Anti-Resolution

Oh the New Year. Bring on the reminiscing of 2010, bring on the resolutions. Do I sound sarcastic? Sorry. Can't help it. Every year the whole "resolution" craze causes me to act a bit childish. Like sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting "La, la, la, la, la" when someone asks me what I resolve to do in the new year. I typically respond that I plan to sever ties with all friends who ask me that question.

It's not that I haven't played the game before. I have made resolutions to loose weight, get a better job, get healthier, read more, look more like Julia Roberts (which lead back to resolution #1), cook more like Julia Child, get more organized, follow a budget. I have even resolved to not make a resolution. By March it is apparent that failure is almost inevitable and adding insult to injury is the fact I set myself up for it VOLUNTARILY in the name of holiday tradition.

The dictionary defines a resolution as a mental state or quality of being firm in purpose. I think if there is any resolution out there worth having it would just be to have the attribute of being resolved, being firm in purpose in whatever you do whenever you do it. Unfortunately for myself and most people I know or see, that isn't what occurs. The YMCA; Bed, Bath and Beyond; and financial planning firms see some of their best boosts in business during January, but remarkably some serious declines by as early as February. People don't stick with it. I know, go ahead a reel in shock at that surprising announcement.

As to the reason why? I can only speak for myself here, but I never end up doing what I set out to do because my goals are too lofty and they are set during a time when I am staring at a post-Christmas destroyed house and putting on my big girl jeans after a few (dozen) too many cookies. No one should be allowed to make a resolution whilst detoxing from Christmas carb overload.

So here is my suggestion. Instead of ringing in the new year under a heavy cloud of things resolved to do for an entire 365 days, just ring in the new year. Enjoy the fact that God has gotten you through another year and go a head and thank him for whatever he has planned next. Have some fun with friends and family and as it is still winter and there is no need to rush out for a bikini, eat a few leftover cookies. Next: Laugh. I've had to do some research on laughter recently and let me tell you, physiologically it's the best thing you can do for your body this time of year. Laughter stimulates the production of chemicals in your body that lots of people pay good money to get in bottles. It also reduces cortisol production, so it can help aide in weight loss if that's on your 2011 to-do list.

Rent a funny movie, hang out with friends over a crazy board game, or just come to my house and hang out with my kids for 10 minutes. You don't even have to mean it. The same chemical reactions happen whether you mean it or not, so laughing at Uncle Fred's stupid knock-knock jokes totally counts. I laugh hysterically every time I look at my skinny jeans right now (granted my state of mind actually borders on true hysteria), but find a reason somewhere to laugh.

I can't stop anyone from making a resolution if they are resolved (ha!) to do it, but whatever your plans, be joyful this year.

Best wishes to all of you in 2011.

With Love,

A Poem For Fellow Messy Mommies

Disclaimer: I love to write, but I nearly flunked poetry in college. Frost I ain't, so read at your own risk.


My car is not clean, not even close
It’s dirty, it’s cluttered, it smells like burnt toast.
On the window, a hand, quite clearly seen;
Imprint created by Grant, aged three.
His artwork was painstakingly made;
Using only the finest marmalade

A quick look down and you might see the floor,
But I haven’t seen it since 2004.
Instead of carpet are banana peels,
And ridiculous trinkets from Happy Meals.
There are sippy cups-- now growing mold;
Cheese-Its and Cheerios, 3 weeks old.
Candy wrappers, the “icky” skin of a pear;
The discarded coats they refuse to wear.

A glance in the trunk and you might be appalled,
To see “extra clothes” now two sizes too small.
I’ve forgotten to remove the stuff from the game,
But most days I’m happy I haven’t forgotten my name.

The cup holders aren’t used for cups anymore;
They’re filled with used tissues from Wilson, aged 4
This is the reason on the front seat you’ll find;
Stains of all colors, all sizes, all kinds;
From spills that occur when Mommy here drives.

The armrest cannot be used now you see,
Because my arm blocks the view of the DVD.
And every mom knows that the key to peace,
Is continuously run movies like Beauty and the Beast.
The console’s days of opening are done,
Because shoving coins in the hinges is loads of good fun.

People say, “hey, get something new to drive”
Now why would I want to give up this sweet ride?
I could be stuck in a blizzard alone and forgotten;
And survive on gummies and goldfish au gratin.
I think there is water down under Grant's feet
Cause something is wet and cold under my seat.

The back bench will have permanent car seat indentations,
So too bad for friends and family relations.
Unless they feel like sitting in a hole,
Created by Greco, Baby’s First and Costco.

The juice stains on the door are actually quite new;
They occurred during a laughing fit on the topic of poo

My car is a mess, but it is my oasis;
As I carry my kids to dozens of places.
I suppose I could clean, but I don’t, you know why?
Cause instead I am found playing with my kids outside.

My car can be messy, but my kids won’t remember
If I’m carrying beach balls around in December
20 years from now, I doubt that they’ll care;
If our car was a little worse for the wear.

Wherever we go, we go together,
And in a few years we’ll upgrade to leather.
Why is leather important to me?
It’s not, but I hear that it’s easy to clean.
So maybe by then I’ll work a bit harder;
To keep my ride from becoming a martyr.
But for now it’s a mess and I just cannot win,
But you’ll have to get over it, or just don’t get in.

Well Walking

A man sits by a pool of water. His legs are twisted an useless. He can do little for himself, so he begs for his lively hood. Life has not been cherries for him, so he curses the wind and growls as people skip by. He stopped dreaming long ago of the life he could have led. A stranger approaches him. There is something about him that seems...? The stranger asks the man a question. "Do you want to be well?" The man listens to the question and wonders if he heard correctly. Here he sits dirty, alone, and motionless and the stranger dares to ask him "do you want to be well"? The answer should be simple. It should take the minimum effort of one word. YES. Instead, he finds that his mouth can't form that word. He gives the stranger a what? An excuse. My life is terrible. No one treats me well. All I want is to get into the pool and yet I can't.

That isn't what the stranger asked. So why couldn't he just say 'yes'? Maybe he doesn't really want healing. Maybe he prefers the pity to a promise that comes with a price. Effort.

That is a story based on John 5: 1-15. Jesus approaches an invalid of 38 years and asks him the most ridiculous question possible. "Do you want to get well?" That's like asking a homeless person, "hey, want a house?" The answer should be there before the question is asked. OF COURSE! Of course the lame want to leap and the homeless long for shelter. And yet...

The man responded with an excuse for laying there. As if, faced with the presence of this (I imagine) radiant stranger, he felt some guilt for just sitting there. He didn't say yes. Maybe he knew what might happen if he did. Jesus told him to "Get up! Pick up your mat and walk" (8). He didn't lift the man to his feet and show him how to move. He didn't hand him a bag of money or the deed to a new home. He didn't even offer to pick up his mat and carry it for him. In essence, he told the man to get himself up, clean up his mess and move on.

How often do I sit on my mat by the pool hoping for pity? I don't think it's intentional, but sometimes I just want someone to show they care about what I'm dealing with. "This is really hard for me. Let me tell you about it for a while" When Jesus shows up and asks me that question "do you want to get well?" My soul screams "YES", but my actions give excuses and keep me on the mat. I continue to sit, starring at the water, hoping someone will lift me into it.

Jesus gives us the ability to do what needs doing, but we have to take the next step. He'll hold you while you cry, sit with you while you grieve, but when it's time to move you have to take the step. If a parent constantly carries their child for fear they will get hurt if left alone, the child will never learn to walk. Never be able to take steps of independence. If God is our father, than doesn't it hold that he wants us to be able to take steps too?

