Getting Lost and Found

Every time I drive to San Diego I get lost.


I am not a person prone to losing my way. I usually plan for things, come armed with maps or write out meticulous directions. And in recent years, I have come to rely on my GPS navigation system in my car.


But there is something about San Diego that makes me confused, befuddled and near to cursing by the time I take my 5th or 8th wrong turn. One way streets and alarmingly similar numbers on highways always get the better of me.


This morning was no different.

I was traveling 2 hours south to meet Kristen. This was the first time I had met her other than on her blog. She will be running 26.2 miles tomorrow morning in San Diego's Rock and Roll Marathon. I will be running 5. Here. Maybe. If I can get up.

But I will be thinking about Kristen as she does better than she thought she would.

Still the prospect of meeting a blog friend was not enough to keep me on the right streets in my journey this morning. I eventually found her hotel, after a call to the front desk and a couple hard right turns, and I found her in the lobby.

I was no longer lost, in fact, I felt found.

She brought me a sweet gift and we immediately began talking. After a Chai Tea Latte, an Americano and an hour and half of conversation, I had to go home. We hugged, snapped a few pictures, and I was so thankful for one more woman I can call "friend".

I felt "found" by a new, but old and familliar-feeling friendship.

I headed back to my car, and I realized I had no map to get home. Backwards-reading my Mapquest directions doesn't work on ONE WAY STREETS. It just doesn't.

More cursing. More scary highway numbers. After 15 minutes of running yellow lights in the downtown district I finally found my freeway entrance. I wasn't lost anymore. I found my road.

And I had found a new friend.

Becoming President

Only 43 people have ever been president of the United States.

Just 12 men have walked on the moon.

We've been taught to teach our kids they can accomplish anything. ANYthing. Heck, we teach our kids that because we were told that ourselves. But we sit here with our normal jobs in our beige living rooms doing ordinary things. We eat grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner.

(For the record, there is nothing wrong with grilled cheese or beige walls.)

But out of all of the millions and millions of children in the US, how many will actually be astronauts or presidents?

Do we do our children a disservice by continually telling them they can be anyone and do anything they choose? Or would we better serve them by taking into account their needs, their motivations, and their affinities; what they love and the costs they might be willing to pay.

I mean, I wasn't president. I remember distinctly someone (probably a teacher) telling me in about 5th grade,

Sure you can be president if you want....

I really didn't "want". In fact, I didn't know what I wanted. I ended up teaching school because it seemed like the only likely answer.

I don't want to squash any perfectly formed, freshly youthful dreams. If one of my girls wants to change the world by becoming president, I surely don't want to waste her energy by being a dark realist. But if she wants to change the world by becoming a mother, I want her to understand that that is equally important.

For about 6 months last year, Hope had a brief fascination with space travel (unusual for a girl, maybe?). She wanted to be an astronaut.

I tried to be balanced in my answer to her. I told her that she could be an astronaut if she wanted to. But that astronauts study math and science and astronomy and geology and go to school probably as long as doctors do. Its not as fun as simply putting on a space suit and firing a blaster gun. But once you become an astronaut, you are an expert in your field and you are the best in the world at what you do.

As far as I know, she gave up her "dream". Whether because of six-year-old whimsy or because she didn't want to go to school for the next 25 years, I'm not sure. But now she wants to be a horse rancher.

So, in my honesty I confess I find it difficult to tell my daughter she can be ANYTHING she wants to. Of course I want her to shoot high and do the best she can possibly do and to succeed at the gifts God has given her. I want her to be excellent in whatever path she chooses.

I guess one of my girls might be president someday. And if they ask, I will tell them that it is possible. But difficult. And there are costs.

But it would be fun to live in the White House.

Distinct Living

She's gotten into my makeup drawer and is smeared with (thankfully, a pale color) peppermint-scented lipgloss.

I only know this because she has snuggled up against me in my bedroom; I am folding laundry and she is still soft in her pajamas. She smells like mint and I look at her mouth. Lip gloss, light pink, under her nose, on her cheek and not on her lips. I smile and hug her briefly and land a mama-kiss on her sticky face.

I love you too, Mama.

I hadn't said that I loved her. She responded to my quick, unthinking affection as me saying those words. She told me she loved me too, as if she was answering my kiss with the right words.

She understood perfectly that my actions meant that I loved her.

As a writer and a reader, words are my life. I appreciate well-written cards and witty quotations. I love words that are rich with meaning and overflow with significance. But how much better to express love in my actions without having to say "I love you."

I want my life to be more distinct than anything I could say or write. Underneath my actions, I want others to assume my love, and see what I do as an outpouring of who I am. I want what I do to show clearly how much I love.

To use an overused cliche, I want my actions to speak louder than my words.

Naomi cuddles up against me still, half-begging me to tickle her tummy. And I do. She says she loves me again, this time through a giggle. I love you too, Sweetheart.

Universes

This little girl creates her own universes.

Her entire world is that which she is in right now. We walk to the end of the park: her world consists of the maple tree, the rocks beneath it and it's shade. We move to the playground and the only thing she can think of is the slide, the ladder and the swings. It comprises everything to her. In the sandbox, she only worries about the shovels and the pail, and moves closer and closer to the mud.

She never wastes a care on what anyone else thinks. She dances the same in her tennis shoes as she does in her mama's high heels, with swirls and song in front of the mirror in private or in the middle of the street watching her feet the whole time. She's created a world in which everyone is dancing in her mind and her dirty, sandy sneakers are really ballet slippers in disguise.

She lives within the universe of now, and cannot see past the next five minutes. She doesn't know how to be self-conscious.

