not the usual day

Eleven years ago today, I dropped Jonathan off at school, dropped Drew off at nursery school, and went home to put Joseph down for a nap and hang out with Henry until pick-up and lunch, then Kindergarten for Henry and another nap for Joseph. Another hectic, yet typical day. It was a beautiful fall day--a day much like today; another Tuesday.

As I usually did when I got back after our walk around down dropping off siblings, I called Guy at work to say hello. He told me a plane had flown into a building in New York, and I remember saying that hadn't happened in a long time, thinking it was a small, personal plane. He kept saying it's such a mess, and I remember visualizing what a mess it would be to have an office window broken in and wind blowing papers and things all around while a bi-plane like Snoopy's sat in the middle of the office.

Finally, Guy convinced me to turn on the TV and see for myself. That was just as they showed the second plane hit. I sat down. I said, "Oh, my God." I said something like, "What the hell is going on?" I was too stunned to cry, to yell, to react at all. And I was some 175 miles away. At some point I started to think of all the people in the city on any given day, and when I began to get overwhelmed, I told Guy to get back to work while I tried to occupy Henry for a few minutes.

Before long, I was on the phone with my sister in Atlanta. We talked and watched together, wondering what would happen next. I remember two things distinctly from that phone call. The first: when I expressed relief that my brother-in-law was stationed in Montana, and not at someplace that seemed a "high target" area, she mentioned that he was probably guarding missile silos. "What other reason is there to have a base in the middle of nowhere?" My heart stopped. The second: at some point, she said that if she were to decide to create widespread panic, Atlanta would be a likely target--both of us were watching CNN, based in Atlanta. "What would cause more panic than not being able to see what's happening anywhere in the world?" I got off the phone with her, wondering when I would get to speak to her again, only because it was time to pick Drew up.

By then it seemed that planes would be going down all day. The nursery school teachers had no idea what was going on--only that something unimaginably bad was happening. The lead teacher in Drew's class came out to find out how all of us were doing, and if anyone needed help with the kids, an extra prayer, if anyone needed to share anything in the dim sanctuary of the hallway. We all expressed our disbelief, our shock, our collective fear.

Later that day, I remember thinking that I felt very similar to the day of the Oklahoma City bombing. That day, I had only Jonathan, a baby, and I scooped him out of his crib and held him for the rest of his nap, the rest of the day until Guy got home. That day, all I could think of were those children in the daycare center downstairs in Oklahoma. On September 11, 2001, all I could think of were those parents in the towers, and the children left at home.

Filling out the calendar for school this year, I noticed that September 11 would fall on a Tuesday again. I wondered if it would be harder, being the same day. Occasionally, I would think that it was coming up, and, knowing myself, I figured it would affect me more than usual, being a Tuesday. And this morning when I woke up, I did remember. But it wasn't until I heard Denny and Sue on the radio, and Denny mentioned that the forecast looked to be the same day as 2001 that it hit me--all the memories came flooding back. Memories from that day, and the days, weeks and months that followed.

No planes flying overhead. The silence. The Middle Eastern mother at Jonathan's school who stopped wearing her robes and headscarf to drop off an pick up her child. The panic I felt every morning. How I wished Guy did not have to leave the house every day. How I wished I had somewhere to go, like he did. My amazement that anyone could act normally. The voice telling me, "Be not afraid." The calm that followed. "Thy will be done." Suddenly remembering a friend who could have been there, and the related need to find out. (None of them had been.) My brother telling me about visiting New York for work because no one else would take the territory, and his visits to stores and a fire department. Starting to feel normal again.

Needing, wanting to hear others' stories, memories, reflections.....my friend's twin daughters seeing themselves as related to the twin towers as they grew up; a stranger on a ferry telling me about the changes she had seen; dear friends who knew someone; 102 Minutes.

Today's flag at half staff.

Never Forget.

Ever.

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.

molehills and mountains

This morning, as on so many other "easy mornings" -- the occasions few and far between when we have no specific reason or time to wake -- for so many years, I woke before my husband, and got to watch him sleep. Of the many things that marriage "is," I think observing him in his sleep is one of my favorites. The peacefulness, the hint of a smile, the hint of a young boy in his face all intrigue me. Usually, I can only resist a light kiss on his nose, his forehead or his hand for fifteen minutes or so. Many times, I get up then and sew, write, make coffee and breakfast. Today, though, I grabbed my book and read.

I suppose it's just the turning of the pages that draws him out of his slumber; I don't know exactly. Before long this morning -- just four or six pages -- I heard him say, "I just don't know how you do it. I am still so very tired. I'm exhausted." Not wanting to make noise, in case he wanted to sleep some more (his eyes were not even opened yet), I smiled in response. Our son needed to get to band camp, and had asked that I get him up in time, which is why I had not snuggled back in again when I awoke. We had walked to the high school football game last night, stopped at our friends' house on the way home to visit, and, after walking home, discovered our youngest son was still up, and, since our second son was in transit from the game and post-game activities, we had a couple of texts to wait for. By the time we got to sleep, it was sometime around 1am. Today was a good day for an easy morning!