The man was comfortable in his ailment, it was all he knew. While likely his greatest dream, to actually be healed was out his comfort zone. Pity parties are easy. Walking is not. Not when you haven't used those legs in while. There is pain as the feeling returns. There is stiffness as unused muscles stretch. But you wanted to get well.

Next he asks you to pick up your mat. Pick up the mess you were sitting in. Pick up the pieces. Don't leave it for the next person, don't kick it to the side. Get rid of it. Do it when people think you're nuts for giving something up. Do it when YOU think you're nuts for giving something up. Then "walk". Move on, get over it, put it in the rear view. Move away from the pool and its trappings and tell everyone you meet who made you well. He gave you the ability, but you have to make the move.

Live well, tell others, the end.

Letting Go

All through college, during the hot and hazy summers, I worked as a lifeguard at a summer camp. That camp was like my shangri-la. Whatever stress I had felt trying to fit into the collegiate mold melted away in the 100% humidity and heat. One of the first things you see as you enter the property is a huge wooden, for lack of a better term, jungle gym. It's called an Alpine Tower and the second you see it the kid in you says, "must climb". There are several sides to the tower, from easy to pee-your-pants hard. You pick a side, lock into a harness and climb.

The tower is 50 feet tall, and not being into lawsuits, they don't let you climb solo. You are tethered to a trained belayer. The belayer's job is to give you just enough slack to climb on your own power, but not so much that if you fall you play pancake on the ground. You have to communicate with the belayer so they know what you're up to. Before you start your accent you'd better make sure the guy/gal who has your rope is paying attention (see pancake comment above). The belayer lets you know they've got you and up you go.

The first few steps are exhilarating. You are far enough off the ground to feel gravity's insistent pull and tackling this mammoth piece of pine feels easy. As you get higher and are trying to hunt for footholds, you may start to get a little shaky. The ground starts to look very big and the people on it very small. You cling a little tighter to hand holds and maybe slow a bit (unless your a counselor named Wolfgang, but I digress..). The entire way up the belayer--who was introduced to you before you began--calls your name and encourages your progress. If you need to stop they let you, and patiently wait until your nerve returns.

You make it to the top. Amazing! You've just scaled this behemoth and now you have a bird's eye view of all God's glory (or what can be found of it in Antioch). Your muscles probably ache and your hands feel as though you've been hanging on for dear life, which you may have been, but you knew someone was there to catch you if your grip slipped.

So you've made it up...now what? What goes up...must come down. It should be easy. All you have to do is let go. The belayer says he's got you. You know he's down there, you trusted him all the way up, but now? "I have to let go?" "Can't I climb down?" "I'm a pretty big girl, or at least I feel like I am right now."

That is the best explanation I have for my walk with God. When I was young, before "life" really set in, I talked to Him. I learned His name and He knew mine. He said He had me and I trusted and begin the climb. When I started to stumble, or couldn't find a grip, He reminded me He was still there. When I needed rest He let me take it, and then urged me onward. I knew He was there, but I had some control. I WAS CLIMBING. I had the grips, He just had my back. I trusted that.

But then you reach a pinnacle. You hit the point where you have to let go. It's time to completely give yourself over. You can't go any further on your own strength. It's His turn. You can't climb down, and jumping is certain death, so you have to figure it out, but how can you let go of the only thing you understand? You understand the climb, but the free fall is another matter. You can make the decision to try to make it down on your own, but then you have to traverse the same shake-inducing path blind and backwards.

In my story, when I hit the top, I froze. The belayer encouraged, comforted, chided and eventually shouted, "Woman, I got this. Let go!" I did. If you think getting to the top is amazing...wait til you hit the ground again!

So for myself, and for anyone else reading. I know it's scary, but He's got you. Let go.

"Anyone who intends to come with me has to let me lead. You're not in the driver's seat; I am. Don't run from suffering; embrace it. Follow me and I'll show you how. Self-help is no help at all. Self-sacrifice is the way, my way, to finding yourself, your true self. " Matthew 16:25 The Message

Un-Parenting Part II

(Part of my tribe)


Okay, so this has become a serious rant, but I'm frustrated and you don't have to read, so I'm going to continue...



I have felt like the world's worst mom recently because things seem to happen to my children when I'm not around. They get hurt at school, they learn I word I know I've never used, they catch a cold when no one in my family is sick.



I work in part because I like to and in part because necessity demands it. But I often feel like I'm the only one NOT educating my kids. They learn the alphabet at school, they learn their bible verses at church and they learn colorful words overhearing the television. What do I teach them? "NO!", "Don't touch the lamp", "You HAVE to at least try your veggies", "Buggers do NOT count as a vegetable".



I watch other mother's who are able to spend all day with their kids, pouring their knowledge into them. They seem so calm. I feel like a complete failure.



Then a funny thing happened on the way to outright depression. My dad said something intriguing. A saying that goes like this: "It takes a village to raise a child". Something about hearing that again made me think. Do some villages REALLY raise kids? Why yes, yes they do. Thanks to the almost all-knowing Google. I found an article (check Part I of this rant) about tribe in the rainforest that subscribes to that philosophy, like thousands of other tribes and cultures have for THOUSANDS of years.



In these cultures the entire village takes part in raising the children. Not good at harvesting wheat? The guy in the little hut down the river is, he can teach you. Sewing not your bag, no sweat, your neighbor's grandma will teach you how.



We are made for community and I have a great one where I live. In the past two weeks alone I think I've had four different sets of families watching one or the other of my boys while I take care of some catstrophe or another. I have felt so guilty about not only strapping someone else with my brood, but also the inability to take care of everything myself. While it's still never ideal, the knowledge that I have so many people I can trust with my family brings a peace that is hard to put into words. They are my tribe, and I hope I can be theirs.



Maybe I can teach someone to dance or sweet talk their way out of homework (what? it's a marketable skill). My husband can teach a kid to fish (or at least to cast and enjoy the river). From Amy my boys will learn how to laugh and find joy in almost anything. They'll learn how to be a friend. From Stephanie they might learn patience and calm (Please, Jesus). From my mom, they learn how to organize themselves and of course how to weasel a cookie or five. From the grandpa's they'll learn hard work and discipline. From Nana, faith and the ability to field lemons that are being pelted at you from every direction and make sweet lemonade. From Andrea, they'll learn compassion.



I hope they see this in John and me as well, but I don't want my kids to be just like me. I want my kids to be villagers. I want them to be part of a community. I want them to know when to ask for help. I want them to see that life does not have to be accomplished solo. I want them to see Jesus in everyone.



Thanks to everyone in my tribe. It's an honor to be doing life with you.

Un-parenting

I have decided that this country has done lost its mind when it comes to power-parenting and I am done with it.



Easy hair-trigger, let me explain:



I read this article

http://tribes.intodit.com/page/natural-parenting-and-the-wisdom-of-the-rainforest



About an anthropologist's studies of a tribe he lives with in the rainforest. It was fascinating...because it was so simple. I run my head into walls (at first figuratively, then as my day wears on, literally) every day trying to teach my kids proper behavior, manners, sense. It's like I am trying to teach them to be good kids. Sounds reasonable, right? Two problems with this the way I see it.



1) I am no longer a kid (as much as I like to pretend to be at times)

2) I don't want them to stay kids, I want them to become adults.



Oh, I know. "Don't rush it." "Let them be kids." I get that, but here's the thing. If I were to do absolutely nothing but observe my children for days, weeks, without intervening I bet they would still be kids. They are 3 and 4. I don't need to teach them to be children. They ARE children. I am currently trying to teach them to share, to play nice, to be sweet children. I am trying to teach them to be something I'm not. When I tell my son to share a toy with his brother, I do it 90% because I don't want to hear his brother whining and 10% because I want my son to learn to share. If I teach him to share for sharing's sake I've taught him nothing. My goal should instead be to show him the pleasure of making someone else happy by the act of sharing. Being forced to do something may create a habit but probably not a behavior.