So I try hard to let her have her "worlds", complete within themselves. I try to allow her time to create a universe in the back yard and in her still-baby room with her toys that are growing up with her.

Soon enough she will go to school and be required to give up her fascination in the "now." She will be forced to sit in a circle and listen to the story and sit at the table for snack time. She will learn embarrassment and might stop dancing in front of strangers. Soon enough she will have to live a life where the "now" is no longer important, and worlds are created for her.

Beginning of a Journey

I've been watching for the signs since she was about two years old.

In her tendency to hyper focus, Hope is so similar to her father. Inability to sit still, tendency to forget the 2nd and 3rd of three simple tasks, and very short attention span - all very much like her father. However, in her risk-taking and her zest for living, she is also her father's daughter.

As a child, my husband was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder years ago when it was not in vogue and before there were many options for student with these traits. He has struggled with it through his adolescence and in his young adulthood; and we continue to struggle with it today as a "third person" in our marriage.

His story is his own, and he combats the affects of his ADD with medication he religiously takes daily. Without it, his ability to function at work, as a worship leader or as a friend is severely handicapped.

Because of his ADD, we have been careful to watch for signs in our girls. One in four children with one parent with ADD will exhibit the disorder. If a child has two parents with it, the probability rises to 50%. As early as her second birthday I began to wonder.

When her teacher emailed and asked for an in-person conference, I knew what it was about.

Now, after having completed a year of traditional school in a classroom, she asked us to get Hope assessed. Her reading is beyond all the other kids, her math skills are advanced and her abilities to make cognitive connections are superior. However, she cannot sit still, keep her hands to herself and gets bored very easily. She has a tendency to "not hear" directions because she is so intently focused on a task - it is as if the direction was never given. She is emotionally immature and lacks self-control.

We do discipline at home. I can't begin to count the numbers of school teachers, gymnastic and dance instructors, and Sunday School teachers who have asked me with disapproving and judgemental tones what our discipline methods are at home. I've done jars, marbles, charts, stickers, money - you name it - it has been done in our home. There is something more going on.

So, we begin our journey with the ADD. I am not sure what the doctor or the therapists will say. That is something we will start to work through as the summer progresses, hopefully before she walks through the doors of first grade.

If she does in fact have ADD, my husband knows what she is going through. He has lived it.

And if she does have it, I've lived with it in my husband for the last 12 years. Hopefully together, we can help her get through school, focus her in appropriate directions and give her the right outlets for her energy.

Butterflies and Dust

A little girl never outgrows her fascination with butterflies; the pull in her heart to run after them; the secret curiosity of what it would be like to be one. Even this little girl.

Spring comes early and short where I live. The winter warms up enough to allow the hills to explode with yellow and lavender flowers, and then just as quickly, continues to heat and sucks most of the colored beauty from the hills. The blooms dry up before May even comes and we are left with tall brown stalks of what used to be wildflowers.

This is what I slowly picked my way through this morning. On this Saturday-like Monday, I ran by myself out of doors for the first time in about 10 days. Recovering from my weekend out of town last week had left me unmotivated and exhausted. I had to push myself out my front door and force myself to lace up my running shoes.

A corridor of dirty, hollow brown bushes that used to be green and yellow and fresh. Dead now and waiting for the autumn wildfires.

Some spring birds. A little color on their chests. A dragonfly-like insect buzzes by me - large with a bright orange abdomen.

A little bit of color in the drab hallway of dead stalks. Life isn't gone from this hill; it is just hidden.

Then a small butterfly lands on the path in front of me and spreads her little wings wide, as if she hasn't yet sensed me running toward her. Brilliant yellow and black and orange like the spring flowers that have already died. She is a vibrant fragile dot on the rocky trail.

The vibrations from my feet on the ground scare her and she closes her wings tight. The underside of her wings are brown and grey, just like the dirt she is resting on. She is almost invisible for an instant and then she flies away. Fluttering bright and drab together, she disappears.

I've seen this tiny butterfly against a curtain of dusty brown and I feel a little like this insignificant animal: one minute brillant and the next invisible and scared.

I thank God for this simple beauty. The simplicity of the brilliance of a tiny butterfly. I feel a rising in my heart to meet this perfect God-given beauty of the morning.

God can teach me humbling, quiet things even in the dust.

Letting the Six-Year-Old Drive

You have never been on a ride at Disneyland until you've ridden passenger when a six-year-old is in the driver's seat on Autopia.

It might have been better had I worn a helmet (but wouldn't have protected me from the whiplash); at least my ears wouldn't have smashed up against the inside of the car. With my own foot on the accelerator and her little hands on the padded steering wheel, we had a wild ride.

Stopping on Autopia simply means letting up on the gas pedal. We pause behind (actually slam into the back of) some tourists who have STOPPED on the road to TAKE PICTURES of the MONORAIL!! Then - we - stall: apparently Autopia cars are NOT MEANT TO STOP for photo opportunities.

She giggles at me as I yell (nicely) at them to keep going. The other cars are piling up behind us.

She loves to drive her own life; make her own choices. She's six and has just enough intelligence to be dangerous.

Mama, can we go on Thunder Mountain? Sure!

Can we get French Fries? Not right now.

How about Tom Sawyer's Island... Of course.

Allowing her to make some of her own choices is good for both of us. Finding that balance is the difficult part.

Being strangely agreeable on Friday during our mom and daughter Disney day, I asked her where she wanted to go for lunch. My purse was not large enough to carry the peanut butter and low sugar jelly (a whole other post...) sandwiches I had made, so we had to shell out the cost of an in-park lunch.

