lunchtime

"Mozzarella balls always seem a better idea before I eat them."

"Yeah. It's almost like my memory of them is better than they are. And cheese sticks are just bad when they get cold."

"Exactly.....Pretty much they are bad unless they are burning everything--the plate, your fingers, your tongue. If they are not too hot to taste, they really aren't all that great. Maybe I just don't really like mozzarella, and just never realized it."

"Ha! Maybe. But string cheese is good. Maybe it's the breading that's bad. "

"Yeah. String cheese is good stuff. It's mostly just raw cheese sticks."

Something to think about.

momma mia

Over the past few days, I have been getting gentle reminders of the importance of my Momma-ing. And the complexity of the job. All of these reminders are little bits of consolation related to wherever it is that I'm headed.

We've already had our discussion at Book Club about Thomas Merton, but I am still working my way through the book. Although I know I will never be "done" with this book, I have also not yet finished it. One of the very common threads I've run into (you might find something else, or I might the next time I read through it) is the gentle admonishment to be myself, to be the self I was created and intended to be. I know with certainty that a good part of that self is a mother, or mother figure. I also know that as Momma, I muddle through, partly relying on what I've learned from other mothers I admire, partly making it up as I go along, and often asking for guidance.

In the past, asking for guidance came more in the panicked moments when I felt at the end of my rope, stretched too thin, or terribly frightened. In the past year, I've put on a different spin. Nowadays, I ask daily--well, almost daily--for reminders that I am Momma for a reason, or at the very least, for help remembering that much of what I do is an example to my children. In the end, I'm probably asking for guidance, help and support just as much as I always did, but the end result is so much different! Whereas I used to find myself stressed, used up, tired, afraid--in reality, depressed--I now feel more strength to face the challenges, and actual joy that I have them to face. Being a mother is not easy; there are times when no one is happy with the outcome of making and following rules, or following through with consequences. But time and again, even my children have told me how important it is that we do just that.

There have been times when I've told myself there must be more to my life than being their mother. That when they are grown, I will need to find something else, and for that reason, I need to develop other aspects of me. I'm finding that the other aspects of "me" develop best in the context of my identity of "mother." Thomas Merton has helped me to realize just how far-reaching "vocation" is. In an essay on marriage [below], I found the most amazing joy that what I knew was another vocation of mine (marriage) was another shining facet of me. It sounds crazy, but I've lived with a misguided inclination to compartmentalize my roles in order to really show who I am, and, frankly, it's always made me quite uncomfortable in my skin! In actuality, the facets cannot be separated. A prism may separate the colors, but they are always united, touching and attached to each other. I am always, at once, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, employee, co-worker, student--all are me. Not simply pieces of me that I can pull out as I need them.

In this knowledge, I've found freedom. Freedom to choose growth and forward motion. Freedom to be the me I was created and intended to be. I still do not know precisely what that means beyond this moment, but I'm also free to follow the road where it leads. Building the road myself was getting me nowhere. Fast. Progress is still slow at times, but the view is far more spectacular when I can free myself of every last detail.



        We would be better able to understand the beauty of the religious vocation if we remembered that marriage too is a vocation. The religious life is a special way of sanctity, reserved for comparatively few. The ordinary way to holiness and to the fullness of Christian life is marriage. Most men and women will become saints in the married state. And yet so many Christians who are not called to religious life or to the priesthood say of themselves: "I have no vocation!" What a mistake! They have a wonderful vocation, all the more wonderful because of its relative freedom and lack of formality. For the "society" which is the family loves beautifully by its own spontaneous inner laws. It has no need of codified rule and custom. Love is its rule, and all its customs are the living expression of deep and sincere affection. In a certain sense, the vocation to the married state is more desirable than any other, becuase of the fact that this spontaneity, this spirit of freedom and union in charity is so easily accessible, for the ordinary man, in family life. The formalism and artificiality which creep into religious communities are with difficulty admitted into the circle of a family where powerful human values triumphantly resist the incursions of falsity.
        Married people, then, instead of lamenting their supposed "lack of vocation," should highly value the vocation they have actually received. They should thank God for the fact that this vocation, with all its responsibilites and hardships, is a safe and secure way to become holy without being warped or shriveled up by pious conventionalism. The married man and the mother of a Christian family, if they are faithful to their obligations, will fulfill a mission that is as great as it is consoling: that of bringing into the world and forming young souls capable of happiness and love, souls capable of sanctification and transformation in Christ. Living in close union with God the creator and source of life, they will understand better than others the mystery of His infinite fecundity, in which it is their privilege to share. Raising children in difficult social circumstances, they will enter perhaps more deeply into the mystery of divine Providence than others who, by their vow of poverty, ought ideally to be more directly dependent on God than they, but who in fact are never made to feel the anguish of insecurity.

No Man Is an Island, Thomas Merton, p. 152-153

learning, searching, finding

This is, esentially, part two. My name does not define who I am, nor has my name been related to anyone's expectation of me, except for my own. I was named for my father who named himself for a martyr for Christ. The name (and expectation) I chose for myself was Anne, Mother of Mary. I chose the name for the vocation of motherhood that I was called to even by the age of knowing, by 8th grade. Why did I choose Anne instead of Mary? The idea of raising Mary seemed far less daunting to me than the idea of raising Jesus, is the simple answer. The more complex has to do with calling. Now, all these years later, I wonder if it had to do with being a smaller soul.

Although I will always be a mother, and my boys will always need me to some extent, as I still need my own mother, and the reverse will always be true, too, I have found myself in a transition lately that has caused an examination of self. I've found myself, this past week, realizing that I have forgotten or lost parts of who I am in my efforts to be the best I can be. Finding balance between work, faith and motherhood has caused me to attempt to put these things where they belong. A few things happened this week to remind me that I had the whole thing backwards. For a while now, I've been asking God to be more obvious in his answers to me; to hit me over the head, please. Last week I realized I don't learn that way, so it's not likely that God will do that--He made me to learn the way I learn, and I need to be more patient with myself. Answers come in His time, not mine. I stopped asking that, and kept the question, but tucked it away.