What would happen if I took this tribe's advice and let my children learn by experience instead of trying to save them from every possible calamity and heartache. I'm not saying I plan to let my kid wield a machete and march off into the rainforrest, but I am doing nothing but chase my tail when it comes to reasoning with these boys. It DOES NOT work. Maybe it works for you (your parade will begin later) but I don't think my current methods of an adult teaching a child to be a better child are making any real impact other than frustrating the lot of us.



I think we make everything in parenting entirely too difficult. Children must be put to sleep like this, at this time. Don't give them too much of this, or that MIGHT happen. Socialize them just enough that they aren't jerks, but stay-at-home with them so they have access to you at all times. Spend at least 60 mins a day on flash cards or writing, 60 mins playing outside, only 30 in front of the TV and make sure it's educational, like Elmo singing about poo.



We stretch ourselves to within inches of our sanity and at the end of the day.....they are still children. Aren't we supposed to teach them to become adults? I don't know about you, but I don't typically sing about my poo. (I am noticing I blog about the subject an awful lot though) This doesn't mean I want my kids to be "adults" by age 9, but that's because they just won't be. I don't have to try, kids will stay kids until events in their lives demand they become adults. For some it happens too soon, for some it unfortunately never happens at all (ach..lindseylohan...choooo). I have to model being an adult so when the events happen, my kids know how to behave. I don't want them to need to make a snap decision about rescuing someone from a burning car and think, "my mom always taught me to share...is there anyone else around who might like a turn at saving that poor person?"

(Not) Sleeping Beauty

Well, I'm up so I might as well be productive. Okay, so maybe productive would be cleaning my house or folding the laundry that has my name on it, but it's 2am, so cut me some slack. I hear that's actually how Martha Stewart became Martha Stewart, she couldn't sleep at night so she got creative. I'm not Martha.

It's amazing the things you notice in the middle of the night when the rest of the world (or at least your house) is asleep

For example:

• My house is a mess. It's a mess during the day too, but I suppose I don't notice as much. I guess I could clean it while I'm up, but that borders on obsessive Martha, so I'll just be a lazy insomniac instead. Although, maybe it could get me my own show...something to think about..


• My 4-year-old talks in his sleep. Sounds like he's annoyed with someone. Can't really understand the words, but he doesn't seem happy. I hate that.


• My air conditioner is loud. I keep jumping out of my skin every time it turns on. Sounds like a bear waking up from hibernation...maybe that's what Wilson's talking to...


• My husband grunts in his sleep. Every time he moves, he grunts like it takes too much effort to move.


• My dog sleeps with his ears pointed straight up...he kinda looks like Yoda.


• Cereal is bad option for a midnight snack. Milk leaves an icky taste in your mouth and brushing would wake up the grunter.


• Looking up cures for insomnia online does not actually help insomnia, as one of the cures is NOT looking at a computer screen at night. I'm told it messes with your circadian rhythm or some such thing. Personally, I don't care much about rhythm when I'm trying to sleep.


• When you're not waking up due to panic attacks, it's actually kind of peaceful to be the only one awake. Makes me feel kind of powerful...or maybe it's voyeuristic..whatever, it's late.


• When sleep does finally come, it hits like a linebacker, hard and heavy.


• Lastly, it's probably not a brilliant idea to blog at 2am. I have a feeling I'm going to have blogger's remorse in the morning. It's sort of like drunk dialing but without the drunk...or the dialing...so maybe it's nothing like drunk dialing.

So, if you're ever up in the middle of the night, I would say check in with me to see if I'm up, but according to the experts you'd be dumb to get on the computer. So I guess, get your circadian grove on and go read a boring book. Or clean your house you Martha :)

God speed and goodnight.

Stop It

So there's this video I found on You Tube. It's a MadTV epidsode with the sublime Bob Newhart. Bob plays a wise therapist who has found the solution for every mental malady. Just watch





Brilliant, right? Just knock it off! Whatever it is stop it. What's my response and the response of just about everyone else who deals with anything...IT'S NOT THAT EASY! Or is it? What if you could just turn it off? Tonight I got anxious. I have had a really hard time getting to sleep, just when I get close, BOOM goes the dynamite.

So I got up and talked to John, at some point, I started to get pissed. I'm just so tired of this. I hate feeling trapped in my own head. I hate that this all happened so suddenly. The day I got help for depression is the one day in my life I think I would take back if I could. I got mad, and John noticed immediately that my voice changed. It got deeper and the fear dissapeared.

Maybe I need Bob's kind of therapy. The kind that's not nice, but blunt and real. The kind that reminds you that there are very few records of people dealing with this before the age of self-help and medication for everything. Sorry, probably not fair.

With any luck though, maybe I can just STOP IT.

Sunrise, Sunrise

I'm not sure how I ended up here today. My mouse just moved in the direction of this portal and somehow clicked the "New Post" button without my permission. Now that I'm here, I suppose I could just click back out and go about my day, but my fingers feel good on the keyboard so I'll stay a while.

If I've learned anything over the past year, it's that precious, precious little in life is actually certain. People can be deceiving, winds can change, and answers can disappear like puddles drying the sun. One moment they are deep and real, and then you return 10 minutes later to find bare ground again. You wonder if you imagined it all. I have spent a lot of time, too much really, trying to decide if I like the certain things in life or the wild wind. If I want to be like a palm tree and bend with each storm or just be a leaf and ride with it.

I don't have an answer, and I'm starting to get the sense that THAT is the point. I'm looking for answers where answers don't, or rather, don't NEED to exist. Scientists are always trying to find reasons that things do what they do. Why does the sun come up? Why is the sky blue? Why is dirt brown? I'm not against discovery in general, just the perpetual search for answers that ends up sucking the life right out of life. Instead of why does the sun come up, why not just stand there and let it hit your face and warm you to the core as it makes its progression across the sky? Why is dirt brown? Who cares, just don't eat it.

I know I sound jaded and, to some, a bit ignorant, but I've got too much trash in my mind to find space to give a hoot what anyone else thinks anymore. But what if the answer IS the question? I know, way to philosophical for a Friday, but go with me here. What if the wondering, the wandering, the questions, and finally the acceptance of the mystery, is actually the answer we look for?

I've been searching for answers to why I went from mostly normal (not enough time to get into what I actually think of the word "normal") to mostly neurotic in the space of a year. I have been trying to find out why, what happened, how can I fix it. Everything is so different, so scary, that I've wanted answers like a kid wants the lights on to make sure the shadows in his room are really only shadows. Meanwhile, I've forgotten to enjoy what hasn't changed. There is so little certainty out there I should have been clinging to the few things that have remained the same.

I know that as long as he physically can, my husband will come home every night. I know that no matter how old they get, my children will always be my babies. I know three women who will always pick up the phone when I call. I know as long as my legs work, I'll dance; as long as my mouth works, I'll share my opinion; and as long as my heart beats, I'll search for God. You can't find truth, you just know it's there when you're in its presence. Answers are elusive, and too many questions are waste of a good life. So face East during the sunrise, let the sun kiss your face and trust that there ARE answers, even if you never find them. The truth is found in the warmth--and of that I'm certain.