Tomorrow we can have one more -- the last for a while. Saturday morning practices, meets and competitions begin next week, along with a trip for me. The next easy morning we can foresee will be around Thanksgiving. For many years, I've dreaded the loss of this special time together for the long season our family's preferred sport covers. For the first time since we've had children, I'm not looking at the change as being "bad," per se. Rather, I find myself looking forward to the holiday breaks, of course, but more to the renewed day to day interactions and making the most of each bit of time we do get to share. Easy mornings are no longer the only times I see as "our time" together. We have time -- we make time -- far more easily than ever before. Next week, it will take more creative thinking, that's for sure! But, for the first time in a very, very long time (read: a decade, maybe??) the challenge seems smaller; a molehill rather than a mountain.

Our easy mornings now melt into our easy days. For that, I am eternally grateful, and say so as much as possible. Love is beautiful (and patient and kind, and doesn't judge and all that good stuff, too!)

changes in attitudes

Every year, at the end of the summer, I'm grateful for the return to routine that school brings. The carefree laziness of summertime--even though I've worked more in the summer for the past three years than I do during the school year--is fantasticly relaxing, and I do wish that summer break would last long past the school years. After a while, though, it gets old for me. I find myself beginning to long for the regularity of a Monday through Friday routine, homework, and, especially, the cooler weather and fall colors.

My kids have been in school for two weeks now, but my summer job only just ended yesterday, so I haven't had time yet to revel in the routine. Instead, I've been in the midst of a crazy schedule; half the time not much caring if I'm coming or going. Down to one job now, you'd think I'm ready for some rhythm and reason.

Yet I find myself on the edge of my seat for the new routines this year will bring. And bracing myself for the brakedown so many of my friends have already experienced. When the new team schedules start next week, along with a new work schedule to fit in, and band, and everything else, I'm pretty sure I'm going to realize just how much I depended on my college freshman for a slice of sanity.

In the past, I've been prone to meltdowns. Actual, embarrassing minutes of literally puddling the floor with tears, snot and a curled up ball of me. Turns out, there was quite a bit of pent up emotion completely unrelated to transporting my kids behind those outburst (yeah, really, I did not realize that! ha!), and recent lifestyle changes have eliminated the band of tightness that always seemed to constrict my heart.

I do wonder, though, if that first time I have to drop everything and go, because I pushed ever-so-slightly past where I should have, if I will revert to my old self. The self I unloaded in Florida, intending never to look back. Give me two weeks, and I should be fine. Once I get past the settling in.

Until now, I've kept so busy I've been able to avoid thinking about missing him, but I do. I miss him shaking his head at his brothers, and the way he understands just what one of them is doing to make me widen my eyes--the silent exchanges we would often have while making dinner. He would make me nuts sometimes, too, but then he'd make me laugh. I'm glad he's doing his thing--and that he's quite willing to 'chat' with us through texts. He's enjoying himself, making friends, making memories, making his life. I'm proud of him!

For now, I'll keep my trepidation on the table. I've learned that keeping it inside only makes for personal pain. Over the next few weeks, the "getting used to the routine" weeks, I'll share each of my frustrations with each of my family members, and, hopefully, the outcomes will continue to be more positive than before.

No, not hopefully--they will be, because I have determined the direction of this story. Bring it on.

insignificant distractions

We all have them. Those things that take our attention away from where it should be focused, and sometimes keep us confounded despite our best intentions. Some distractions are quite profound: blowing bubbles or jumping in a puddle with a toddler; stopping to pick dandelions on a spring day; getting stuck under an awning with a stranger in a sudden downpour. These distractions often serve to make us think of what we have been missing in our often hectic day-to-day. Frequently, we promise ourselves we will make more time for that toddler, on spring days, to allow our day to be brightened by a friendly word. These distractions are significant--much more significant than we give them credit to be. They remind us, at a very deep level, who we are, who we mean one day to be, who we admire.

Other distractions may get more attention because they seem more flashy, more showy, more exciting to talk about--or hide. While they may last longer -- less than half a year, or even almost 15 years or more -- they are not significant. Why? If a distraction can last that long, wouldn't it be quite significant? No; not if they are only serving to remind you of who you are not. Once the distraction is shaken, each day without it becomes more beautiful, clearer, and more crisp. Each day without the distraction becomes hopeful, promising, REAL. Life in general is better. Insignificant distractions may make a temporary impact on the being, but ultimately, every insignificant distraction proves the honesty and intensity of a soul bound for better things.

In The five people you meet in Heaven, Mitch Albom wrote, "In order to move on, you must understand why you felt what you did and why you no longer need to feel it." This applies to  insignificant distractions, which are sometimes hard to explain, but, in the end, can be seen objectively as teaching moments; moments that may have lasted longer than a simple kiss, but mean far, far less, because they had no depth. Insignificant distractions, even when long-lasting, are superficial, at best; meeting only our most ignoble needs.