Last week, I attended a training for work. Although I knew the material would be dry, I was looking forward to the class: I love to learn. I found myself zoning out, all but sleeping, far more than I ever have in a class. The class was long, and all I wanted to do was move: stand up, walk, sit on the floor. It didn't take me long to remember I was not made for sitting still, nor was I made for extended focus on only one thing. My mind is its own wanderer, and clarity comes from twisting, turning and backtracking. I felt like my brain was tied to a chair. A friend said, "The active spiritual warrior prays with action." A clue. That night, I told a wise night owl (wiseguy! he'd likely say) that I was working on quieting my mind. The next morning, pouring coffee, I heard my mind say, "Well, I've been told I'm a good listener. But I know I'm not when I'm on the phone; then my mind wanders." Weirdly, this was a major lightbulb moment.

Then the diagnosis of mono and strep throat for one of the boys, some back and forth about how to get work home from school, and a conversation about examples of faith. And two comments that struck a chord that resonated for hours. At the Spiritual Book Club I host at church, a member of the group said that on the drive over, he was praying and thanked God for such a wonderful opportunity to read and discuss. Then later, when I expressed amazement at the questions my children ask me about faith (things I never would have considered at their age), another member of the group said I should see that as proof of my example.

That's when I realized the answer is coming, bit by bit, for me to understand in the way I do best. The first step is for me to find myself again. Not the myself that's easy to find: the worker who will do anything, and has many aptitudes and abilities. I need to get back to the parts of me that I have allowed to become small; the creative part, the jump in part, the mom part, the example part. In my attempts to be a better person, I have forgotten who I am. I've been trying to force stillness on myself in order to make time for my faith, instead of embedding my faith in what I do. In my effort to break down the (self-imposed) barrier between my spiritual life and my secular life, I have been creating new ones. My mindset needs to change slightly to accommodate my growth and my journey--I need to transition from my "life" to my "self" in order to live my faith. I think I once was there, at a time when I didn't feel so pressured to set an example (again, self-imposed). Before our kids were born, I think I lived my faith more. After they were born, I worried that wouldn't be enough. I hope they haven't seen my example as forced, or fake, because it's been real. There's a fullness now that I don't remember feeling before.

The question is not yet answered, and I'm okay with that. The answer, or answers, will come in due time. And until then, I have waiting and praying to do, journeying and guiding, learning, searching and finding. Ecce, here I am.

over the river

Once upon a time, my husband asked what I wanted for Mother's Day. As long as I could remember, the only thing I ever wanted to be (after a brief time when I wanted to be a nurse) was a momma, but my response was swift: A weekend home alone. Being at home with babies and a dog, in a place where I knew few people, and even fewer places to go could make for some rough days. I loved being the mom, and I even enjoyed the chores around the house that go along with being a stay at home mom. The idea of being the only one in the house, with no schedule whatsoever, for two days sounded so luxurious! For years, that was my one and only present from Guy and the boys. On Friday after work, they would head off to my parents' house to celebrate Mother's Day with my mom. (A wonderful byproduct of these excursions: Guy and Dad became the best of friends, sharing time, house and yard work, and heart to heart conversations that I never even knew about until recently. They shared a deep and special connection.) Back home, I would eat what I liked, when I liked; stay up late reading, sew or putter all day (no chores!!); soak in the tub....anything at all. I didn't even need to walk the dog, because he would go with the menfolk.

Mother's Day was two days ago. We took Mom to breakfast, and then took the scenic route to Church (not the cynic route--that's another story!), where we mothers were encouraged to "demand respect" for the rest of the day. I'd already decided that what I really wanted to do was finish my reading for Faith Matters, do some research for book club, and do some writing, but every time I sat down to read, someone needed some important answer. At first, I patiently closed my book, and tried to offer my attention to whichever mancub needed me. Before long, I gave up on trying to feign patience, packed up my stuff, and moved upstairs to our bedroom. Next thing I knew, I was annoyed that I frequently feel as though I'm driven away from the common areas of our home. I found myself praying for some peace in my swirling mind.

Suddenly, I realized what was happening. Clearly I was not meant to be reading at that moment, not meant to be by myself, or in my own world. I'd missed the chance to play a game with our youngest, but there was still time to make it to a movie. So my Mother's Day this year was not what I had planned, but in the end, I did get my reading done, we enjoyed a film together, and our oldest told us how proud he is of us. And two of their friends surprised me and touched my heart with an unexpected text, and even more unexpected flowers.

I am blessed to be able to live my dream, and that the boys all know what a blessing each of them is to me. And I'm especially blessed to have an angel by my side to balance me. Long before we knew each other, we each chose as Confirmation saints parents: Anne and Joseph. Long before we met each other, we each knew that right here is where we wanted and needed to be. And these boys are the light of our lives.

jars and vessels

The recipe called for 2/3 cup of smooth peanut butter. When I checked the shelf, I found not one, not two, but three nearly empty jars. From the three jars, that apparently no one could use to make a sandwich, I managed to get just about all I needed for the cookies. Of course, this means that plenty of sandwiches could have come from those jars! It seems every time I use the peanut butter, there are nearly empty jars on the shelf.

And every time, I wonder where I have gone wrong.

When I muse aloud where I've gone wrong, the response is usually along the lines of "what are you talking about??" In reality, I really want to know! What I mean is, I never would have considered opening another jar if there was anything at all in an open jar already on the shelf--or in the case of my growing up, in the lazy susan. I would have gotten peanut butter all over my fingers trying to get the last bit out to put on my bread (like I did today for the cookies), rather than risk Mom seeing two open jars. I don't even remember her ever saying anything to me about it; it was just one of those things I knew, no matter what--whether it was peanut butter, ketchup (two bottles in the fridge yesterday), cereal (two open boxes of mini-wheats last week), or anything else (like the two bottles of water on my counter right now), we, or at least, I, would not risk the perceived waste or extravagance of multiples like that.

Three jars.

I guess to be fair, I must say that two of the jars were creamy, and one was super chunk, but the fact of the matter is, there were also relatively full jars open on the shelf, too. That's a grand total of five jars open, three of which were just about spent--but would never have gone anywhere if Henry hadn't asked for peanut butter cookies. Sheesh.

Where did I go wrong?

As I've mentioned before, in the past I have been prone to meltdowns. Occasionally, they appeared to be triggered by such minor infractions or annoyances. (In reality, they were stress related, but since the stress was due to my own internalization, we all managed to blame them on dumb stuff like spilled milk.) Did I not ever make my displeasure obvious when it comes to multiple open containers? Did I freak out too many times, so no one paid any attention? Am I really the only one who cares that there is an entire shelf of open peanut butter? Really? Have I cleaned up and taken care of the extra stuff too readily (like today, and like the ketchup yesterday), thereby not making the job seem unlikeable? Or the opposite--did I have one of them clean it up too often, so they really, truly convince themselves that they cannot see the already open containers?