Defeat

The definition of defeat is to overcome, prevail, or vanquish. To be defeated is to have that definition turned around on you. To be overcome, prevailed over or vanquished. I would like to think that my Tennessee Titans will defeat (at least most of) their opponents. I hope that the people I vote for defeat their opponents. I hope my children will admit defeat and fall asleep before midnight tonight. I had hoped I had defeated panic and anxiety. I mentioned in the last post I was worried it might not last. My reprieve lasted only 24 hours after that post was submitted.

I feel defeated, overcome, vanquished. I feel like a man who tastes freedom after a year of imprisonment only to be caught shoplifting the very next day and thrown back into the slammer. I felt free for 5 days and I don't know which is worse; knowing freedom is out there and having it disappear, or never feeling it at all.

To say that I am upset at the latest in an absurdly long line of setbacks would be an understatement of epic proportions. I want to just....just....I don't even know. Where can you go to escape your mind? I pray. Maybe not hard enough, but I pray. I get angry when I get no response. And then there are the moments after. Once my brain has calmed enough to process without panic, I hear Him. Steady and strong, telling me to hold on. He tells me I have what it takes to win. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said: "I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. That is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant."

Defeat is only temporary. The definition of defeat works two ways. You can either be defeated or you can defeat. I can be vanquished by this internal battle, or I can keep fighting until I find the key that will vanquish all doubt. Mama always said that things lost are always in the last place you look, so I'll keep looking.

"When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers,

they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire,

you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze." Isaiah 43:2

I have been asked why I keep believing in this God that doesn't deliver me from this even when I cry out. May I also remind that person I am not the only one who deals with this and some have it so much worse. I wish I had an answer that would satisfy you. All I can say is that I just know. The same way I know that even on a blazing hot day that someday it will be cool again. Just because I ask for the rain, and it doesn't come today, doesn't mean it won't come at all. I know it will.

A great song by a band called Barlow Girl sums it up best:

"I needed you today, but you didn't show

I waited for you, so where did you go?

You told me to call, said you'd be there

and though I can't see you are you still there?

I cry out with no reply,

and I can't feel you by my side,

so I'll hold tight to what I know.

You're here, and I'm never alone"

I'm never alone. Never fully defeated. And the enemy, the one that invades my mind, knows that, and apparently it pisses him off. News for you, my personal demon, I am now, and always will be a stubborn and relentless bad ass.My God made me that way. Bring it.

Forget me not

"I pray you now, forget and forgive." That quote is from William Shakespeare's King Lear. For those who slept through 11th grade English, King Lear spends the brunt of this play going completely nuts. In fact, half the characters in the play go mad, in large part to stubbornness and and unwillingness to forgive and forget the follies of others. In the end, only three of the main characters survive. The play is utterly depressing but makes some interesting...if a bit dramatic...points about misunderstandings, loyalty and forgiveness.

Forgiveness is my contemplation for the week. After last Saturday, and hearing those women's remarkable stories, I realized that a huge component missing in my life was forgiveness. These women had forgiven some horrible sins committed against them. Things that would crumble most mere mortals. They had also forgiven themselves for mistakes and missteps in their own pasts.

I can forgive others...most of the time...but I'm terrible at forgiving myself. I can give you a list of everything I've done wrong in the past year, past five, ten. Ask me to tell you what I've done well, and I'll make something up (and then feel bad about it later). It's not that I'm a martyr; not even close. I just have a really hard time letting things go. I let the intense fire of anger burn off, but always keep it on a low simmer, and before long, it still ends up burning down the house.

When I was a kid, and I'd do something I knew was wrong, I'd actually punish myself. I remember telling friends I couldn't come outside to play because I was grounded. The thing was, I grounded myself. My parents never did.

While I sat praying on Saturday night, I went through my ritualistic prayer. "Thanks for the day, Lord. Please bless my family and forgive me of my sins." I pray that prayer all the time. It's automatic, but that night something different happened. I heard, clear as a bell, "you are forgiven". I thought, "yea, I know."...blah, blah, blah. I started to raise my head and heard, more forcefully, "You ARE forgiven." At this point I thought it prudent to keep my eyes and my mouth shut and just listen. I heard, "My child, you are forgiven." That last one was like having someone shake you out of dream. My eyes poured tears and I took the first deep breath I've had in a year.

Do you remember that part in Good Will Hunting when the psychologist (Robin Williams) tells Will (Matt Damon) that it's not his fault? Will shrugs it off, but Sean keeps saying it over and over until Will first gets mad, then he just "gets" it and starts to cry. It was kinda like that.

So, the other part of Lear's quote is "Forget". There's where I'm stuck. I haven't had a single moment of anxiety or panic since that moment on the floor of the Boys and Girls Club gym. I haven't felt my heartbeat, haven't second guessed my breathing, haven't worried about passing out every time I climb a flight of stairs. It feels amazing, but I find myself shy to consider that God cured me, by helping me forgive (BTW, I don't think real forgiveness can be accomplished without Him. It's too big a burden to lift on my own). I have forgiven myself, but I can't forget and remembering keeps me in a state of reservation for fear that if I have a relapse after a moment like that... all the old doubts and fears will crush me like a tidal wave.

Should I try to forget? In forgetting, could I get myself far enough away that it never bothers me again? Should I put this past year in a box and hide it in my attic? I admit, part of me would like to end this blog here. Start another that has nothing to do with depression or anxiety. Would that be right? Or would forgetting negate the blessing? Would forgetting it ever happened somehow diminish the miracle of feeling better? I don't want to be like King Lear. I don't want to go mad because I can't forget or forgive. But much like those who survived the sad tale, to forget it completely would be giving permission for history to repeat itself.

So I'll pray for distance. If I have to remember, I hope it's like popping in an old movie. You remember the lines, but put it away as soon as ends and go outside to play in the sun. If you made it this far, I have something to tell you: You too, can be forgiven. Really. Completely. All you have to do is ask.

"For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened" Matthew 7:8

Patches of Redemption

{written two days ago}

Guess what? I'm a patch. Yep, you saw that correctly. I am a patch. Guess what else? So are you. I'm so excited, exhausted, honored, and a bunch of other complicated emotions I can't begin to name, that I could bust...or more likely, just pass out. But I hope I don't. I hope before this emotional exhaustion captures and drags me into dreamy oblivion I am able to explain.

If you have read this blog for any amount of time...or bothered looking at the subtitle...you know that I starting this thing as a kind of therapy to help me work through issues like depression, anxiety and panic. I have been in real therapy for these issues for over a year and tonight I learned that it's quite possible I have wasted a whole lot of money. Maybe wasted is a strong word...but I digress. Tonight, in a room filled with 14 faithful women ranging in age from mid-40s to late teens, I learned more about myself and my God than I have in over 16 months of therapy.

We were all put in that room by our church's youth minister. He asked us to go into a room and "bond" by sharing our stories. He gave us an hour...silly man. One after one, I watched as each woman bore her heart and shared her story. With each one more gripping than the last. These are women I have seen at church, in many cases, for years. I am ashamed to admit I had lumped most of them into "they have it all together, they could never understand what I deal with" category. On the totum pole of WRONG I rate below the man purse and perms. These women shared stories that, were the world to get a hold of them, would be turned into Emmy-award winning miniseries. These women have seen brokenness, they have experienced tragedy, and each of them is a living miracle and a testimony of the love of Jesus.

They trusted me with their stories so I won't betray that by describing them here, but I'll tell you how they affected me. I began the storytelling, and not wanting to be the spotlight hog for a change, kept it very brief. I didn't go into any of the issues you know about. Just where I came from and how I met Jesus on my personal road to Damascus. Then I sat for three hours (like I said, silly youth pastor man) while, one by one, they spoke of painful relationships, abuse, tragedy, heartaches and visions. They unloaded feelings of guilt, inequity, and shame. After three hours of unpacking, I have never felt so clean.