It was so cold for California in May and all I wanted was a hot lunch. If I had left it up to her, simply her, Hope would have chosen the McDonald's French Fry stand in Adventureland. In her Kindergarten thinking, her sight would have been short and she would not have been able to make a choice based on all of the information: how much money I had, where exactly we could choose to eat, how cold we would be if we stayed outside.

I told her to walk quickly and follow me. I grabbed her hand and walked over to the Blue Bayou, the over priced restaurant INSIDE the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. It is dark with above-head lanterns, fireflies and candles for ambiance. And at 11:30 in the morning, we happened to get the last walk-in reservations of the day. It was meant to be.

She didn't know it was there; she would never have asked to eat here because that option wasn't available to her. I taught her how to unfold her linen napkin in her lap and which fork to use. I spent far too much money on lunch - vastly more than I had planned (really, chicken should never cost $30). But it was worth every Disney penny. The "fancy" lunch she and I shared was priceless.

I am learning to let my six-year-old drive her own choices more and more. But for the big things, like a fancy lunch her piggy bank could never afford, Mama knows what is best (even if it is thirty-dollar-chicken).

The Highland Games

I am not Scottish.

I am 2 generations removed Irish, however.

The Annual Highland Gathering this morning could be heard from the outer reaches of the fairground parking lot. Bagpipes bellowed and their drummers pounded and the girls were entranced. As was I. We had never really heard anything like it. At least not on this scale.

We had no clan booth to go to. We are not Scottish. We did not wear kilts. We are not Scottish. Even so...

We watched:

Throwing the Weight and Putting the Stone,

Sheepherding,

Fiddling,

Pipe Bands marching

and High Step Dancing.

We participated in:

Archery,

A sack race (Hope)

Dancing (Naomi only),

eating and shopping.

Hope plugged her ears when we walked too close to the bagpipers. Naomi screamed and did not want to watch the Highland athletics.

Even though I am not Scottish and I could sport no tartan, had no kilt hose to pull up and tie with a tassel, and definitely no bagpipe to blow, I had fun.

Checking

I check on my littlest one before I go to sleep.

Her hand is steady. She's been in bed for three hours now - enough time for her little body to settle into its sleep rhythms and breath patterns, into its own warmth it will keep during the night.

Her hand is warm - not the sweaty fidgeting of falling into sleep, or the cool skin in the early hours of the morning when the light seeps through her shutters. But the comfortable, safe warmth her body lives in in the middle of the night as she sleeps.

(I thank God that I can keep my children warm at night. Under familiar blankets. In smooth beds. With fresh scents and clean sheets. I thank God I can bathe them in the evening and place them on their pillows with damp hair.)

I check on them. Before I can sleep, long after they've closed their eyes, I need to check.

Maybe it is that promise I need to keep. To them. Or too myself. I'll check on you...

Or maybe it's seeing that she is safe before I can give my own mind over to rest.

Maybe it is simply checking that her hand has reached its warmth - that she is under her blanket (the fuzzy side, not the silky side) - and that her dreams seem peaceful to me looking in. Her blondish curl is stuck to her forehead and she turns and lets out a sleep sigh. It is long and drawn as if she is too caught in sleep to stop her little voice. I put my two fingers in her palm and she immediately, slowly, curls around me. She grabs my hand and loves me, even in her sleep.

Maybe this is why I check on her. Selfishly so, to feel her love for me before I go to my own bed.

Real Life

She emails you and asks if you want to hang out. Something non-awkward, non-threatening, at your leisure...whenever you want. Let's bring the kids to the park. In fact, you pick the park, she says.

Up to this point I've only known her in the lackluster world of the blogosphere. I guess this would be my first "meet-in-real-life."

So lifeless and one-sided, we bloggers are. Really. We can't escape it, not a one of us. We share what we will and keep some things close, and are painfully honest and open about others. No matter what we say or write, be it our toddler's vomit or our teenager's anger issues, we are still just Internet entities until we know one another in the real world.

Even me, I'm afraid. I write what I do, and if you don't know me in real life, you don't know what my voice sounds like, or what my handwriting looks like. You don't know my facial expressions (that I really did look like Katharine McPhee when she was on American Idol - mostly because we had the exact same smile and smirk - I'm ten years older, though). You don't know the way my house smells or my voice when I tell my kids to quiet down and stop poking me in the back of the head when I am driving.

So in reality, I'm somewhat colorless and plain. At least here on the Internet.

I've only read her blog, and I haven't even spoken to her on the phone. I've seen her picture on her site and I hope that I will recognize her.

I get out of the car and there she is. With a wide smile and a laugh she yells my name from across the parking lot. And now we are friends.

Like a Flat Stanley come to life, Elizabeth is now a real person to me. We walk to the playground and our kids begin to dig in the sand. We talk without pause for an hour and half. I find out how close she lives to me and I that I pass her church every day on my way to Hope's school. I think our husbands will probably get along and I wish I could meet her twin baby girls. I find out she and I were at the same wedding ten years ago.

It is a bit surreal, meeting someone in the normal world that I've only met while blogging. I guess that there are reasons why I read certain blogs - that I feel like I could be friends with them were I given the chance.

I know if I were in Oklahoma, I'd want to have lunch with Cindy, or in Boston I'd have coffee with Mandy. I'd for sure grab Denise for chocolate chip cookies if I was near her. And who knows who I would meet if I found myself in Branson!

So, thank you, Elizabeth, for emailing me and becoming a friend in real life!

(Now, go visit her at Kids, Twins and Laundry Bins!)

Expensive Meals

I feel a little empty this morning.