From time to time, I've asked, "Why is there an almost empty jar of peanut butter on the shelf?" (I could not ask today--I was the only one at home.) Invariably the response is, "I thought it was empty." Which of course leads to the question, "Why didn't you rinse it and put it in the recycle then?" In response to which I'll hear, "Oh! I thought you meant the other jar...." Our household version of "not me," it seems.

Then again, every time I come across these jars, I'm reminded of one of the funniest things I ever saw out our kitchen window. As I cleaned up the kitchen after breakfast on a beautiful, sunny and crisp fall day, I looked out the window and saw a peanut butter jar bouncing across the yard. Thinking I would head out pick it up and put it in our recycle, despite knowing it was not from our can--it wasn't our brand--it started to bounce up the cherry tree. That's when I realized the jar was attached to a squirrel. More correctly, the squirrel had stolen someone's relatively empty jar, and was attempting to snack on it! I watched him carry the jar up; no mean feat, as the jar was clearly larger than him! Before long, the jar fell from the tree, making a rather loud "THUNK" as it hit the ground. As I laughed until I cried, I found myself quite thankful that I had not been under that tree! Ever since, I have been pretty scrupulous about cleaning out the jars before putting them in the recycle.

But I still wonder when or how my kids will "get" the whole "finish one before you start another one" thing. Or if I've really missed out on teaching them a really important life lesson.

two more days

For a year now, my friends and I have been talking about this day. The day we pack the car to take our oldest off to college. (When I say "we," I mean "our son") Many of my friends have already taken that drive, and are now looking at us knowingly; some offering words of wisdom, some telling us what to expect, some gracefully showing their own range of emotions without expecting ours to be the same. It reminds me of another, somehow similar, time in our lives with Jonathan.

As our firstborn, everything about him was so much more unknown. Each stage of pregnancy, every piece of furniture bought, even the types of diapers we looked at all came with so much well-intentioned advice. Some we listened to, and some we later laughed about, and in the end, when it was someone else's first time, we couldn't help sharing our own thoughts. It's part of life, of being the social animals we are, to share what we experience, and sometimes to feel a bit like an expert when we've been through some right of passage.

It's events like this that make me think most of Dad. It used to hurt some (some?? Did I just say, "some?" Because it used to hurt like hell to have Dad come to mind when an Event came up!) when these kinds of milestones occurred. In all honesty, yesterday I just happened to think that Dad was pretty excited about me going off to college all those years ago, and maybe that's why I can be more excited than worried, nervous or upset. Probably it's just because I'm me, and it hasn't hit me yet. My style of anticipation is a little more dramatic--I tend to foresee the stuff that couldn't possibly happen, and put off the more "real" stuff until I actually go through it. At any rate, last night on my way home, when I hit a red light, it suddenly hit me that within a few days, we'd be driving away from him at college.

We laugh at the thought of parents who don't know how to leave their kids rooms after unpacking, and I have to admit, I was a little saddened that there were no activities or festivities planned for the parents on move-in day. But today, while listening to a good friend talk about dropping his son off, and how it affected him, I realized a common theme that Guy and I share: we've never experienced this before--from either direction. Guy was a commuter student, and lived at home. My parents did not drop me off at school: I insisted that my boyfriend take me, and no one argued the point. I, we, don't know what it's like to say good-bye to a parent in a dorm room, so how could we possibly know what we are doing? Frankly, I'm now a little freaked.

I still firmly believe this is the next chapter; simply a page turning on the beginning of a fantastic adventure. But what if I do turn out to be "The Most Attached Parent" and his roommate and his parents think I'm nuts?? (Well, more nuts than I really am; which is actually quite endearing, I'm told.) What if I don't have enough emotion, and Jonathan thinks we're glad to be rid of him? Where is my example?? Years ago, Dad and I had a talk about this very same subject. He had reached an age older than any of his male relatives, and he didn't know how to "be." I remember telling him that he'd been doing a mighty fine job thus far, and I knew he could just keep being himself. He promised to give that a go.

There are times now when I wonder if he prayed for the strength to be himself, as I do now. The following years, he considered to be life's gravy. This weekend, I will be myself; I will give it a go and hope for the best.

Good luck, Jonathan. Fly high, with the wings we've given you.

on the fence

This morning, I have an interview. It's been a while since I've been interviewed for a job--more recently, I've been the interviewer, and I really enjoy that position at the table. This, not so much. And for a number of reasons, first of which is that I really do love my current jobs. Okay, so the summer one gets to me, but I love most of the people I work with, I love the work that I do there, I love my staff, it's mostly the commute and the fact that it's seasonal.

Mostly, I wish life, the world, the times were different, and that I had made, or been guided to make, different decisions in my life. But only sometimes. Whenever I think that, I look around myself and see where I am. I have four great kids, two nutty dogs, a house that I love (for all its faults!), two jobs that, in all honesty, offer me supreme flexibility for the aforementioned, and a husband who is walking this road with me. I am lucky, blessed, fortunate. My life is far from perfect, and lately more like novella than I find comfortable, but it is my life.

Why do I have this interview, then? Because sometimes it's more important to "have." With Jonathan heading off to college, and Henry following suit in just two years, we have different needs than we had before. I'm still struggling with it: a full-time job for the stability, or keep what I have and find a part-time evening job for flexibility? And would that really offer flexibility? What about my kids? That's always the biggest question: what about my kids?

Yesterday, vocations came up. Above all else, I am a Momma. It is more than just motherhood--I have long known it is my vocation. It was not a "choice" that I wanted to be a Mom when I grew up; it was a calling. I don't know why. Ours is not to question why, to paraphrase Tennyson, right? My duty, though, is to nurture. Perhaps that's why I'm a pretty good manager. Certainly, that is why I am unsure and nervous today. I don't know if this is the right thing to do; or, really, what is the right thing to do.

So I will do what I know. I will follow the interview advice of a dear friend, and be myself, and be honest about what I am looking for. What I am needing. And we'll take it from there. Wish me luck...