As we sat in that circle we all realized something amazing. Each of us, though our stories vastly different, had a piece of the story before. There were common family dynamics, or common feelings, or common results. We all found something in each person's testimony we could relate to. The most important being that somewhere in the midst of life's trials, we met Jesus. For some he came as the Great Counselor, some needed him as the Father. To one woman, in particular, he came as the Savior. He showed up for each of us in different ways. Tonight, He showed up as my Healer and Redeemer.

After all was said, and eyes were once again dry. One woman said we were like a quilt. Each patch is different, but when they are all sewn together they make a magnificent tapestry that wouldn't look complete without the others. All of our stories have been sewn together with a crimson thread. Within their patches I found healing and hope. The quilt we wove tonight, 14 strangers, I plan to keep with me forever. I will look at each patch, as the events in my life unfold, to find strength in the story.

Each of us has a story, no matter how blase you think your life is. Each person has a choice of how much to share. You can infuse your story with all the colors in the rainbow, or leave it with just a few threads. Either way, you are a patch and I beg you from the bottom of my heart: FIND A QUILT. And watch how God unfolds a story of redemption.

My Gift to the World

There are some days in your life that no matter how old you get or where you go, you'll always remember. You remember exactly where you were, what you were wearing, who was with you. You may even remember how hot or cold it was outside. It's a day that you mark time with. Life happened before that day, but after...everything changed. A wedding day is probably, hopefully, one of those days. Or maybe the day you got engaged. Or maybe you saw your team win the Super Bowl. That moment was a tsunami in the normal ebbs and flows of life.

August 13, 2007 is one of those days for me. Three years ago today I met Grant. Wilson was only a baby himself while I was pregnant, so I really didn't pay much attention to my growing belly until about a month before his due date. At that point, I got scared. How was I going to deal with two? Two BOYS? How were we going to afford them. Would they look alike, would he act just like Wilson (at the time that would not have been a plus). Would my boys fight or be friends? Would Grant ever feel second-best to his big brother since Wilson had been adored and spoiled from birth?

Grant came into the world at 12:02 AM on a Sunday. He was 8lbs and 5oz of mutinous baby. He was not as happy to see me as I was him. He screamed his head off the entire time they were tending to him. I was so proud. "Tell them how you feel, baby", I thought. He seemed so much smaller than Wilson had been, but that little yell was meant for a baby twice his size. All worries about how I was going to love this little boy as much as my first disappeared completely in those first few minutes.

Grant wasn't entirely healthy when he was born. He had a blood count issue that required a IV to be put in his head for two days. It was awful and my heart ached for the parents who had babies with even bigger mountains to climb. Grant just seemed so fragile...

...he got over it. For the past three years that mutinous cry has turned into a very smart mouth and that fragility to steely determination. What Grant wants, Grant gets, or Grant gets his grandparents. He's got everyone who knows him wrapped around his finger and he's not afraid to pull on the strings. These are just a few of the things we've learned from Grant this year.

• There is no such thing as too many sweets


• They sedate kids these day when they fill cavities for having an overacting sweet-tooth


• Boys will find guns whether you buy them or not. An empty toilet paper roll makes an excellent weapon.


• Whatever's Grant's is Grant's, whatever's yours is Grant's unless you hide it.


• Utensils are a suggestion, not a requirement


• Everything tastes good with peanut butter


• Every animal that is worth talking about says "RRRAHHRRRR"


• I am Bossy the Cow


• Daddy is not allowed to drive mommy's car


• Grandpa will give you anything you want if you hug him and say "I love you"


• Grandma and Nana will always give you whatever you want, nothing else required.


• You CAN adopt a Deep South accent overnight.


• Everything sounds better with an extra syllable. "Tha-yat", "Da-yown", "Ye-yah"


• The only sure-fire way to get mommy and daddy to let you out of bed is to claim you have to pee.


• If you talk to your poop, it comes out.


• It ain't a party unless there's cake.


• Is there cake?

Most importantly, Grant has taught us to wake up ready to live well, eat well, play hard, and do everything with passion. Today, three year's ago, Grant came, full of life, into the World. Dear World: your welcome.

Happy Birthday baby! Mommy loves you to the moon and back.

Homecoming

I could start this post with the question of what is home, but it's been done so I'll spare you. I will say that, for me, home has been a topic that has been like mood music in my mind, not loud enough to distract me from shopping, but just enough that I'm soothed into buying more. Because of my relatively nomadic childhood, one of my least favorite "nice to meet you" questions is "where are you from". There isn't a quick answer that doesn't make me sound either confused or condescending.

For those who are actually interested instead of just trying to make insignificant small talk, I tell it like this:

I was born in Kentucky.

I spent my childhood in Colorado.

I grew up in Indiana.

I lived in Texas.

I went to school in Indiana.

I live in Tennessee.

It's that third stop I'm going to linger on for a while today. So if you're not up for a brisk walk down memory lane, time to switch sites. I'm sure the Kardashians are up to something ridiculous. I moved to Indianapolis (Fishers, to be exact) when I was 12. I had lived in Colorado for 8 years and had loved it. It's really the only home I'd known up til then. I was only three when I left Kentucky, and while I've always loved the state of my birth it's always been like your first kiss, sweet, but not enough to write vows over.

It was hard for this 7th grader to leave the purple mountains majesty for the amber waves of grain, but adventure called, and I was usually up for the challenge. Indiana was different. It wasn't as relaxed as Colorado. There was much more drama. I LOVED that. I thrive on personal dramas and I was rarely disappointed. My first day of school, I was privy to a Tony-worthy one-act in which a girl in my science class about took the head off of the boy in front of her because he decided to break up with her during passing period. Apparently they were school royalty and had been dating a whole two-months. The entire 7th grade entered a period of mourning that lasted until after the final lunch bell tolled.

The first day of 8th grade I met the girl who remains my best friend to this day. It wasn't an instantaneous friendship, Jenny and I are quite opposite in a lot of ways, but for whatever reason (I'm going with God-ordained) she became the sister I never had and regardless of the many ups and downs over the years, or the distances, we've remained that way.

I experienced my first real crush in the 8th grade. I'll spare him the embarrassment of writing his name here, but he knows who he is. There isn't anything like a girl's first crush. It introduces us to unknown emotions that cause us grief for the rest of our lives.

Frustration, infatuation, flirtation, and almost always our first real heartache

. You are bit with the "I like boys" bug and you just can't go back.

In high school, I realized that aside from a few exceptions, I was better suited for male friends than female. As I said, I liked the female dramas , but I preferred to be on the viewing end, rather than stuck in the thick of it. My guy friends were a refuge during the awkward phase of my growth. They never treated me like a girl. While that drove me nuts at the time, I realize now that they shielded me from allowing my new-found insecurities to dictate choices that no doubt would have been painful. There are many poor choices I could have made, many bad-boys I could have dated had they not been there and been blunt about my stupidity.

Why, so long after events took place, am I suddenly dwelling on them? Because for the past few years, my depression and other such brain maladies have begun to shake my existence like my friend's P.O.S. jeep did when it hit 70 on the highway. I have needed something to blame. Some buried reason that is the cause of this mess. I've lumped it all on my high school years, dubbing them the "dark days". I have remembered rumors, low-self esteem and unrequited love. I recall bad teachers, bad cafeteria food, and bad acne. I remember moving from Indiana to Texas, and with the exception of a few blessed bright lights, being miserable. This past weekend, however, I spent two days with high school friends and could think of nothing but good memories. Even the moments that seemed incomprehensible at the time , could be remembered as coming-of-age stories that escorted us through our teenage years only to deposit us, 10-years later, on the doorstep of adulthood with friendships still intact, life lessons learned, and hearts long mended.

