Summer trebuchet

These are the things I’d like to fling/change/get rid of.

Distance, great and small, between friends. I am missing my tribe. Those who not only know my roots, but share them with me. I need some face-to-face, individual time with some certain people who make me feel hopeful, and loved, and warm just by being in their presence. I am blessed to have a few friends such as these, but my access to them is severely limited, and they are in high demand, so even phone time hasn’t been very good lately.

The fact that nobody in my family, to my knowledge, reads me. I know that this can actually be a blessing, and that I should be careful what I wish for yadda yadda yadda. I don’t expect them to read my academic work… but this? This little blog of whatever… it matters to me.  I wish that they would take the time to look at it once in a while. Marge Piercy writes, “The real writer is one/ who really writes. Talent/ is an invention like phlogiston/ after the fact of fire./ Work is it’s own cure. You have to/ like it better than being loved.” I don’t think I like writing more than being loved, but it would be nice if the ones I love would occasionally see what I do.

School starting eeeearly this year. Yes, I will be glad to have that extra-long Christmas break, but this was one seriously short summer, folks.

Things to keep:

progress and productivity–in great and small ways. Last weekend while the girls were trapped inside on a rainy afternoon (not conducive to research/writing) I conquered the laundry mountain that has been regenerating all summer long on my laundry-room floor. I have had a breakthrough on the thesis (no, it’s not done yet, but this breakthrough was MASSIVELY helpful). And finally, my classroom is ready for the first day of school, so I don’t have to go in a day early to get things set up. It’s already done.

My husband, my dear, sweet husband who is kicking booty on fence building. Who despite working on the fence after coming home from work yesterday, and despite needing to get an early start this morning, took me out for a late dinner and (on a whim) an even later movie last night. We saw Julie & Julia.  I liked it, but I would not necessarily recommend it to all. To find it enjoyable, you will need to be interested in food and writing (two winners for me there) and NOT expect a big climactic conflict or ending. It’s based on two true stories, and not everybody’s life has exploding things or unsurvivable weather events to overcome. So, it is what it is. Meryl Streep is wonderful, and I will see anything that she is in. Except Mamma Mia. Watching a movie based on ABBA music is as appealing to me as cleaning an oven or scooping up dog poo out of the backyard. It would feel like a chore. And it might be a wonderful movie. I just won’t know.

Okay, so how about you? What do you want to launch far, far away from here?

Prepare for some adorable.

Not a bad way to spend a rainy, Saturday afternoon.

It would be so much easier if dogs could talk.

These are the things that my dog would have said to me today, if she could:

“Hey, I know you’re busy working in there, but I’ve been sitting by this front door for at least seven seconds now, so you know what that means. I’m gonna pee all over the carpet. Not the wood floor where it would be so much easier to clean up. That is what you get for not watching me every second of your day.”

“Dishtowel! Yum!”

“That day-planner wasn’t important, right?”

“Oh, c’mon. You know you love me.”

“Pizza boxes!! YUMMY!!!”

“Lady, your need for coffee does not supersede my need to run all over the house like a crazed lunatic. That early kenneling was completely unfair. I shall now punish you by amping up my lunatic behavior as though I were the one on caffeine.”

“And while we’re on the subject of the kennel, when do I get to shred another kennel pad?”

“I do love a good sweaty sock in the morning. If none are available, I’ll settle for a pair of your underwear.”

“Remote control! YUMMY!! And there’s, wait, THREE of them??? I must taste them all!!”

“You should see the look on your face when I pace this hallway. You look so anxious. Classic. Don’t worry, lady, I won’t pee while you’re actually watching. That would make this game way too easy for you.”

“Hey, if you let me walk over there, I’m gonna eat my own poop.”

“My own poop!! Yummy!!!! THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!!!”

“Why won’t you let me give you kisses? Don’t you see my tail wagging? Is this because I ate my own poop and occasionally lick my butt?”

“You know, I really don’t understand why you won’t let me in that bedroom. There are only about eleventy-jillion things in there that could kill me if I ingested them–and they’re all so tiny, crunchy, colorful and attractive!”

“Hey, I appreciate that you let me lay on the couch when nobody else is around. It can be our little secret, but you don’t expect me to actually behave while I’m up here, do you?”

“One of these days, lady, you’re gonna leave that leather sandal unattended and THAT’s when the magic will happen.”

“Please let me find more poop! Pretty, pretty please!! More poop!!! PLEASE????”

“I can see that dog. That dog! That dog!! That dog!!! That dog!!!! That dog!!!!! That-dog-that-I-see-every-day-but-I-still-completely-lose-my-ever-loving-mind-every-time-I-see-her THAT DOG! THAT DOG!! THAT DOG!!!!”