It's a birthday day in our house today. The day couldn't be much more different from that day 16 years ago when we welcomed our second son. Today is chilly and damp; sweats and socks in the summer weather. That day was hot and sticky--I can still feel it!--and we had been strawberry picking over the weekend. It was a Tuesday, a solid week before my due date, and I was determined that the strawberries would not go to waste, so we were standing in a stinking hot kitchen stirring jam on the stove when I started to think I might be having contractions. We were going to finish that jam, though, dagnabit, so we sweated it out, me thinking these contractions were not so bad, considering their frequency, and Guy asking if we should get moving and just forget about the jam.

Have you ever made jam? Just leaving it without cleaning up the mess is really not an option. I had ruined a batch the year before, and remember still the rock hard glob that I spent days chipping out of the pot. Our firstborn had been induced, so we really had no idea what to expect when it came to labor that was not closely monitored and administered, lying in a hospital bed.

Once the jam was finished, and the pot washed, I had been having 7 minute contractions for about an hour, Jonathan had been picked up, and we headed to the hospital, where I labored f-o-r-e-v-e-r because we had gotten there too early. No wonder I thought the contractions were no big deal--they weren't! Eventually, they developed into something (what a difference!) and, after much frustration of women who came in after us leaving before us, I pushed twice and out came our big-headed baby boy! All 9lbs, 10oz of him. I remember being so excited for his brother to meet him, and just as excited to not be pregnant any more in that heat! I also remember the nurses telling us that they did not have diapers big enough for him in the nursery--they had to go up to pediatrics to find some--and the little bit of panic I felt wondering if he would fit in the clothes we brought to take him home in! (He almost fit in those pajamas. He wore them just the one time!)

In the years that have followed, he has put me through just about every emotion and every frustration nameable, and many that are not. He has the ability to make me crazy raging mad, as well as to touch my heart so deeply I smile, cry and melt all at once. He is at times one of the most mature people I know (yes, "people," not "kids"), and at other times such a baby. He makes me crazy. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry, despite my best efforts. He makes me proud. He embarrasses me. I love him dearly, though there really are times when I don't like him much.

More than anything, I hope I have done right by him. I hope I have been the momma he needed when he was small, and the momma he needs now. Sometimes I see him do things, or hear him say things that just make me cringe, and I wonder if I have failed in some way. Those are the days I want to go back in time and hold him in my arms again--but then I remember that he was never much of a snuggler, and I chuckle at the memory. He always was a great hugger, though, and still is, when I ask.

Happy birthday, Henry Lou. I love you. So very much.

speed post

Life's been crazy, with no time to sit, and now there are cookies in the oven. The words need to get out somehow, so a stream of consciousness list is what we get. Here goes.....

This kind of cool weather has me in heaven, although it is kind of a drag when working at a pool.

Don't do something stupid because others do. It only makes you look stupid.

I'm proud when I find out my kid did not do something stupid.

A bully is a bully, no matter how popular s/he happens to be.

Don't get on the good side of the bullies just to stay out of their way. They will still feed on you.

Weren't we just pregnant together???

I can't believe it's over!/Thank God it's over!!

Oh, how I miss those days when I could do something stupid and say it was because someone else was going to do it, too. So I looked stupid once in a while.....at least it was never something STUPID!!

I am your mother.

Bullies exist in every age group. I was bullied as a kid. I was bullied in college. I have been bullied as an adult. I've stood up to bullies more as I've gotten older, but they still make me cry. (should probably go on a Post Secret postcard, but there you have it.)

I am not your mother. Leave me out of it.

My boys make me so proud. Each and every day, and I wish I could make them really understand that.

Time's up.

personal connections

Lately I've been wondering why things have been getting to me as much as they have. It's frustrating to me to be frustrated--I prefer to take life one day at a time, and look at the bright side. Instead, I've been feeling rather cold and prickly every day. I've come to the conclusion that in addition to needing more warm fuzzies, I have become seriously deprived of adult interaction. I guess a few minutes here and there at work, and contact via email and/or text message is NOT ENOUGH!!

People who know me, or have looked at my profile, know that I am not one to go out of my way to be with people. For reasons I don't understand in the least, the thought of being around people fills me with some emotion related to dread, but nowhere near as strong--and yet, once I am in the company of people, I feel so much better. Parties, games, gatherings of all kinds are a bit of an effort to attend. In all honesty, I've wondered if I'm alone in feeling that way, or if everyone thinks they'd rather just stay home, despite enjoying the outcome of social interaction.

There are points, though, when I realize I have been avoiding social situations longer than is good for me. I start to feel the world closing in on me, and my thoughts start to crowd together. I do sleep well, though, and start every day refreshed and ready to go, so please don't worry about me! :) From experience, I know that I can survive quite happily for a month or more at a time as a solitary entity, surrounded by no more than my wonderful family. Mixed into my latest need for a 'hit' is having to really absorb the fact that the dynamic of my family is about to face its biggest shake-up. When our oldest goes off to college, nothing about our family will be the same. Being happy about that does not change the fact that it stresses my psyche--whether I'm thinking about it or not.

So, for the first time in a long time, I'm faced with the decision to make a huge effort for me. The last time I had to do this so consciously was when our oldest was born and I joined a New Moms group. Too bad there is no "New College Family" support group where I can go and meet people who understand what no one else can. (read: what I don't really know how to talk about with the people I already know because I don't just want reassurances or to be told how great my kid is and that he'll do great. I want to talk to people who are also scared to death that the past 18 years have not worked, and that no matter how happy I am about his happiness, I'm still scared to death.) I love my friends dearly, and know that every single one of them would gladly listen to my fears, laugh and cry with me. I'm just plain scared to share some fears, hopes, even successes.

Tonight, we're having dinner with some great friends (ironically, friends we met when I was taking college classes!), and I know the visit will energize me, and bring me back to me. I also know that under normal circumstances, I would allow myself to think it would be enough to sustain me. Thankfully, I have the most wonderful friends, and have a grown-up evening planned with another amazingly warm friend on Sunday.