The cliche says that you can't go home. Well, to be honest, I agree, but I don't see that as a bad thing. I went home last week and it will never be the same as it was then. But I'm no longer a child. My perspective has been sprinkled with wisdom and aired out by time. The result is a beautiful image of what it looks like to grow up. Pitfalls and proms, boyfriends and braces, friendship, laughter and loyalty that make me proud to have been a part of it. Maybe you can't go back, but you can take it with you.

Dedicated to my friends in the class of 2000.

28

For the past two years, on my boys' birthdays, I write a letter to myself. Its purpose is to remind me what I've learned about my boys, my God and myself in that year. With all that has happened in my life this year. I thought it appropriate to make a list for myself. There are lots of moments I'd rather not have had to begin with this year, but to forget them would be a mistake. Every moment is a chance to learn something new. Maybe it's something about yourself. Maybe it's another person. Maybe it's people in general, or the environment you live in--or don't live in. Regardless, every moment answers a question you didn't think to ask and to forget them is to remain in ignorance. Ignorant people are not blissful-- as the saying would have us think--they are comatose. I'd rather be awake, even if it's painful.

Things I learned at 27

• Friends are God's version of Zoloft.



• Children are God's reminder that life is lived in the small stuff (like helping your two-year understand that it isn't necessary to bid farewell to your poop every time you flush)


• Sleep is essential.


• When sleep is a problem it can almost always be remedied with a large Revolutionary War history book. Seriously. Try it and tell me you aren't snoozing by page 5.


• Everyone should see a therapist at some point.


• Feeling beautiful can only be attained if you stop looking in mirrors. It returns the wrong type of reflection.


• My husband in incapable of putting dirty laundry in the hamper.


• It's a useless waste of energy to fight something like that when your spouse is your best friend and your personal super hero. Consider laundry his kryptonite and get over it.


• Get over it.


• Write down one good moment in a journal everyday. You'll need them on a day when you can't think of one.


• Traffic cameras really will catch you.


• Never confuse guilt with conviction


• You'll always need your mommy, even when you become one.


• Wikipedia knows everything.


• Transparency is best way of letting light into places that have become dark.


• DVD players are essential to peaceful travel.


• No one has it all together. Everyone is fractured, some people just use better glue.


• Budgeting is for geeks.


• Try to become a geek.


• Pandora can save one's sanity


• Sanity is often overrated


• I have a disorder that requires medication. There is no shame in that.


• I am healthy even if I refuse to believe it.


• Faith can't be explained or reasoned. It can only be felt and believed.


• I am not a perfect parent, which means my children will be saved from feeling the need to be perfect people.


• I cannot be "described" no matter how much my therapists want me to try. What you see is what you get...today. Tomorrow, what you see is what you get..and it may look completely different.


• I'm obsessed with the ellipses.


• I am a writer.

Most importantly I've discovered that God is all around me. He's in the people that love me, the music that moves me and the words that soothe me. For those who believe, there are no rules, only consequences, whether they be good or bad.

Thank you for reading this year. Whoever you are. I love you for being a part.

The Gambler

Everybody knows that song. "Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away, know when to run".

I got one question for Mr. Rodgers. How in tarnation are we supposed to know? I mean, is it a course you can take in college? Wild West Poker 101. Is there an infomercial selling knowledge of what to do in every situation? Try this unfiltered knowledge risk free for 30 days or your money back. Is there anything in life that's actually risk free?

Bookstores are lousy with books trying to tell people how to live life correctly. Read this and you'll have a successful marriage. This book over here has the recipe for good self-esteem and the job you've always wanted. Everyone's got an answer for how to fix your problems. They seem to know when to walk away and when to run. Except...they're wrong.

That's right, they're all wrong. I'm not going to make broad judgements about your friends and family since I don't know them, so I'll keep this in the first person...just know I have my eyes on you. People who claim to be able to fix the flaws in my personality so I'll behave or respond a certain way, couldn't have it more mixed up. Why? Because keeping with our fun little ditty's theme I'm the only one who can clearly see the cards in my hand, so I'm the one who can make the decision of how to play. Everyone else has an opinion, and they're entitled to it, but I'm the only one who feels the itch in my legs that tells me when it's time to run like heck.

And at the end of the day, it's ALL a gamble. Some days you'll play your cards and end up on top, and others the whole pot will slip right out from under you. Sometimes you sprint when walking would have saved your breath and your legs. There are things you can set your watch by like the sun coming up, politicians lying, babies crying and the simple fact there is an all-knowing God who sees it all. Everything else is a toss up.

So why bother, right? Because this poker game is rigged. For those who believe, you know that we've already won. So take a gamble. Fold 'em, hold 'em or run like hell is on your heels. Play the game and don't bother listening to anyone elses' moves. You know your hand. Read the cards, think on your feet and keep one eye on the door. It's a wild, wild life so play the game and enjoy the ride.

(not sure I could have fit one more cliche into that, but I'll try harder next time)

Star(bucks) Spangled Banner

Dear Starbucks:

Thank you for always being there for me. On a day like today, when the rest of the world takes a break because it is July 5th and they can, thank you for realizing that it is no longer a holiday and being ready to serve me my decaf, non-fat, vanilla latte. Thank you for adding whip cream as an added treat, not because you got my order wrong, but because you knew I'd need the extra sugar rush to get me through the first hour of the day.

Thank you for caring enough about the sensitivity of my skin to always shield me from the heat of my latte by encasing the cup in it's little brown insulated ring. Made only from recycled paper because you like trees almost as much as you like that I come through the drive-in on most days that end in "y" with spare change for little box outside the window. You also love my potted plants enough to put your used coffee beans on the counter, so that I might take your trash, thus ensuring that your Baristas will not be forced to leave their posts to dispose of said garbage. Instead, they will bravely man the large machines that could have only been engineered by NASA in order to serve those of us willing to spend half our paychecks with the 2,345 possible combinations of coffee, espresso and tea (and now fruit smoothies).

Thank you, Starbucks, for refusing to use ordinary sizes like small, medium and large, but instead give pompous titles that make us regulars feel cultured, while intimidating those nubile consumers with words like Venti and Grande. I feel like I belong when I can rattle off an order for coffee using 25 descriptors like: Decaf, skinny, extra-hot, no whip, splenda, 2 shots, low-foam; all to describe one drink. And like a friend I've known for years, you understand every word.

Thank, you my sweet coffee paradise, for staffing your corporate-neighborhood coffee houses with people who wouldn't dream of working anywhere else. After all , outside of your strategically artistic walls, where would a magenta-haired, fairy-tattooed, skinny jean wearing man with holes in his earlobes large enough to hold my snack-sized donut, find employment? While he rocks out in his mother's basement at night, singing songs about the evils of capitalism and the death of originality; during the day, he wears the green apron worn by thousands of men just like him all-across this great land. That apron, like a beacon in the night to us weary wonderers seeking cookie-cutter culture at $4.25 a cup.

Thanks again Starbucks for realizing that today is no longer the 4th of July. You celebrate our great nation every day, by ensuring that my caramel machiatto tastes the same whether I am in Tennessee or Texas, Maine or Mississippi. From sea to shinning sea, the green aprons are there, swaying to Tracy Chapman or Miles Davis, serving the American dream, Venti and fully caffeinated.