Like I ate a meal, but it didn't fill me up. As if I sat down for a nice, beautiful dinner, linen napkins and candles, a soft chair and a basket of bread, but somehow I didn't eat.

Chad and I travelled last weekend and what should have been four days of spending time re-connecting and getting to know each other again without the distractions of children and work, we didn't eat our meal. We spent time together, but he was busy coming down from a week of work and I was busy navigating us through the city. We were busy taking in sights and watching other people, that I don't feel like we took in each other.

I feel like I sat down to eat a meal, but didn't actually pick up the fork.

We laughed together, took self portraits, went to Starbucks, and sat next to each other on two planes. But somehow, we were so busy we didn't see each other. We didn't seem to have time.

We knew our trip would be somewhat of a hurricane, spinning and not really stopping, and that we wouldn't get more than about 6 hours of sleep during any night. We spent little time in our hotel room, only to sleep, get up and get ready in the morning. We went into it with our eyes wide open and knew it wasn't time to rest. We were happy to be busy and sight see and be with our friends.

But I feel empty that I didn't spend any time focusing on my husband. I miss him, and we spent an entire long weekend without the kids.

I only have myself to blame. The times we did sit down together (on the plane or late at night), we watched TV or read books: the same things we tend to do at home. So it is my fault.

I feel a little like I squandered precious time. I wasted an expensive meal.

So the only thing I can think to do today is to attempt to create somewhat of a sanctuary here, at home, in the midst of our chaos (rather than outside of it). I need to try to make a safe, quiet place here, today, tonight. I need to make a place where we can laugh and try to leave our stress outside our front door.

Hopefully, we can refill ourselves and replace the emptiness with each other. Maybe the time spent together (but somehow apart) will teach us to take advantage of the time we have together, the treasure of it all, and not to squander it.

I am 33

My forearms are sore and my obliques are tight. My shoulders ache a little too.

I truly didn't think my afternoon foray in the yard would result in this. I guess I am not as young as I think I am.

Hope has reached the age and developed the motivation in which she loves to spend an hour in the grass turning cartwheels and practicing her gymnastics. I think most little girls hit this stage at some point.

I was in fifth grade and ten years old when Mary Lou Retton won the gold medal with her amazing vault in the 1984 Olympics. Gymnastics in the school yard was all we did that year.

Yesterday afternoon, after the 90 degree day had cooled a bit, the girls and I went outside to play before dinner. It began with barefoot soccer (too many toenail injuries) and then quickly turned into how-many-cartwheels-can-I-do-Mom?

I told her that I used to take gymnastics when I was a little girl. And that I could probably still do a cartwheel. And I did.

She giggled and screamed to see her mother hoist herself completely upside down in our yard. It was a little bit of a rush! I could actually do it! And I don't think I was that bad. (I didn't record my cartwheels and you will never see a video of my gymnastics "skills" on this blog.) However, it felt good and strong to flip myself through the air like that. There was nothing amazing about it except that it had probably been 20 years since I did my last cartwheel.

I moved up to a round-off. Not quite as good and my ankles hurt as I came down. I'm going to stick with the cartwheels.

Together, we ran and turned over in the air for about 30 minutes. We fell down in the grass sweaty and laughing and I felt young.

Until this morning, when I got up and my lats needed stretching. My triceps hurt too and my shoulders feel like I did a weight workout yesterday.

I know I'm not 6 years old. And I am surely not in 5th grade anymore. My arms and back and shoulders are 33 years old, and my knees feel it too every time I run. But in my heart, at least for an afternoon, I felt ten again.

Temporary Details

Resetting my mind after this weekend has been a challenge. We hit DC like a tornado, hardly stopping for anything for very long, trying to take in everything we possibly could in such a short amount of time.

Needless to say, I had very little time to think about it all. My brain, instead, was filled with all the little, temporary details so incredibly important but only applicable to our trip.

Flight 305.
Room no. 410.
Set the alarm for 8:30.
Tomorrow set the alarm for 4:45 to get up to catch a taxi to the airport.
Take the Red line toward Glenmont, swich at Metro Center to the Blue line and get off at the second stop.
K street is hard to navigate if you are walking. It would have been better to walk across M.

Details that don't matter anymore. Not today, back in California. Not today, when Naomi is napping and I am getting Hope ready for Gymnastics.

I am back in the middle of my other set of temporary details. These ones matter today and next week, but won't matter in a few months. Schedules will change, life will keep moving forward and my set of current-things-to-remember will be different.

Dance is at 4:30 but I don't need to leave until 4:20. Don't forget the dance bag.
Wednesdays are chapel dress - Hope needs to wear a skirt.
Mondays, she needs tennis shoes because she has PE in the morning.
Milk, bananas, eggs and bread from the market. Oh, and a salad for my dinner tonight.
Take out the upstairs trash.

I have a great calendar system on the computer and I am moderately organized (even getting reminders on my phone), and I write all sorts of lists, but I still feel like my my brain is wrapped around temporary things that will not be here tomorrow. And I will so quickly forget them.

I've already forgotten which direction on the Blue line.

I guess someday when my girls are grown and we are left with that which we begun it all, then my temporary details will be reduced. I might only need to remember my market list rather than lesson times and various bags to pack.

But along with the details go the inside jokes and the times spent reading together; the smiles across the dinner table and the stubbed toes will also fade. My mind won't be stuffed full with all the little things any more, however important or insignificant.

Maybe then I will have more time to think, and write, but by then all of this will be only memories.

Mirror

I hope I never forget that my past is my best teacher. It is my mirror.