“Fair warning: You have about two weeks before I will be able to reach and lick every square inch of the kitchen table.”

“Look, lady. You know it. I know it. I have floppy ears, big brown eyes, and a tail. I’m cute. You love me, and we both know it. So let’s just stop pretending that you can even resist my charms, okay?”

This started off as a gripe but it turned into something else (and I’m too lazy to go back and revise it so the tone is more consistent).

I’m not sure which cable channel it is, but starting at about 4:00 p.m., one of them starts showing commercials for a program about that chimpanzee attack on that woman that occurred earlier this year. The commercial has the gut-wrenching 911 call dubbed over shadowy, ominous pictures. It is quite dramatic, and to girls my age it is both scary and irresistible. All they can seem to take away from that commercial is that chimpanzees/gorillas (yes, I know they are not the same thing, but I have  a hard time getting them to understand that) sometimes attack people and sometimes those people DIE. That’s what my six year-old focuses on: the gorilla attacked a woman and she DIED, and it his HORRIBLE, and AWFUL, and if there were a gorilla that came to our house…. and on and on and on.

You can imagine the effect all this has on my three year-old. After multiple reassurances that a gorilla (it’s a chimp anyway, I know) is NOT going to come to our house, her little mind has finally rested on the conclusion of that particular horrible story because LMG makes sure that everyone knows it. This, of course, has led to questions about death. Tough questions that no matter how truthful yet simple I try to keep the answers, no matter how reassuring and positive a light I put it in, all SL seems to understand about it is that she can go to heaven and be with friends, family, and Jesus–but what she really wants is to stay home. I try to explain to her that Heaven will be home when we get there, but it’s all too abstract for her. She wants to be here, at home.

A few years ago when my father-in-law died, LMG had similar questions about death and similar responses about wanting to stay home. She said she would “be shy to Jesus.” But then we were able to reassure her with that grandpa Vern was in heaven, and that it is a good place. SL doesn’t have any memory of someone who has died, so those reassurances really don’t work.

There’s part of me that wants to take the easy route and ask LMG to refrain from talking about this in front of SL because it is worrying her, and at this point the worry is unnecessarily. Buuut I also know that having some understanding of death is a good thing, even at a young age. And I don’t want to give LMG the idea that she can’t talk about it or ask questions when she has them. It is not easy to strike that balance sometimes. To explain the reality of death on one hand feels a little like chipping away a bit of a child’s innocence. But on the other hand, having to explain death opens up the door to talking about eternal life, and that is such a joy and treasure to share with children. It is such a privilege to plant those seeds into children… even though the information is not what they were hoping to hear.

I have read blogs by people who obviously don’t believe in God, Jesus, or any kind of afterlife for that matter, and the despair they express when they anticipate the pain their children will experience upon realizing that (according to their beliefs) everyone they know and love will one day be gone is almost unbearable to read. I can’t imagine having to shepherd my daughters through such a harsh and horrible (mis)understanding of life and death. I am so very thankful that I know that death is not the end of it all; I am so very thankful that I don’t have the heartbreaking task of trying to teach my children that horrible lie.

And so, for now, I will try to be wise, I will try to be sensitive, I will stop worrying about how SL is receiving this message for now. Because it is my Father’s message, and as long as I humbly, prayerfully speak his Truth, I can’t see how it can turn out bad.

So this is what 34 looks like.

When I was six, I wanted to look just like my cousin Vicki. She had dark brown hair; big, beautiful brown eyes, and a mega-watt smile. (She still does.) She smiled a lot. Imagine the cutest brunette cheerleader you can, right down to the petite, athletic (not twiggy) physique and you’re probably close. I was also completely enthralled with her bedroom which was decked out in purple and gold, our local high school colors, and especially the giant bulletin board filled with mementos like prom pictures, concert ticket stubs, and other evidence of utter coolness.

When I was eleven, I wanted to be Latina. Of course, I didn’t know the name for it then, but these were the days of Menudo, Lisa Lisa Cult Jam, Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine and the movie Playing For Keeps and Purple Rain. I wanted the big, curly, dark wild hair, the beautiful brown skin that looked tan all year, the heavy eye make-up and the hoop earrings. I also wanted the accent.  I wanted to look wild and exotic, and most importantly, I wanted to be the most awesome dancer ever. There is a part of me that has never moved on from this aesthetic.

I honestly can’t remember who I wanted to look like when I was sixteen. That’s because I was more focused on boys and what they looked like.  If my junior year school picture is any indication, I still had a strong preference for big curly hair, but heavy make-up was not my thing. I do remember loving wild sweaters and thinking that turquoise and purple was the best color combination ever. I also could not wear enough jewelry at any given time.