Forever and Ever, Amen

Marriage in America has a pretty ugly reputation. It's like the kid in school that all the teachers know has potential, but he's too busy skipping class and chasing skirts to notice. We are all so addicted to Hollywood, we look to movies and those who star in them to tell us what romance looks like. I heard a line from a movie today that informed audiences that marriage was nothing more than a piece of paper, an archaic institution. So "enlightened" people have nixed it, opting for a no strings attached relationship intended to help love grow without the chains of marriage.

Hollywood, you can take you bondless booty calls, I love my chains. Chains get a bad rap. They don't just hold things down, they can also hold things together. My husband should be awarded sainthood for his patience with me this past year (or five). His typically outgoing, athletic, mostly normal wife morphed into a woman who is fearful of just about everything. He has to keep his phone by him 24 hours a day in case I need him to calm me down, or pick me up from the ER. This isn't said out of self-pity, I know I'm making progress, but I mention it because we are currently experiencing the "sickness" part of "in sickness and health". My husband took that vow with me and he hasn't moved an inch.

When I get too tired to move, he carries me. When I get so far down I can't see the light, he opens the window so the sun pours through me. When I can't find it in me to love myself, he loves me enough for us both. He has had to play the role of lover, friend, therapist, dad, tissue, homemaker and cheerleader. He hasn't complained once. Those are chains that bind, those are chains that bond. I wrote the following for our anniversary a few years ago. It was the story of the day I knew. Those who've been there know what I mean by that. I just knew.

It's strange that my wedding day has a hazy edge to it, but I remember the exact instant I fell. Funny they call it falling, because that's precisely what it felt like. Anyone who knew me pre-Duke(aka John) knows "love" was just another four letter word to me at the time. Something that people threw around like silly string. Just aim, fire, and hope it sticks, then just peel it off when you're done.

I was a lifeguard at the camp where we worked and he was a counselor. We had forged a friendship by this day, but at camp back then you pretty much became BFF with everyone you worked with within about five minutes (the reason for this is another note for another time but for right now, those of you who still remember what TWFS stands for, Holla!).

I was attempting to stay awake during my 4th hour straight of watching kids splash in cold water under the broiler that is Tennessee July, and I spotted a 40 something man climbing up the outside of the pool playground...a rather big no-no and I was a no nonsense type of lifeguard. I was ready to blow my whistle at the offender, but I knew I'd only be wasting my breath. The camper was a sweet 40 year old man with the mind of a, rather athletic, 8 year old boy, and camp was his refuge (and currently the pool playground his strong tower). I watched his counselor deftly round up the rest of his troops on the side of the pool as he took his shoes off walked toward the Godzilla wanna be. He asked twice if he would come down and the answer both times was a feisty grin and head shake. So, what else can you do, you scale the tower as well and bring Godzilla to booking.

Now I have two grown men on my play structure and I want to blow my whistle so badly my lips were twitching, but I knew all I could do was watch. As I'm watching I looked at the hero of the story. The man who was trying to save Godzilla from himself was balancing with one foot in a cargo net and another braced on a landing trying to convince his camper it was time to go to play elsewhere. He was incredibly patient and never once raised his voice even though you could see he was embarrassed by the situation (his ears turn red when he blushes..about the same color they are right now I'd wager). He finally convinced Godzilla to become a land lover and got him down safely. His 40 year old camper hugged him when he got down and ran back to get ready for his next adventure.

At that moment gravity shifted for me. The pull was no longer straight to the
ground. I knew if I jumped off my chair I would land two inches closer to him
than I would have a half hour earlier. It took me a full year to realize it, but
I was always drawn a little closer to Duke after that moment than I ever would
be again to the rest of the world.

Who wouldn't want to draw near to a hero? He has always been ready to rescue me from me, and much like his 40 year old camper, sometimes I climb the tower on purpose just to watch him try.

Thanks for being my center Duke, you'll always be my hero.

Marriage isn't about chains, it shouldn't be about restriction, and it's not all about romance. It's about two people making a decision to do life together as one person. When he can't walk, I become his feet. When I can't hear, he'll listen for me. When he can't speak, well we all know I'm all over that. Let the rest of the world enjoy their paperback romances. Paper burns up and turns to ash..chains endure.

Castles in Trees

A love letter for my son..

To Wilson

You should know I dreamed about you when I was seven. I tucked my dolls into bed every night before I turned out the lights. I named them, dressed them, fed them. All my dolls were girls. There was Courtney, the oldest. Brittney, the biggest. Blue, the smallest. Kim, the Christmas surprise. One night I had a dream about a boy, a baby, my baby. After that, I wanted all my dolls to be boys. It's not easy to find boy baby dolls, but I found one. I was 10, too old for baby dolls, but I named him Madison and he became my favorite. When we were preparing car seats and cribs for your arrival, Madison was our Guinea pig. It was his plastic head we repeatedly smacked on the handle of the car seat, practicing, instead of yours. I'd kept him, heaven only knows why. The remnants of an old dream, I suppose.

The moment you came into this world, I cried when you did. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. I asked if they could make sure you were really mine. You were just so pretty (your dad assures me boys can be pretty until they are two, then they become handsome). You had a button nose, dark eyelashes that went forever, and your finger rested just below your lips as if you were contemplating the wonders of the universe you'd just arrived in.

From your first smile, to your toddler pantomimes, you've always expressed with your eyes what you can't always say. Silent poems in blinks, winks and wide-eyed surprise. Your mommy is a talker, Wilson. My mommy says I've been that way forever. I don't know how to change. The only way I know how to express emotion is to speak. The only way I can receive emotion is to hear. I hang on your every word, and push you to the point of frustration for more. I assumed you'd be just like me...forgetting you have a father too....forgetting that you are your own person. Crafted by God, sent by angels, received by a girl who dreamed of you when she slept at night.

You live in a world you've created. You live in a place where every object, not just people, has emotion. Every blade of grass has a name. Every crash of thunder tells a story. There are monsters in your closet and robots under your bed. You sing songs I've never heard, and see castles that I've never seen. I talk, but Wilson, you LISTEN. You notice everything and you bring it inside to a world I don't always understand. You touch to be touched, you scream to be heard, but you find peace in silence and simplicity. You understand what it means to live in a moment in a way I'm not convinced I'll ever know.

Your mommy is a talker, but baby, please know I want to listen. I want to hear every word you can't always say. I want to know why the fire truck is sad. I want to sing the song about the castle in the trees. I want to know what happens inside you when I don't understand what you try to tell me. Teach me to listen. Teach me to live without my voice. Teach me to love without "I love you".

Everything I've ever wanted is encased in your tiny body. Every dream I've every had, every story I've ever told, every tear I've ever shed. I know it doesn't always seem like it, but I don't want anything in return but that you know that. In whatever way it needs to be expressed, mommy loves you. You are my perfect.

From my dreams to yours,

Mommy

Pythagorus and me

I have NEVER been good at math. In my world 2 plus 2 equals whatever it feels like equaling. It's not that I don't appreciate math's place in the universe, I simply fail to see how it can be exciting or worthy of intense study.

In high school, I had a teacher we called Oatmeal. She had a perm that resembled a dirty shag carpet. If shag carpets could be formed into mullets. Her skin was wrinkled like she'd slept on it wrong for 50 years and she always wore beige skirts and big shirts. Oatmeal also had a permanent blue mark on her lip from where she would inevitably lick the tip of the marker she used on the overhead projector like someone would if they were using a quill pen (we don't think she was quite that old). She never looked up from her projector. She just wrote down formula after formula and we copied onto our papers hoping the equations would magically begin to make sense as they stared up at us from our college-rule paper. I had her class right after lunch and it took herculean effort to stay awake, much less pay attention.