Patrick Ewing and L.L. Cool J

Learning never stops, even after graduation:

1. A Georgetown Cupcake might just possibly be the best piece of cake on earth.

2. Patrick Ewing is very, very, very tall and about as wide as a wall (his son graduated today).

3. The Washington Monument is breathtaking at night.

4. Washington DC has the greatest number of spies out of any world city (and I could never, never be one).

5. I don't want to go back to college. I had fun when I was there, but I am glad I am a mother now.

6. It takes 1 hour and 15 minutes to read 900 names.

7. L.L. Cool J is in the National Portrait Gallery. No joke.

8. I will probably never have diamond earrings as big as the ones that used to belong to Marie Antionette. They are now in the Natural History Museum's Gem Hall.

9. All cabs smell like smoke and sweat and all Metro seats are grimy and a bit sticky.

10. It might have just been one of the biggest honors of my life to be able to watch a girl who used to be an eighth grade student of mine, grow into an adult and become a college graduate as well as one of my very best friends.

Congratulations, Laurie!!

The 8th Wonder of the World

I think the last time I stayed out until 2 in the morning was, well, maybe like 8 years ago? Not sure. If I have, it was so long ago I can't remember.

And riding the DC Metro at 1:45 am is also quite an experience.

Last night we went to the Wonders-of-the-World-themed Senior Ball for Georgetown University. They rented out about 2/3 of Union Station near the Capitol building: food tables, open bars, chocolate truffles, a hot dog cart, a fully dressed Trojan warrior, and 7000 students, family and friends dressed in formal wear.

I have never experienced anything like it (and also never worn more uncomfortable shoes - it takes a lot of pain to make a woman take off her shoes on a city street) and probably never will again. So besides the amazing food and the crowds of people and my friend Laurie looking so beautiful having fun with her girlfriends, my personal wonder-of-the-world is that it was an experience unlike anything else.

Oh, and it will be probably another 8 years until I stay out that late again.

Invisible

We don't get a newspaper at home. At a decent hotel, however, one arrives magically in front of your door each morning.

USA Today. This morning we grab our paper and head next door to Starbucks. Its busy with the morning commuters (plus we are near a busy Metro stop). I find a table to sit down while Chad fights against the unorganized crowd, each person trying to get in front of the next person. Everyone wants to get somewhere quickly.

Not us, really. We are on vacation and the only thing on our "schedule" before a 3:30 lunch date with Laurie is the International Spy Museum and the National Portrait Gallery. Too fun.

We read the paper for a few minutes.

So sad. Greenhouse gases and endangered polar bears? Plummeting home values, rising oil costs...the list is so long. Longer than even I have this morning.

Then I think how sad the man is behind me. Its a rainy morning, he is most likely a transient and is sitting in Starbucks to stay dry. He dozes on the over sized chair near the window. He asks for money and we give him some for breakfast.

He doesn't actually act sad. He jumps up with his new five dollar bill and gets in line to get a drink and maybe something to eat.

Its hard because I can't help but wonder what my long-term response should be to him. He affects me, but I am not overly worried by him. Maybe I should be.

I decide I don't want read the headlines anymore. I should be knowledgeable about the world, but not overtaken by it. But I do think about that man all day. I see other homeless men today on the streets of our country's most important city, and they are each looking toward the ground. Invisible.

Today at least, he wasn't invisible to me. And I know he is never invisible to the One who takes care us both. Me in my soft hotel bed, warm shower and lotion for my feet. And him, in his dirty sweatshirt and ill-fitting shoes.

Blurry

Recovering from a redeye, I follow my husband around the National Air and Space Museum. In all of DC, this is the one place he wants to see.

My feet shuffle, and drag, and I almost trip as I try to keep up with him. It's only 10:30 in the morning and we are exhausted.

We've been in the city since 5:30 in the morning and we can't check in to our hotel until sometime between noon and 3pm. We've been up all night and resting face down on a backpack on my lap is not my idea of a good night's sleep. The bell captain has our luggage and we are off to see as much of the city as we can before we fall asleep somewhere inappropriate.

After navigating the Metro and trekking the National Mall from the Lincoln Memorial (spending about 1/2 hour with Abe and leaning up against the marble in the shade) to nearly the Capitol building, we end up at the Air and Space Museum. The halls are filled with groups of school children, 8th graders and Kindergartners and everything in between, and us - bleary-eyed and slow to speech.

We pass engines and jets and missiles and biplanes and planes hanging and rockets towering...if I'd been on full strength I still might have been overwhelmed. Even as tired as Chad was he still was in awe of the breadth and variety of the exhibits. The Wright Brothers. World War 2 aircraft carriers. The Lunar Lander.

He stops and his eyes light up. A little bit like the little boy that he used to be once, and whom I never knew. I ask him what it is and he begins to explain. The Lunar Lander and the Lunar Module. He explains in detail. And I am tired.

I lean against a rail and I listen. His face is blurry. His words are blurry. I hear most of it and I ask him to repeat himself. He talks about rovers and docking and moon landings and reentries. I'm not stupid and normally I would understand it all.

But today, this morning, as hopelessly tired as I am and as far off as shower seems right now, I try as hard as I can to listen with energy to my husband's explanation.

I smile at him (I think - maybe it was more like just squinting my eyes and trying to widen my mouth) because I know how much he loves this stuff. He just loves it, and even as exhausted as he is, it lights up in him like a 7 year old boy playing with his planes and rockets.

It is worth it just to see the little boy smiling through his sleepy eyes.

Six-Year-Old Omniscience

Watching a Little Einsteins video with her sister, Hope saw a musical note flash across the screen.


Mama! I know what that is!