Moving forward from significant distractions--babies, babbling brooks, a clear and star-filled sky--the kind that show you the power of God and His love--is somehow much easier to understand and learn from; and, therefore, we are able to walk away feeling empowered, blessed, and somehow 'more.' They carry depth; they reach into our very core.

Happily ever after is real. It just requires copious amounts of hard work. Insignificant distractions cannot dismantle a strong foundation. In fact, insignificant distractions rather fortify the edifice. Oh, yes, focus can be lost, but when we realize our mistakes, we can prove to ourselves just how powerful our true selves can be.

out the door

Some days, saying good-bye is not all that difficult. Today, for instance, as I listened to rain fall on the canvas awning, all I could hear were silver dollars plinking down, and that made walking away at the end of the day particularly satisfying. And the fact that there will only be one more walk away is even more gratifying.

So much of what I have learned about myself has been related to a frustrating atmosphere. Yet I understand that is appropriate. Learning my limits, facing my limitations, forcing my boundaries, -- all lessons borne of frustration, to a certain extent.

Not everything has been so difficult. Most of the planning, teaching, training and relating has been, at least most of the time, enjoyable and even easy for me. I've enjoyed working with both kids and adults, and even made some wonderful friends. I will never turn my back, but I am happy to walk away; to close the door and look for the next open one.

No, the frustration has been singular and intense, and has left quite a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel used, and at the same time, unseen--neither of which sits well with me! I am not to be ignored, minimized, overlooked. These are things I fight tooth and nail, in my own quiet way. I've made my case, spoken my mind, and what happens next is my own; my choice, my future, my lessons learned.

Best of all, though, I have my family and true friends to love an support me. My husband and sons who have heard all my stories, laughing and grumbling right along with me. And my dear friends who have asked, in turn, how it's all going, and have been able to relate each of my experiences to one of their own. I truly am blessed to have learned so much--about myself, about life, about others.

And I'm ready to move forward with that knowledge.

fears: pt. 3

Then there's my scariest fear: trucks on the highway. There's a possibility that came about when I was behind a truck that had a blowout. It causes him to fishtail all over the highway, with large pieces of rubber and a bunch of smoke everywhere. The thing is, I don't remember that scaring me a whole lot. I was driving the station wagon I had learned to drive in, and I was alone in the car--I even remember the landmarks around me, and that it was a beautiful, sunny day.

No, I think this fear started much later, and may even be related to the 'visions' I had associated with my (at the time undiagnosed) hypothyroidism. That would put the beginning somewhere in my early 20s, when I really started doing a lot of highway driving. For sure I can place it before I worked at a department store a half hour away, during the early bird shift. That's when I shared the fear with a friend I carpooled with occasionally, who then told me that truck drivers are probably the safest drivers on the road.

The really odd thing about this fear is how it come and goes. Truthfully, it hadn't bothered me for a while, even with the long summer commute I have, and the long trips I've been on, driving by myself. Then I saw a truck swerve a little, and straddle the line for about a mile, and it all came back: the panic I have to force down so I can concentrate on driving, and the white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Ever since, I am back to "the big lean" to the center of the car when my husband passes a truck, and my own speeding up after four deep breaths when I have to pass. (It's less of a problem for me when they pass me. Weird and inconsistent, I know--that's how I know it's not all that rational!) And all the while, I can see the same vision behind what my eyes are seeing.....

What is this vision? Put simply, me being squashed by a semi on the highway. The vision has always varied slightly, I think based on what size car I am primarily driving. When it was mostly a mini-van I was driving, I see me and my car pancaked against the jersey barrier (which also makes me have the irritated thought that it is a "jersey barrier" not a "new jersey barrier." See? Not rational!), and the truck just driving away, not even noticing. When I drive a smaller car, or when I was driving a station wagon, as the truck moves over to change lanes, it either runs right over the car, or the car becomes wedged underneath for a few miles. Either way, in my mind's eye, I hear a screeching of metal and tires, and I end up gone. Perhaps the fact that I have never seen myself dead in these visions is a positive, but I do know that I come out of the vision "knowing" that's how I'm going to die.

One summer, I had a similar fear, but of crossing bridges. Dad and Mom had decided we would vacation in Vermont, and I remember hiding on the floor of the car when we crossed one long, high bridge. My sister and our friend, Nancy, were trying to coax me out to see the view, my mother was exasperated, and my father felt terrible that he couldn't do anything about it but continue driving. Somehow, I seem to recall it starting as a joke, and ending up being a real fear that summer. Not afterwards, though--just on that trip.

None of this keeps me off the road, though. In fact, I love driving and taking trips in the car. Driving to Florida this summer was a wonderful treat, and I'm looking forward to a trip to Savannah in the next couple of weeks. Being on the road offers a different kind of freedom, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Trucks, you won't beat me! We'll just share the road.


But the moment you turn a corner you see another straight stretch ahead and there comes some further challenge to your ambition. 
                                                                                                ~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.