At 21 I was dating my future husband, and I had figured out that I was never going to be glamorous, Latina, or a size 4. I wanted to be classic so I wore lots of long, floral, flowey skirts, solid colored blouses, and conservative jewelry. In other words, I dressed like someone my mother’s age. I was okay with not being beautiful, because heaven knows, I didn’t want to look like I was trying. Whatever I was, I wanted it to be nearly effortless, because to me there was nothing worse than someone trying so hard to look like something they just weren’t.

It was probably between the ages of 10-12 that I spent hours locked in our only bathroom, music on, performing the songs into the mirror. I studied myself very carefully: me serious, me smiling, me laughing, me silly. I wondered when I was going to stop looking like me and start looking like a woman.  And truthfully, even now when I look in the mirror there is still that thought rattling around in the back of my mind. What? I still look the same? When am I going to stop looking like me and start looking like a woman? And by that, I don’t mean that I think I still look 12 years old. I suppose what I’m looking for is the easy grace, the effortless beauty, the self-assurance, the vaVOOM that is woman to me.

But I’m assuming that when one reaches 34 years of age, there really is no need to hold out for womanhood to arrive. I suppose I’ve been here for quite some time now. I guess this is what me as a woman looks like. Huh.

For Timmy.

Today I am sad. My day went on as planned, but for some very old friends of mine, life will never be the same. It is impossible to say anything about death that has not already been said before. And it feels wrong to talk about someone else’s death only in terms of how it affects me when I know there are others whose hurt is unspeakable.

I’m forced to fall back on the overwrought metaphor of life being a tapestry (and I know nothing about weaving). The Coffmans are one of those important threads stretch all the way back to nearly the beginning… lots of beginnings, actually. Tim Coffman, Sr. helped coach my very first softball team. Softball… the sport that solidified three of the four most important friendships I have to this day. Stacey Coffman and I were friends all the way through school, and if it weren’t for her, I would not have met my husband.

Timmy is Stacey’s younger brother and a part of a very well-known, well-liked family in my hometown. Timmy was always, and I mean always, unfailingly kind and sweet. Unlike a lot of younger brothers who could be annoying twerps (I have one, so I should know), Timmy was the kind of guy who seemed at ease and happy no matter who was around. I remember Timmy and Stacey painting a welcome home banner for my cousin when she returned home from Saudi Arabia after serving in Desert Storm. Stacey and Tim are both the types of people who would do anything to help anyone, and do so gladly. Tim’s sparkling blue eyes, easy smile, and gentle nature just made his kindness even more apparent.

I am sorry to say that I did not know the man that Timmy became, but I have a feeling that if I were to bump into him tomorrow, we would be able to chat and laugh as though barely a day had passed. I have to stop and remind myself that he was a husband and a father, which makes his sudden passing even more tragic. My memories of Tim’s warm spirit and sweet nature make me certain that he was an amazing husband and father. The condolences I see written for his family merely confirm what was obvious to anybody who knew him then, now, or all the years of his (too) short life.

And so, though this loss is not mine, it is huge nonetheless because the world needs more people like Timmy Coffman. He is exactly the kind of person that it can truly be said that he will be missed by so many… even by those of us who have not really known him or seen him in years.

My heart goes out to his wife, child, mother, father, sister, brother-in-law, nieces, newphews, friends.

A conversation about anything, something, and nothing.

Actual conversation with Super L, three years old:

[I walk into my bedroom. Super L is standing at my dresser. The Crayola fingerpaints that John purchased last week that I've been too lazy to take downstairs to the playroom are at her eye level, and her fingers are gently touching the box. The paints are still packaged perfectly. No worries].

SL: I wasn’t doing anyfing. [Shaking her head adamantly]

Me: Okay.

SL: I wasn’t doing anyfing.

Me: [smiling] I know. It’s okay.

SL: Did [insert sister's name] tell on me?

Me: [hesitating, trying to remember] Nooooo?

SL: Did she tell you somefing.

Me: No. I don’t… think… so. What do you think she told me?

[Loooooong pause in which her facial expression ever so subtly, almost imperceptibly, changed from concern, to guilt, to calculating, to mischievousness, to composed innocence. A sweet little smile spreading across her face. A spritely little twinkle in her eye. She looks away. She looks back, still grinning.]

SL: Nofing.

Methinks I am going to get a run for my money with her. And it’s going to be great.

Things you can do when you have a puppy that you can’t do when you don’t.

Identify mysterious objects, whether they be animal/vegetable/other/etc. in various stages of digestion. Just last Friday the big debate in our household was whether that thing she spit out was a frog or a cicada. Oh yeah. Good times.