Normally, her mind is like a locked safe, and she remembers crazy details from her three year old birthday party that I had completely forgotten. In her six-year-old omniscience she frequently acts as if she "knew that" and she's "known that" forever. I half-expected her to rattle off some musical theory that she picked up just by reading something in a book. Quarter note, half-note...rest? I wasn't sure what she saw.

That's a "one-ee."

One-ee, rhyming with "honey". I had to think for about 8 seconds before she explained. A one-ee? What do you mean, sweetie? I've never heard of a one-ee before.

You know, Mom. A one-ee and a two-ee and a three-ee...

Oh yeah. Her music teacher must have been counting and clapping like a drummer waiting to begin a song. I wondered quickly if I should correct her. Knowing that musical notes are not really called "one-ees" and wanting her to excel in any musical talent she might have, I might have dashed her excitement and told her she was wrong. Not only that, I had to laugh.

But she was so excited she had recognized it. At home. And not in music class.

I couldn't bear to fix her conception of it, even if it was incorrect. She'll figure it out someday, maybe even by Friday. But it really wasn't that important that today, right now, she understood that there is no such thing as a "one-ee." What was more important was that I shared in her excitement.

Yes, baby. That for sure is a "one-ee." Good job!

The Face of Something

When I was in Kindergarten in 1980, there was a little girl in my class with bright red hair. She wore it high in two pigtails every day so that her bronze ringlets would bounce when she walked. Her little nose was creamy white peppered with dozens of freckles and her mother dressed her in a new dress every day with layers of ruffles and lace. Her dressed bounced as much as her hair.

Once a week or so, she'd be gone from our class for the entire day.

She'd come back sometime in the afternoon, having eaten lunch out somewhere with her mother, and join us after nap time. One day, she bragged to the rest of us where she had been going.

I'm an actress. I am going to be in commercials.

Wow...we knew she was different, almost like Nellie Olsen different, but now we knew the secret. She was an actress, and a little stuck on herself too. Her parents had been driving her weekly up to LA for auditions, explaining her absences.

One day she came back from her regular audition and announced to the whole Kindergarten class that she had landed a commercial. She was going to be the "face" of some cereal in a TV ad.

Part of my little girl heart was jealous knowing I would never be the "face" of anything. Part of me knew that this was something so foreign to me, so other, that I knew I didn't want a part of it. Part of me was fascinated.

I really don't know what happened to her. She has either dyed her hair and changed her name to Angelina Jolie, or she faded into TV history after smiling over a bowl of cereal at her TV mom. Either way, when we were five years old, she was doing something famous.

Twenty-eight years later I've never been the "face" of anything. I don't want to be.

Yesterday, a good friend of mine stopped by my house with something for me. A surprise. She had taken some photos of my six-year-old, Hope, several weeks ago with the horse she rides in her lessons. Even though my photographer friend is highly allergic to horses, she suffered through the photo shoot anyway, sneezing and crying the whole time.

She would probably tell you it was worth it, because the pictures she got were amazing. Misty used one of them on her new business card. Yesterday she gave me some and a beautiful storyboard she'd created. (View her storyboard here. Click on Gallery and then Storyboards).

In a way I could have never chosen for myself, my beautiful daughter, with her amazing eyes and skin, is now in a small pure way, the "face" of something.

She captured Hope far better than any cereal commercial could.

I AM NOT ANGRY

I text.

Usually my husband or a couple girlfriends who also text. But I do.

From taking my own informal poll, about half of the women I know who are my age utilize this technology and about half don't.

Half of you twitter and blog from your IPhone, watch YouTube videos and download music just using your right thumb. The other half wouldn't know what do to with a text message if you got one.

I happen to fall right in the middle and having the joy of being the wife of a techie-neophile, I frequently recieve technological hand-me-downs as "gifts". Outdated IPods, used laptops, old phones. These have all been mine.

Although not a Blackberry, but Blackberry-esque in function, I have been using a hand-me-down Mororola Q for the last year as my phone. I get my email, have limited internet access and have a full ASDF keyboard (the size of that keyboard, however, is only fit for the hands of a Barbie doll and certainly not an adult human). But because it is a cast-off from my husband (Chad bestowed his old Q on me when he got the new, sleek, thinner version), the gigantic battery on the back is wiggly and it shuts of weekly for no reason at all.

And today, I am in all CAPS.

That's right. ALL CAPS. And I can't turn it off.

Not sure when that will go away. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight. Maybe in the middle of composing a text message. But for now, from my phone, I am all CAPS.

Text messages and email have no heart. They have no facial expressions or tone of voice or real live laughter. The only tools we have to show emotions (beside all the emoticons) are bold, italics, and CAPITALS.

And unfortunately, using ALL CAPS MAKES ME SOUND LIKE I AM YELLING OR ANGRY. Let me assure you that I am not angry. I am really tired today and a little hungry, even a pinch bloated, but surely not angry.

It might just require me to reboot my phone. But if I turn it off, its a 50/50 that it might not return to the land of the living. And then what would Chad hand down to me? Surely not his new phone?

So if you happen to get a text message from me today (or even possibly tomorrow), please rest in knowing that I AM NOT MAD AT YOU. I just can't turn the jiggly thing off.

Old Movies

When my sister was born in 1977 my dad bought a Super 8 camera. Thirty years ago, the new home movie cameras had sound and he wanted one. He could barely afford the film, much less afford to develop it often. But, he began shooting us, me from the age of almost three and my sister as a newborn.


Baths, park days, trips to the zoo and the beach. My mother looked svelte and young in her 70s knee socks and my dad strong, lean and barely 30 years old.