Taking care of me so I can take care of them is something I've always known is necessary. What I had forgotten, or maybe not even realized, is that what I need to do to take care of me is not a static thing. At times, exercise and diet are the keys to well-being. At others, as now, the extroverted part of myself needs nourishing so that the more comfortable introvert does not become a speck. Life is good. :)

oh, what a night

We spent the evening in the ER last night. I wasn't sure it was entirely necessary to go in the first place, and I would have played the whole sequence differently, but I was a joiner, and that's not the point. What is the point? I muffed it up, I think, in my frustration. Everyone is fine, and the final diagnosis was "pain," which I didn't even know they could put on the discharge papers as a diagnosis.

But it broke my heart when I heard, at 11:45 last night, "I'm sorry I wasted 6 hours of your life." While there wasn't a minute of the time we were there that I thought it was truly necessary, I did know that there was the slight possibility that it was, especially since your tolerance for pain is at least as high as mine (except for emotional pain--but then again, you are also exceptionally sensitive, and more afraid than I am to show it). I'm sorry if you meant that apology, and if you really thought I felt that way. In all honesty, we kinda had a good time, if you don't dwell on the huge container of whatever that was you had to drink, the ever-tighter cuff, the IV, the CT scan....You are a delightful companion, and if ever I need to sit around with very little to do, I always, without fail, hope and pray that I will get to spend that time with you.

What I'm trying to say is this: I love you. I'm glad you are okay. And all I want is to do right by you.

precious and few

My two favorite pictures of the entire season. That joy, pride, admiration, and, yes, relief, that we all felt after the last regular season win, is more than just evident in these pictures. It's palpable. The game ended, and Jon walked toward us with tears in his eyes and his face all screwed up with the effort of not crying out loud, and hugged me, holding me tight and swaying while my heart exploded with a mixture of pride for him, his teammates, and his coaches, and relief that he made it through the regular season injury-free, though he played hard. As he hugged me, I had so many thoughts going through my head, but there were no words for the moment. There really aren't in moments like this. He released me and turned to Guy. Like all the post-game pictures I take, I snapped the picture without even looking at the viewfinder, hoping against hope that I would even capture them in the frame. I'm not one for taking posed pictures; my preference is taking pictures that capture something. When I opened this picture of Guy and Jon, my heart skipped a beat. What I saw was my husband and our firstborn son in a moment that said everything (I thought) that could ever be said about the final steps in a journey from a 1-9 season to a 6-4 season. Everything that could possibly be said about looking forward to playoffs, while keeping in mind the first steps our son ever took. What else could express the joy and awe at turning, now, toward the post-season, and a first playoff game on the team's home field? Then I opened this other picture...

 

As brothers, Henry and Jon have had their inseparable moments. Football, however, has been Jon's thing. Henry went to most of the games, and cheered on his brother and, of course, his other friends on the team. But after that win--the one that so many said wouldn't happen--the first thing Henry wanted to do was hug his brother. This is one of those moments I feel blessed to have captured!! Happy, proud, joyful, excited--any emotion possible is displayed in Henry's face, and I'm left with the memory of how long they stood that way--long enough for me to get two shots, and to stand in awe of that mystery to me of Brother Love.

And after my heart started beating normally, and I could settle in and focus on downloading the photos into the appropriate file folders on the computer, it hit me. I'm not in any such pictures. And I doubt that I ever will be. I know there is a chance, because I do have one picture of Dad giving me one of my favorite one-armed hugs, from my high school graduation. He loved those unposed, unplanned, one-of-a-kind snapshots, too, so I have lots and lots of them--without him.

When Jon's kids look back at these pictures, how will they see the absence of my face, my emotions? How will he? Will he remember the hug that I gave him, too, or will it be lost without 'proof'? As I got older, I began taking pictures of Dad when he wasn't looking, but those moments didn't include me. When I think about them, or see pictures of amazing moments, I do still feel that arm of his over my shoulder. Will Jon? Will any of my boys? I hope so.

In the meantime, I will gaze at these two pictures and be warmed by the tide of memories from the whole season that wash over me. From a whole lifetime.

heartaches

Friday nights, I go to the field to watch our football team. Every week, I arrive with great anticipation for a joyous victory. The boys have been playing hard, and have tremendous spunk; yet points have been elusive. It's been rough, and each game ends with waves of emotion flowing from the team to the fans and back again. The ripples of emotion last all week; I feel them at home and in the hallways at school.

On Friday afternoons, I take some of the football players to read at our elementary schools. My heart swells with pride as I watch these soon-to-be men of the world sitting in rocking chairs, on stools, in easy chairs or on the floor with 20 or so awestruck children. The introductions are simple--"My name is so-and-so, and I play fullback." Or cornerback. Center. Wide receiver. Quarterback. Tackle. No matter what position they mention, I know they have others they play as well on our small team. The children ooh and aah, and then listen intently to the story. Afterwards, I am always impressed at how well the players answer questions from their little fans. What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite team? Do you like hockey? Do you know my neighbor? Each question is answered honestly, and without batting an eye--even when the question is silly. "Isn't the quarterback the guy who runs backwards and then throws the ball to the 'retreiver'?" My heart and my spirit soar at the simplicity, the easy manner in which these two age groups are able to banter. We leave with a heartfelt "Thank you" in both directions, and instructions to "Cheer for me when you go to the game!" or "Look for my number on the field!" The teachers tell me that on Mondays, the kids come in talking about the game, seeing their reader play, hearing his name and number announced, or seeing his stats in the paper. The connection to the community makes my heart sing.

As a result, I now know more of the players on the field. I used to know their names; maybe recognize their faces. But now, I've heard a little about their hopes, their wishes, their views on football, school, classes. I've spoken with them about colleges, majors, what they like for lunch. When I see them on the field, my heart opens up; flowering at the joy I know they feel because they play, because they are a team.

As a result of knowing more of the players, my heart jumps at the start of every play, every whistle, every huddle and time out. I understand a little more of the game than I did, and I still have so many questions, but I know enough to have my heart break a little each time a pass is incomplete, or deflected. My heart stops with each tackle, particularly when we can't clearly see who has possession of the ball. Cramps, calls for water, and injuries cause my heart to squeeze tightly into a little ball, so tight I can hardly breathe; and when I saw two players from the sideline go to an injured player on the field to help him off, half my heart cried with concern for the injured, while the other half cried with joy at the tenderness of his friends and teammates.