Develop lightening-fast reflexes by shutting bedroom doors, picking up toys, snatching away remote controls before they meet the jaws of terror. It requires speed and finesse. There’s a grand-prize winning America’s Funniest Home Video to anyone who wants to record this morning ritual. It’s like an Olympic sport.

Discover just how much lint your undergarments can collect when carried off under the couch to be enjoyed. For that matter, you can discover just how much you need to sweep under the furniture.

Laugh your butt off when your puppy growls at, barks circles around, and eventually runs away from the trash can lid. Repeat same behavior with a bird feather, a piece of that floaty-cottony stuff, and most recently, my shadow (don’t know why she didn’t notice it until today).

Know, with full certainty, that your dog is capable of the most rancid, foul smelling farts to ever assult the human senses. Seriously.

Use your puppy’s tendency to chew everything in sight as a passive-aggressive way to reintroduce your husband to the concept of a laundry hamper (but I haven’t actually done it yet).

Realize that your dog is not the only thing that poops in your yard.

Launch investigations into what that other pooper is–preliminary theories are: deer, cat, other dog, all of the above.

Get in the habit of pulling forgotten puppy treats out of your pocket every night.

Teach this creature that has all the impulse control and desire to chew of an infant, but with really sharp teeth, that your furniture, your hands, your children are not chew toys.

Devise creative ways to keep puppy in close proximity while outside without the convenience of a chain or fence (which will be done later this summer). Early successes have been tying her leash to the patio table or to a heavily laden Radio-Flyer wagon (one of those big ATWs). This is not animal cruelty because I never leave her like this. These rigs are only for when I’m outside with her, and I need two hands to do something else like disposing of her poop out of the yard so she won’t want to eat it later. Yep.

Finally, realize that however challenging you thought having two kids was… you have a much greater appreciation for the fact that they have better sense than to dash into the street, don’t chew on literally everything in sight, and don’t crap on the living room floor.

But we do love her.

personal note to Jaime and Mark: Yes, I know. This post confirms everything you already think about dogs. What can I say? You’re not wrong. They’re pretty much disguisting and badly behaved at this age, much like children.

That pesky gravity is no match for her problem solving skills.

Wednesday morning I mopped the floors, and later that night I tried a new cookie recipe. The cookies are very yummy, and the entire family has been snacking on them over the past two days. Last night Super L runs into the house all sweaty and breathless from running around the backyard, and she asks if she can have a cookie. Her little hand has already grabbed a cookie from the bowl, and she’s raising it to her mouth as she finishes asking for that which she is about to devour.

“Yes,” I say, “BUT!…” and she stops with her cookie poised in midair waiting to hear the catch, “…take it outside. I just mopped and I don’t want cookie crumbs all over the floor.”

To which she responds, “Okay, Mommy. I’ll hold the cookie upside down so the crumbs won’t fall on the floor.” And she walks out carrying her cookie upside down. Problem solved.

I don’t know if she was referring to the fact that cookies usually feel crumbly on the bottom, or if she thought that if she held the cookie upside down, then gravity would work in reverse. Either way, that’s some impressive problem solving by a 3 year-old.

Firstborn.

You are growing wiser yet seem to need me more

these days. You are growing shyer–which puzzles me.

Is there something I am missing?

Sometimes I just want to say enough:

Enough with the questions and repetitions of

the same questions, enough with the need for constant–

constant reassurances, enough with the questioning,

enough with the relentless talking, enough with the

need to know it all rightnowthisveryminute.

“Just go with the flow.”

You measure my every reaction–

right down to my facial expressions.

But it is my inactions that disgust you.

Sometimes I think you are nothing like me.

Sometimes I think that you are so much like me that I cringe.

Your perception and intuition are keen and strong–

you notice everything.

Your sensitivity is deep–you feel every single

edge that you hear in my voice, even when

you are not the reason my voice is sharp. My

edges are so pointy, and, Lord help me,

I don’t always know how to soften myself.

I don’t always notice when you are hurting.

I don’t always have the right words within me,

or the right thoughts in my head.

I don’t always know.

I think I owe you an apology because for so long

I have regarded you more as my child instead of

just your beautiful, brilliant self.

I am getting better at that, but it is hard

because you reflect me back to myself and

sometimes I can’t help but react to that

reflection instead of just responding to you.

You who are creative and independent in thought

but insecure in word and deed.

You who are in one moment somber

but in the next singing.

You who are both somehow fickle

yet easy to please.

You who are both a puzzle and mystery

yet so very familiar to me.

I am watching, I am learning, I am growing with you.