My dad recently had all his old movies transferred to DVD and gave me a two-disc set for Mother's Day today. There are trips to Yosemite, surprise shots of my grandparents holding hands on the Seal Beach Pier, and backyard plastic pool summers.


I watched both discs this afternoon, my little girl face looking so much like my own six-year-old daughter. I sing songs to the camera, do cartwheels and hug my baby sister. The bottoms of my hair still curled in little baby ringlets, even when I was almost four.


1977 - 1986. Nine years summed in two hours.


My mother reminds me of my sister and of myself. I can see me in the way she falls down in the grass after she's pushed a little girl on the swings and given a piggy-back ride. It's me, however, that's ridden her back and me that's swung on the playground. I can see me in the way she sits on the beach watching her daughters and me in the way she holds her baby.

I panic for a minute at how fast it might go.

Today I am swinging a little girl around in my arms, and I know it will be gone too soon, before I am ready.

And then my memories will be reduced to two priceless hours of vacation highlights and Christmas gifts on video.

Catching Up

We are going to Washington DC next weekend to watch a good friend graduate from Georgetown University.

No, we aren't taking the girls. Yes, they are staying home with my parents to go to school, play and have a much better time in California than any of us would be if we drug them across the country on a five-plus hour plane ride.

And we can do all sorts of things without them than we could with them.

Like take a red-eye. And read a book on the plane. And wait in line to see the Holocaust Museum. And jump in a cab or hop the Metro if we want. Or sleep in late. Or stay up late. Or go out to dinner with other adults and laugh. We can smile at each other without hearing backseat chatter.

So its just us. Just the two of us. Together, on a whirlwind trip.

Don't get me wrong....at about 9am on Saturday I will miss the backseat chatter and wonder at how much I adore their kissable-cheeks. And I will see things that I know Hope would appreciate. And I will walk down a street and miss holding Naomi's hand.

But even so, I am looking forward to the chance to catch up with my husband. Maybe sometime next Friday I can look him in the eyes and ask him how last week was.

Downgrade

No one believed my husband last autumn when he said it.

The girl at the car dealership had to ask twice. His clients didn't get it. I even had to keep asking him if he was sure - did he know what he was doing?

He was downgrading, downsizing, from his luxury Lexus to a Toyota Prius hybrid. A compact thing. A bitty little car you'd see driving in Paris. Sure it got amazing mileage and was a lot cheaper every month, but this tiny car was like the homely cousin of the Lexus. He would be giving up air conditioned leather seats and the wood grain steering wheel. No more GPS system or Bose surround sound. Instead he'd be sitting in economy grade cloth seats without much leg room.

I kept asking him if he was sure he wanted to do this. He drives so much for work and he needs something that is comfortable for his 6' 3" frame; his back might hurt, which would make his shoulders tense up...migraines for sure. And what if my Honda broke down? Could we fit the whole family in there if we had to?

And really? You are going to trade in the Lexus? Don't people try to work up, rather than down? No one downsizes until they retire and are empty nesters and don't need the four bedroom house any longer.

He was unswerving in his resolve. The people at Lexus tried to sell him a smaller car. No deal. The Toyota people looked on and smiled smugly as if they had the secret to the universe: hybrid vehicles. They understood (and might have been the only ones at the time) why someone would choose them.

What I didn't realize at the time and has taken me six months to admit is that I LIKED the Lexus. Even though I didn't drive it every day, it was our date car and I LIKED the way I felt in it. It made me feel rich.

There I said it. It did. And I'm not rich, by Orange County standards. Really. Just because we were driving a car we could not afford does not make us wealthy. It makes us in debt. I was vain and absorbed in the way we looked driving that car.

How stupid.

So now we drive the Prius on our dates. Our family fits nicely when we have to and Chad is saving (we estimate) in both gas and payment about $300 per month. We are now driving a car we can afford.

I realized this morning that I don't even miss the Lexus. Truly. And I feel dumb for ever feeling like that about a CAR. I feel dumb for feeling rich. And on top of that, I LOVE his new car!

Now people say, "How green of you."

Not really. And they still don't believe him.

We just like the car payments.

Chatter

Kindergarten playdate today.

All three of them, two mine, and one not mine chatter in the backseat. Our house is only a fifteen minute drive from school, but the three girls, the toddler trying hopelessly to mimic the older ones, babble the entire way.

They finally take a breath when we pull into the driveway.

Each of them speaks without listening to the other. It is almost as if they have reverted to the 12 month-old-habit of "parallel play" and rush endlessly forward in their conversation without including anyone else in it. Except perhaps me.

They want me to listen. I nod, ask small questions and nod again. Uh huh. Of course. Sure. And then what happened? But then sometimes, they even neglect me, paying attention to each other only briefly when they disagree. No, that didn't happen like that, I SAW her.

They've learned to speak well. But they haven't learned the art of conversation, or of listening to each other. They have learned to ask questions, to make observations, to recall stories and jokes, but they don't yet know how to use their words to show empathy, or to love each other by listening.

I can't help but think that this is me. Not when I was six or two, but now.

How often do I come to God, sprinting toward him with all of my questions and stories? I rocket ahead disregarding the feelings of others and expect Him to nod and agree. I haven't learned to listen well or to truly empathize, not like He does. How often do I love others through my words?

I pray, and talk and chatter and talk, and then I take a breath.

I think, perhaps, I should listen, to Him and to others, and then take my breath.

Starting Small

I read an interview recently in which a well-known author had, years ago before he was successful, made Ray Bradbury his mentor. He asked Bradbury how to write a good novel.