Every game is a roller coaster of emotion, not just for me, but for all the parents, the families, the fans. I know the players feel it, too, but I also know that they are so keenly focused on the action, and executing as they've been taught, that their energy plays with their emotion as well. I hope, with all my heart, that the players know just how emotionally invested we, as parents and fans, truly are. I hope they can understand that we want to share in their feelings, we want to hear their feedback about the game, too. More than anything, I know that my perspective is going to be different than my player/son's, and I just want to share in his joys, his pains and sorrows, his laughter and his stories from the game, and from his life.

With each goal the opposing team scores, my heart sinks to depths I didn't even know I had within me. Likewise, with each point our team scores, my heart soars to the top of the goalposts, and I feel as though I could fly. At the end of every game, I feel as though I've been wrung out, twisted, shaken, torn apart and put back together again. All that's missing from the workout I've had is the sweat. After each game, the parents go to the edge of the track to wait for the team to come back from their post-game huddle. There is a silence borne, I'm sure, of that mutual emotional exhaustion we all feel, but are loathe to talk about for fear of seeming too sentimental, invested, dramatic, or being judged as one who is living vicariously through our sons.

As they walk towards us on the sidelines, there is always applause, cheering, and, most importantly, a mass of open arms. The first time, my son told me he was too sweaty to hug me. My heart broke clean in half--and fell right out of my chest when I saw another player's mom walk right up to my son and hug him. A former me would have kept this inside, and gone home with half her heart lying in pieces on the field. This incarnation of me turned him right around and hugged him, hard. He smelled terrible, and really was far sweatier even than he looked, but nothing else on God's green earth could possibly have repaired my heart.

I hope, with all my heart, that those boys, those soon-to-be men of the world, my own son especially, understand how much they touch my heart. I hope they understand that when I say they will be forever in my heart, I mean it. Truly I do.

ouch

My son's shoulder hurts. Hurts as in, has a feeling that can only be described by words that are supposed to be attributed to sounds. Words like "grind," "crackle" and the like. Because he is a swimmer, this is a bad thing. Because he is a very good swimmer, this is a BAD THING. And at the moment, I'm taking it rather personally. I know this is silly, but I'm his mom. I'm supposed to keep him safe, or at the very least, be able to make it all better. Instead, I all I can do is check with our insurance to see what, if any, physical therapy might be available. He went for PT last spring.

Being his mom means that I probably should have nagged him more about wearing his backpack the right way; high on his shoulders and tight to his back. Not that there is much in his backpack, or rather, was much in there in the past. This year, he has more work to do. He's being more conscientious about his schoolwork. I'm proud of him for realizing how important his education is, and I'm thrilled that I don't have to get on him to get his work done. Yet I still feel guilty for 'choosing my battles' and deciding that the whole backpack thing would make sense to him before college, when he really will have loads of books to cart around. (Who am I kidding--college when he gets there will probably mean just a computer, and one that is far lighter than my laptop!)

Being his mom means that I probably should have been more involved in his swim program. There is no real, comprehensive dryland program with it. They run some, but no stretching, no strength training, nothing that I, as a dancer, consider to be important in balancing the muscles he uses to swim. And when he went to PT, I should probably have insisted that the therapist give him a comprehensive progression of exercises to go beyond what they had worked on to keep him interested in the program. When he does the exercises they gave him for "homework" and ongoing therapy, I get bored, so I can understand why he rushes through them with little to no regard for form. And, because I am his mom and he is 15, he doesn't really want to hear from me about how to properly do them.

Being his mom means that I probably should be more forceful in limiting his computer time, mostly because he sits with his computer on his lap, his arms completely unsupported. At least he puts pillows under his knees like I told him he should when he started to complain about his knees hurting. Because I am his mom, I am hurting, too. I wish I knew how to make it all better; how to not only make the pain go away, but also how to make it stay better.

Tomorrow, I'll call the insurance company and ask if he can go back to PT. Then I suppose I'll have to call the doctor to get a referral. I wish there was a better way. I believe in PT, but I know full well from my own experience that sticking with the exercises just doesn't happen. PT does not lead to the lifestyle change that he'll need to continue swimming at the level he wants to swim.

Until then, I'll wonder how else I could have done things. What else I could have done or said. Why? Because I am his mom. It's what I do. And we'll see what we can do for Henry's shoulder.

if at first you don't succeed, so what

Once upon a time, my mother told me, rather bluntly, that trying was a waste of time. I was a teenager at the time, and I have no idea what the circumstances were, but, as teenagers tend to do, I got mad , and was offended, and asked what on earth she meant by that. Her response was something to the effect of "you'll never get anywhere by trying.When you try, you allow yourself to fail." It gnawed at me for many, many years: the 'fact' that my own mother didn't believe in my efforts. Then one day, it hit me--

I can't get anywhere if I try. Especially if I try really, really hard.

Finally, I understood that there was some truth in what she said. I don't believe one can never get anywhere by trying, but I am beginning to think that with the things one does regularly, frequently, or with an abundance of emotional or physical energy, it is quite possible to muck it up by trying too hard. I've seen it in myself when I run, when I am frustrated, and even when I'm dancing. But these are small things that really only have any bearing on myself. What about when someone else is counting on me? When I need to be patient, it's easier to lose my head and blame it on "trying to be patient" than it is to "be" patient. And yet, the times when I allow myself the luxury of being, the resulting harmony is almost palpable.

Tonight, I watched as a team of young men tried, in unison, again and again. They didn't fail, but the trying was so clear. As the mother of one of those young men, I started to become discouraged--I can only imagine what they may have felt. At the time, I didn't make the connection; even though "they are trying so hard" could be heard throughout the stands. They really were trying with all their might to play well.

I didn't make the connection when my friend told me about her son on that same field who was trying so hard to write his college application essays, and, despite his marvelous use of language in his everyday speech, couldn't make his own voice shine through. Instead of putting 2 and 2 together, I mentioned some of the flaws with the way kids are taught to write, about the need to "make it good" and get it done the first time, or maybe the second. We tossed around some ideas that might help. Although it was on the tip of my tongue, I couldn't quite figure how "trying" applied.

Something changed in the second half of the game. The boys played. They played, and it looked good. There were still things that could have gone differently, plays that didn't go off as planned, but on the whole, they were one united team. They Played, and there was no more talk of them "trying hard" in the stands. It's a subtle difference, and one that not everyone would notice or even understand. I'm so proud of those boys I could burst, but I still didn't make the connection with trying.

