of routinely deleting it as I had hundreds of times before.

I was tired after a long day at work and I didn't really feel like doing anything but stay home, but I'd been invited to go out to a birthday party, a party for someone I didn't know at the home of other people I had also never met.  I considered begging off, or at least convincing my date to come over for a movie instead.  I looked at myself in the mirror and decided it wouldn't hurt me a bit to put on a little makeup and a nice sweater and just go meet some new people.  I just didn't realize that one of those new people would be the man I fell in love with.

It was a sunny day in July, the morning after a big holiday.  I'd stayed up late, was tired and not in a hurry to go to work, but I wanted to enjoy the ride in.  This way I thought, or that way?  A random choice, and of course if you read my post from Tuesday you know the rest.

Small flashes of time that change our lives forever.  For the better, for the worse.  A chance meeting with the person who ends up being The One.  The choice to take one path over another on your daily walk, or to read something you normally would not.  A million small moments, added together, that make up the most momentous events in our lives.

Sometimes it has seemed to me as those moments occurred that I recognized them as the lifequakes they were, and other times they have taken me completely by surprise.  I'll sit amidst the boxes and wreckage of my life's latest Big Thing and started following the threads backward until I find the moment and wonder how things would be different without that small piece of time.

What was your small moment?  Where did it lead you? 

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.

 

Dang, they're THAT good.

***This post has not been sponsored in any way, shape or form by Bank of America or its employees or advertisers.***

I've heard the tales from so many friends, even my own brother.  Someone stole their information and their account was overdrawn by hundreds or even thousands of dollars in transactions generated by the thief.  They waited days or even weeks for the bank to investigate, verify and reverse the charges.  It was a horrible, long, drawn out process.   It will never happen to me. 

Yes, and no.

I was down to about a quarter of a tank this morning and so stopped to get gas on the way to work.  My commute is 90 miles round trip, give or take, and I don't much relish the thought of getting stuck on Highway 14 while the farm trucks and the 18-wheelers speed by.

I flipped the switch on my tank, got out and unscrewed the cap.  I stuck my debit card in the slot and prepared to enter my PIN.  "Card not authorized."  Huh.  Tried again.  "Card not authorized.  See cashier."  Now, it was entirely possible that I had inadvertently overdrawn my account.  It happens from time to time, one of the many drawbacks of ADHD being that sometimes I fail to remember that I bought or did something the day before and that I don't have enough money to do or buy something today as a result.  No worries, I thought, I'll check the account balance when I get to work and transfer funds if I have to.

After back to back morning meetings until almost lunchtime, I finally got the chance to log in to my account.  Account was safely in the green, and nothing to indicate a problem.  Hmmm.  Maybe the card is just getting worn out.  It IS due to be replaced this year.  No biggie. 

But it kept bothering me all day.  Finally, I called the customer service number and selected the option to review my transactions.  The first three were easily recognizable as mine.  But the next:

"A debit card withdrawal in the amount of $236.97 to [something unprounceable]."

"A miscellaneous reversal in the amount of $236.97."

The next word out of my mouth started with the letter F, which the automated system didn't recognize as being a valid option.  I tried a different word:  "Representative."

As it turns out, someone attempted to use my debit card yesterday to book a hotel room in Finland.

Bank of America?  Caught it immediately, reversed the charge and put a stop on my card.  That's how good they are.  One charge, caught and reversed.   One charge.

Bank of America, it was a little inconvenient today to have to dig the ones out of my wallet to buy enough gas to get to work.  However, it would have been a hell of a lot MORE inconvenient if the thieving assholes who stole my account information had charged enough money to put me in a hole I can't afford to be in and tied up my account for lord only knows how long.

Bank of America, if I didn't have a boyfriend, I would KISS YOU.  Hard.  On the lips.  As it is, would you settle for a really tight hug?  Your account protection team is top-notch and I can't thank you enough for protecting my piddly little bank balance.   I'm grateful beyond words right now.

(Now un-lay-off my friend Leslie and we'll be besties forever.)

I get my new debit card in 7-10 days.  Somehow I think I'll be using cash only for a while - even after the new card comes.

Important questions

For about a year and a half now I've attended an Episcopal church in my area.  I love being Episcopalians.  I think of us as the aging hippies of Christianity, the liberal heathen Christians who by some other standards might be headed on a fast handcart to a very warm place.  While the Anglican church itself has some disagreement over a few key issues, we are a church whose doors are open to all.  That openness and expressed belief that God loves every single person is what drew me back to them, the church of my childhood.

Now, I would guess that the average age of our small congregation is about 65.  I sing in the church choir and except for me and one other guy whose mother-in-law also is in the choir, everyone else is well past retirement age, as are most of the people that sit in our congregation on Sundays.   I love our small church.  I love our little choir.  Even if we're not loaded with musical talent, we enjoy what we do and are all committed to showing up every Wednesday and Sunday and making a joyful noise.

A few months ago our priest left us to go pastor a larger congregation in a larger city west of us.  Until the vestry is ready to call a new priest, we have had visiting priests.  For the most part these are retired priests who supplement their retirement by filling in at churches as needed.  The priest we've had most often is a really sweet older gentleman. I enjoy his sincerity and his delivery when he takes us through the ecumenical rites and shares a sermon. 

Every year our choir, along with anywhere from ten to fifteen other choirs in the area participate in a Christmas choral festival.  The offering from this event goes to a local charity, typically the food bank.  We had easily the smallest choir participating this year, and so we found a song that was perfectly suited for us.  It included a brief solo, and I was asked to sing the part.  I won't be shy, I do sing and I sing pretty well.  The solo was right in my vocal range and it was a great fit for me.  The night of the choral festival the song came off just beautifully, not just my solo but really, the whole song.  We (and I) received many compliments and expressions of appreciation.   In order for our own congregation to hear the song, we also included it as the offertory anthem Christmas eve and then the following Sunday as well.  That Sunday, the priest I mentioned above was our visiting priest.

On that last Sunday, after the recessional, we all filed out of church.  As I came up to the priest, he grabbed my hand and pulled me close to speak quietly.  "I only want to know one thing," he said.

Of course, my mind filled in all the questions I imagined he might ask:

    What a lovely voice you have.  Did you take singing lessons?

    Have you always had such a talent for music?

    I know a talent agent, would you like his number?

Instead, he pulled me down a little lower so he could reach up and tap his forefinger on the dream catcher tattooed on the back of my neck. 

"How much did that hurt?"