Bradbury told him to write one short story a week for one year. That way he would purge out all his idiotic ideas, practice the art and discipline of writing daily, and become more skilled at the elements of storytelling.

In essence, he told the then-budding writer to begin small.

It has been about 6 weeks since my writer's conference. In the last month and a half I've gotten one rejection and submitted one article/story to an anthology and entered one writing contest. I am starting very small.

I have no hopes of writing novels or longer works yet; that isn't even in my sight. I can't even see past my pile of laundry and the Bible Study lesson that I should be finishing. I don't have a choice but to begin small.

I plod along, trying to be a good wife to my husband and a calm mother to my two little girls, and in the spaces and tiny corners in between, attempt to continue writing. I have to snatch 10 minutes before lunch, or the 20 minutes after dinner when my husband is with the girls. I feel like I can't even think beyond bedtime tonight; there is no possible way I could dream up a big writing project.

So I blog daily, using this as my routine discipline, my "300 words", hopefully creating some good here. Small words in a small space.

I have an idea for another article that is swimming and dashing around in my brain. I just need a good hour to try to run after it, catch it and write it down. And this article, if I can even write it, will take hours and hours of revision. Even this needs to begin in a small way, before I tackle the "bigness" of it.

So I'm little. In the writing world (if I even scratch the surface of this sphere at all), I am miniscule. Lilliputian.

But that's okay. I'm just starting out.

Staying Close

I slept on the floor last night.

I don't have a bad back and my husband wasn't angry with me. My baby was sick and I didn't want her to be alone in her crib.

She began vomiting at 8:30 and I probably could have set my alarm because she continued for the rest of the night at 2 1/2 hour intervals. 11 pm. 1:30 am and again at 4. I felt like a new mother nursing her hungry infant all night long.

So I settled Naomi into a little bed on the floor near the bathroom and a bucket and I nestled in next to her with a toddler sleeping bag under me and my ugly blanket over me.

Even considering her normal verbosity, the only thing she knew how to do when she began to feel sick again was cry. That was my indication of what was to come and we would rush her to the bathroom, sometimes making it and sometimes not at all.

I slept near her in a light worry-sleep.

I would turn to face her and she would be sleeping lightly too, and tossing. I knew she didn't have words to explain to me how she felt. Then I would turn again because the floor isn't kind to 33-year-old shoulders and hips. I heard her baby sleeping sounds, her little snores and murmurs, and I reached out to hold her hand and touch her head.

I wouldn't have slept this close to her had she been well.

And she's sleeping now, on another makeshift bed with a towel under her in case she is sick again. She's fallen asleep in a flu-induced mid-morning nap. And I have to stay close in case she vomits again. Her warning cries are quick and I can't be across the room if I am going to help her to the bathroom.

In a way, its okay. A friend is going to do the Kindergarten pickup for me and take Hope to the park after school. I'm going to stay close even though I really need to run the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen. I should probably file some paperwork and work on some undone projects. Maybe I will close up my computer and lay down near her, pull up my blanket and close my eyes for a few minutes. Because, I really don't mind staying close to her.

Thank You, Simon Cowell

Ten years ago I did my student teaching for a dictator-like master teacher who required typed lesson plans on his desk daily and whose only smiles occurred right before springing pop quizzes on his students.

Each day Mr. Birch would review my performance with me verbally, most of it criticism. He was the Simon Cowell of educators, reserving his praise for rare occasions and when he did, I would cling to his words because the positive ones were so few.

I highly respected him and I coveted his wisdom. He required so much from his students (and from me) but we all seemed to be motivated to rise to his challenges.

Teachers call each other by their forbidden first names (remember discovering that your third grade teacher was really Carol?) but I could never bring myself to call him "Donald": the chasm was too large between us.

With Mr. Birch as my mentor, I taught 7th graders (who, in private, he would label as "pre-people") and 12th graders. We were at a public magnet school for gifted education and some of my second semester seniors were barely 5 years younger than me. Even the students intimidated me. Most were headed to Stanford, UCLA or Berkeley in a few months, and a few were moving away to Cornell and Yale and Harvard. Needless to say, I felt out of my league.

I meticulously prepared for my first unit with them, Macbeth, (his curriculum, not mine). The first morning I was scheduled to teach and lecture on Shakespeare, Mr. Birch pulled me aside. He said something to me I would never forget.

I was outwardly nervous, I'm sure, and he said, "You've been a student your entire life. You've sat in classrooms for almost 20 years and watched other people teach. You are an expert. You already know how to teach. Now do it."

So simple. But it was just enough to get me over the hump of feeling like I was drowning. Do what I know how to do. Just jump in.

I did. I taught the pre-people in the morning, briefly escaped to teach a double block period of painfully smart 9th graders for another mentor teacher, and met my seniors in the afternoon for Macbeth. And, in true Simon Cowell fashion, Mr. Birch would let me know with no uncertain words if my teaching was sub-par or if my lesson plan needed work.

I got through that semester and those kids went on to much bigger things than my nervous lectures on Macbeth.

So often since then, I've gone back to what Mr. Birch told me. And it seems to bleed over to so many areas of my life now:

Writing? The only thing I can think of is that I've been a reader all my life; I can recognize good writing. It was time for me to begin.

Mothering? I've been a daughter to a good mother for 33 years. I've watched mothering in process. I know how to mother because I've been in the front row and observed. I just have to do it.

So, thank you, Mr. Birch, for speaking the hard things to me, for only praising me when I deserved it and for teaching me a life lesson.

My Soil

It has been about 6 years since I planted something in the ground; since I actually dug a hole with a trowel, transplanted something living, patted soft soil around it and took care of it as it grew.