It was after the game was done, we'd greeted our boys coming off the field, chatted briefly with other emotionally spent parents, made our way to the car, and even stopped for ice cream that I realized: They stopped trying to play against that team. After half-time, they played because that is what they went there to do, and that's what they do. Our team scored twice against a team easily twice the size. A team that has an O team and a D team, plus what looked like at least one of each in reserve. Most of our guys play both sides of the ball, and many have to be ready to play multiple positions within those parameters. I can't help but be impressed and proud. But truly what awes me is when they just stop trying and play.

I have no idea what the coaches told them, but I know what I have seen. Trial and error is good. Trying new things is good. But when you are about to do something that you know matters to you, just let go and do it. Write your essay, or jot down notes and stick them all over the refrigerator, or record your thoughts and go back later to write them down--exactly the way you've said them. Play your game, trusting that your knowledge, your practice, your perseverance won't let you down. Tackle those dance steps, lead or be lead, and enjoy the movement and the music. Run until you just plain can't anymore. Be yourself. Believe in yourself.

And shine.

sisterhood by experience

Two things recently have me thinking, hurting, yet peaceful. It is September; that time of year when things change. The weather begins to change, school starts, the leaves think about turning, and heartache, for many, returns. For me, it's the increased darkness--I do more thinking in the darkness. Summer nights are short, forgetful; blissfully so. The heartaches are not sharp or hard to deal with, and in fact, some I welcome, in a way. Those are the memories I need to keep me remembering who I am, what has helped to shape me, and what makes me grateful for the blessings in my life--some of which would not be possible without the bumps, stumbles and losses.

A dear friend of mine lost a beautiful baby girl in a past September. I had lost touch with her after high school, and didn't know of her loss until a few years after, but thanks to modern social networking, every September I am reminded, and find myself wishing that I could carry some of her pain for her. Instead, I remember. My niece was diagnosed with hypothyroidism this month. With the news, I was reminded of the combined relief and uncertainty that came with my own diagnosis, 18 years ago. These two women are linked in my present, and in my past.

At the time of my diagnosis, I was newly married, working at a job I really liked, and should have been happy. I felt like I must be happy, and yet I was moody, cranky, gaining weight, and secretly seeing someone. The someone I was seeing was a drowning woman in the lane next to me every time I swam laps at the pool. I knew she didn't really exist, because the first time I saw her, I stopped immediately to help until the lifeguard could get to her (I was a certified lifeguard, myself), and the lane was empty. I saw her again the next time I went, and after a while, I just expected her. I'd have said hello if I hadn't been working on rotary breathing. Who on earth could I possibly tell? Only crazy people see people who aren't there, right? The building, and the pool, were new--not even built on an area where there had been water, so she was clearly not a ghost. She was a figment, and I knew it. It wasn't until I went to the doctor for stomach pain, and was, months later finally diagnosed, that I learned that such visions are directly related to hypothyroidism; usually when left untreated for an extended time, but I've never been known for having 'the usual' symptoms of anything.

Almost immediately after starting my meds, I felt better, healthier, happier, peppier, though nervous about this condition that would require testing and medication for the rest of my life. The same condition that had caused my sister to have bald spots at my wedding. What if I lost all my hair? What if I gained even more weight? What if the drowning woman stayed? What if I couldn't have children? None of those things happened, and as a matter of fact, I became pregnant within a couple of months.

We were so excited! We told everyone right away. Why wait? This was what we had been waiting for, hoping for, and dreaming of. Guy was offered a job in Pennsylvania, we began preparing for a move, I began a diary to the baby, we had our first appointment with the doctor. Everything was wonderful.

Then, at 14 weeks, I started bleeding.

My friend, Amy, went with me to the ultrasound. The technician actually said to me, "What makes you think you were even pregnant? There is absolutely no sign of pregnancy here." Through my shock and tears, I tried to explain that the doctor had done all the tests, confirming......it was no use. Nothing, no amount of arguing, sadness, or pleading could bring back that little bitty life. My dear, sweet Amy called each of our family members to pass on the news. I sat right next to her, and she passed the phone to me after speaking to each of my 5 siblings and Guy's 7, and each of our parents. I could never thank her enough in three lifetimes. Fortunately, she knows.

Not knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl, we named the sweet memory Sandy, and managed the stress of the move by talking about what would have, could have been. Three months later, when I was pregnant with Jonathan, we were so overjoyed, we didn't foresee the emotional and painful moments to come. At three months--the time when "telling" is "safe"--we visited RI for Guy's brother's wedding. February. Sandy's due date. Ouch. Yet, in that visit, another relationship was restored--in a way, a gift from Sandy. Mother's Day that year, having the people we'd met in PA comment (constantly!!) on being 'almost a Mom' was harder than I ever would have imagined, and more of the same on Father's Day. Then, of course, that terrible realization in my 8th month that this baby could very well be born on the first anniversary of losing Sandy. I sobbed for hours, asking Guy how I would ever be able to love this baby for reasons completely unrelated to anything this baby could be. Jonathan arrived a week after that terrible anniversary, and all my fears were allayed.

All this time, I've known that Sandy is watching over this family. The doctor, at my appointment the day after the ultrasound, offered the clinical explanation that what I had "experienced" was a "hormonal pregnancy" related to the leveling off of my system when I started my medication. No sympathy at all, just the advice to try again in the future. We know better. I am the mother I am partly because of Sandy. Everything changed that August day, and I am, all these years later, at peace. I know that Sandy has guided me, and the boys, in making decisions. I know simply because it is what I believe. I also believe that Sandy was among the first to greet Dad in heaven, and I know that Dad has been telling stories to Sandy ever since they met. I sincerely hope Sandy and Brooke are friends, too.

In this, I find peace. I cannot carry Lynn's pain, nor can I share it completely, but I can relate in a way that makes me ache with her every September. I cannot anticipate how Anna's diagnosis will affect her, but I can help her navigate the first steps, and those she'll come across years from now. We are linked, forever, by our individual lives. And, though sometimes difficult, it is good.

senior moments

Perhaps I should begin with the fact that I cry at dog food commercials. I always have. I'm just that sentimental. Remember that ad campaign that said, "This changes everything"? I have no idea what was being advertised, exactly, but I do know that every single time I saw a commercial, or even a print ad, I ended up snivelling in a corner somewhere. It's actually one of my finest traits, I think. However, when the public eye is mixed in, I'm never sure how my family will react. They know me so well that Henry, our 15-year-old, considers this reaction typical when we rent movies: (in his words) "You will watch snorfling on the couch, without saying a word, and then when it's over you'll sniff and say, 'That was a really good movie.'" This revelation by him has led to the unfortuneate result of me laughing inside while snorfling--or in the case of The Green Mile, nearly sobbing--which sets off some really strange turmoil in my emotional center!

The coming months will be filled to overflowing with public emotion. Jonathan is a senior. And a football player. And an all-around good kid. The school year is three days old, and I've already found myself wondering how many tears will be acceptable to him. The conclusion I've come to is that he will just have to deal with them, and so will I. So many reasons for "Senior Moments" to hit me right in that emotional core; the spot where all my memories come together with my life force. Pride, joy, anticipation, and the realization that my boy is well on his way to being the man I've always hoped he'd be, and his friends and classmates, too. They have always been a tight group, and seeing just how they support and play off of each other in this special time when they are top dogs amazes and impresses me so much my eyes leak.

Yesterday, there was a Pep Rally at school. For the first and only time, all four boys are in the same building for school. The fact that all Jonathan's brothers would be there made me cry. The fact that I taught dance to about a third of the cheerleaders at some point hit me in the gut. The captains of the Soccer and Football teams taking a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors "very seriously" made me melt. Seeing the tough guy Seniors from those same teams dancing in crazy costumes for a dance-off not only made me laugh until I cried, it made me so proud of how far they have come since meeting each other in Kindergarten. But the moment that nearly pushed me over the edge, the moment that took all the strength I had, was one planned by the Pep Club and Cheerleaders all on their own.

Senior football players were brought to the center of the gym by the cheerleaders, blindfolded, and told that they would get a kiss on the cheek from one of the cheerleaders. When the blindfolds were removed, they would have to guess which cheerleader had kissed them. Little did they know that their moms would be the ones passing out kisses. "Would that embarrass you too much, to kiss him in public?" I was asked when informed of the plan; "Would it bother him?" We moms sat in anticipation, all of us knowing this was a true Senior Moment; a real chance to make a lifetime memory. For me, that kiss on the cheek brought back every first day of school kiss since pre-school, and also a foreshadowing of that hug and kiss that will find us leaving him at a dormroom somewhere with strangers, feeling even more helpless than when we left him at Kindergarten. (That's us, not him, by the way; he's ready to fly, and will undoubtedly be nervous, but certainly not as scared as we will be!) What touched my heart the most, though, was how well the girls who planned this know the moms they selected. The moment was for the moms, of that I have no doubt.

My emotions about this one moment, and the many before and to come, are not related in any way to sadness. I am not upset that "this will be the last [fill in the blank]." Nor am I thrilled at that same filled in blank. I am, however, simply filled to the brim with joy and happiness that I have had this boy of mine in my life for the past 17 years. For almost half my life, I have cared for, helped, yelled at, apologized to, carted around, ridden with, cheered for, played with, questioned, answered, fed, cooked with, awakened, rocked to sleep, laughed with, cried with, stood up for, stood back from, encouraged, discouraged, taught, and learned from this person who started out so helpless and has become so amazingly independent and strong. I cry at these Senior Moments because they are one-of-a-kind moments, blindingly beautiful, and I know that I cannot possibly take in enough information about them to keep everything about them handy. Nor should I. I'm looking forward to sharing Senior Moments with each of our boys, but for now, they belong to Jonathan. And Guy. And the other senior parents that have, truly, become family in a very unique way.

Happy birthday to you!!

Twice, I started writing about my son's birthday today. How hard could that be, anyway?

I'll tell you how hard. Jonathan is a great kid. Actually, that's not true, because he is hardly a "kid" anymore. As his mother, it's sometimes hard to see him as an almost adult. Yet when I hear his coaches say that he is a "fine young man," I still see the schoolboy that we would say that about. I frequently step back and look at him, trying to see the person others see. Sometimes it's possible, other times, not so much. Then again, sometimes he behaves like that schoolboy!

I took the day off work today, but he's on the football team, which started pre-season practice yesterday. Between his two practices today, he will work at the pool. Normally, we celebrate with a meal of the birthday person's choice, cake, ice cream, the whole deal. This morning when he left, I asked what--and when!--he'd like to eat today. "I'll text you," he said. We might see him before dark tonight. Next year, he may already be at college on his birthday, celebrating with new friends that are really still strangers. How quickly time has passed!

As I have mentioned, I always wanted to be a Mom. When Jonathan was born, I remember wondering just what I'd gotten myself into. Babies are tough to work with, and can be so stressful to live with! I loved him to pieces, but sometimes thought I was crazy to have ever wanted this for my life. It was frustrating that a "great day" was one in which I had managed to shower, dress and brush my teeth in the nine hours that Guy was gone. "It'll get easier," so many people kept telling me, but the truth is, it never gets easier, just different. There is so much to think about; so much to remember on any given day. Being a Mom is harder work than anything else I've ever done, and I can't imagine not having it as my true occupation; my calling.

I've talked about wanting to see results; to finish projects and let them go. At the same time, I would trade nothing about this Mom job. I do see the results of my work: the man Jonathan is becoming, and his brothers, too. And I see the woman I am ever evolving into, in many ways because of them. My kids as "projects"--a concept that many will most certainly find offensive, but it's just a word. They are individuals, of course, and in all honesty, I have very little to do with who they are, yet our influence indeed has molded them. True projects, I learned in writing two papers a month for two years, often take on a personality of their own and determine their own direction, no matter how hard you try to control the outcome. I love that about everything I work on, and especially about the boys. Jonathan has not arrived at a point I expected, or even would have wanted him to; instead, we have traveled a crazy path together to arrive at a really amazing place.

See what I mean? There are no words that adequately fit this day. Everything just misses. What's so important about birthdays and the people that we love that makes words not enough? Or is it just that the simple words can say so much? Words like:

Happy Birthday, Jonathan!

I love you!

Thank you for being my son.

I'm so proud of you.

I can't wait to see what's next.

Those are the things that really say everything about this Mom job, and about Jonathan being my "prototype." Thankfully, I think Guy and Jonathan know what I'm talking about. This job, the projects we work on, is based on love, and with that comes joy, pain, sorrow, hope, happiness, laughter--everything I could ever want out of life. It's all about the gravy.