I have some regret now that I didn't pay attention to Oatmeal, and a little shame because I have no idea what her actual name was. In 11th grade I had no idea how math was going to do me any good in the future. I was going to be a famous screenwriter, and since I had no intention of writing a script on the Pythagorean Theorem, I figured the point was moot.

The other reason I didn't exactly jump for joy over numbers was that math didn't compute in my brain, and I lived under the same roof as a human calculator. My mother went a married a math teacher. I adore my stepdad and would not have done even half as well as I did in school if it hadn't been for him (I have several friends who can claim the same of Gary). The first day I DIDN'T cry while being tutored was a milestone in the Alexander/Compton house. (Love you, Dad!)

Math has show up in my life in ways I never expected. Turns out, when your mom and dad stop buying things for you, you have to figure out how much things cost vs. how much you have. You wish you knew more about percentages when you are hit by a credit card bill with a 24% interest rate. You wish you had paid attention during personal finance when you buy a house and you wonder if the mortgage lender is speaking in English as he describes how he's arrived at your monthly payments--which somehow manage to be about 150 dollars more than what you calculated, but you figure he paid attention in math class, so you take him at his word.

In recent months math has taken on a new role in my life. It's my anchor. That's right, I said anchor. It helps hold me down when I begin to spiral and anxiety starts to get the upper hand. When my heart starts to pound and my breath starts to pick up like I'm running wind sprints, and my brain starts to lean toward to highly dramatic, I imagine Gary. I imagine him running through the times tables with me at my living room table. I think of him explaining how to find X in an equation that had so many variables it looked like a eye chart. I go through equations in my head, and remarkably, I calm down. The same subject that caused ridiculous amounts of stress in my youth has turned into a saving grace as an adult.

My theory is when you are a person who tends to use their creative side almost exclusively AND you deal with anxiety, your imagination turns from your money maker into your worst enemy. The only way to combat dramatic thoughts is with the undramatic. The simple, never-changing, rhythmic composition that is math. It's the same in every language and no matter what catastrophes I have encountered on any given day, 5 x 7 is still 35.

Now, don't misunderstand, I have no intention of suddenly digging out old math books or going into accounting (the thought gives me hives), but I have a better appreciation of the logical. So, the next time you find yourself getting too dramatic, divide 468 by 12 and let your brain jump tracks for a moment.

PS. It's okay if you have to use a calculator...

Unpacked

I loathe unpacking. It's the reason why, much to my parent's dismay, that both my house and my car are often in cluttered disarray. It's not that I'm a hoarder. Speaking of, have you SEEN that show on TLC about hoarders? It's truly frightening. People with so much stuff they couldn't tell you what color their floor is. I'm not there. If fact, I'm more likely to throw out absolutely everything I can grab as I am to keep it, and the reason has already been stated. I HATE UNPACKING.

I spent most of my childhood and young adult years moving. When you move, you realize that your entire life is contained in few boxes and can be moved in a 15 foot truck accross the country only to be reassembled in a completely different house. As if the stuff would make it look like you never left at all. My room was always the first thing completely unpacked. It's not that I liked doing it so much as I needed the peace of mind that came with knowing my favorite stuffed animal and framed picture of Leonardo DiCaprio were in their proper positons so I could sleep.

Not only did I move pretty frequently, but my parents are divorced, so a few times a year I'd pack up and go live with my dad for a few weeks. In college, I was constantly traveling between school and home (4 hour trip) on weekends, so for a good chunk of my life I've lived out of suitcases. (Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, please know that I always felt I had stability even if the scenery changed)

For whatever reason I hate unpacking to the point I have stuck suitcases, fully packed, into closets and forgotten about them until my next trip (where handly, they are already packed). I hate unpacking because you have to find a logical home for everything that comes out of a shopping bag, suitcase, moving box, Christmas package. You have to rearrange things. Take out the old to make room for the new. You have to clean things. You may even have to buy a new piece of furniture to hold said things.

I wonder if one of the reasons anxiety is so difficult to let go of, is that it is a lot like unpacking. I can't tell you how many well-intentioned people have asked me why I can't just stop worrying? First, it's not just a matter of worry, it's clinical anxiety, so ease off your trigger a bit. Second, my brain doesn't want to unpack. Anxiety is a suitcase full of old memories, habits and hang-ups that I had shoved in a closet and forgotten about. Then the panic attack happened and suddenly I had to bust out the suitcase; like I was off on a trip to find my sanity. Unfortunately, what's in there has no place in my adult brain. I am going to have to get rid of things, move things around, wash things, and find a home for everything else.

I don't know why unpacking is so tough for me, but ironically enough, clutter makes me-you guessed it- anxious. So it looks like I'd better hit up HGTV for some better tips on how to get organized, because it is long past time that I unpacked.

Faith Like a Child

I spent my childhood years in Colorado. To say that I miss it would be a gross understatement. I've lived in 14 cities in my 27 years and I miss each for one reason or another. Usually I miss people or restaurants (currently I have a serious yen for Dagwood's in Bloomington, IN and I miss Maxx's face). I miss Colorado because all I can remember beauty. In the winter there were gorgeous mounds of pristine snow that made everything in sight look as though a cosmic baker had covered it in powdered sugar. In the fall the Aspens turned everything to golden. In the spring the volatile weather made it seem like summer might play hide-n-seek forever, but then summer would show up it all it's glory and sky would be so blue that no matter what you were doing you'd have to turn your face heavenward and admit that Crayola could never make color to match God's handiwork.

I felt beautiful in Colorado. Maybe it was my age (I left at age 12) or maybe it was just being surrounded by that much beauty, but I felt it..beauty. I was also fearless. I remember jumping on my trampoline in the back yard and looking up at the sky and wishing I could just die and go to heaven so I could jump in the clouds. Death seemed like an adventure.

I spoke to God at night. I asked him how his day was. I asked if my Grandpa was behaving himself up there and, if he wouldn't mind, could I talk to him every once in a while. I asked God not to watch while I showered. He was cool with that and respected my privacy. Everything was very real to me. Every emotion was exaggerated, every feeling was deep. I wondered if my heart would ever survive my first crush. To this day I remember everything about him and hope he's wonderfully happy.

Childhood isn't so sweet for many, and my heart aches when I think of all the kids out there that miss out on that kind of innocence, but for me being a kid was full of beauty and magic and awe.

Then we grow up. We are taught how to put away childish things. We are instructed to control our emotions and tame our passions. We are taught the "reason" behind beauty. We learn why the sky is blue and the Aspen's gold. Adulthood is a blanket that covers all our childish notions with black and white strips. Imaginary or real. Good or bad. Proper or improper. Scientific reason or hypothetical science. Childhood is gray. Everything meshes. Imaginary friends are quite real. Science easily blends with a child's perception of supernatural and bad is only bad if it gets you put in time-out.

I think the problem with the way I've grown up is that I have given up ALL of my "inner-child" in an attempt to be an adult. But then I read this "I tell you the truth, anyone who will not accept the kingdom of God like a little child will not enter it"Mark 10:15. Well crap.

As a child I just believed. I had faith. True faith. Today I have reason. I miss my faith. I miss my gray. I miss my 10-year-old self (and her metabolism).

I can try to reclaim it, but I think in my case, I am going to have be willing to give up some of my "book smarts" for "kid smarts". I can do something about my kids though. I can try to teach them how mature without giving up their dreams and their imagination. Reason is overrated, and knowledge isn't power, it's just an anti-inflammatory for fear of the unknown. My prayer now for myself and my kids is for the wisdom to recognize reason, accept knowledge, but live by faith.

What's in the glass?

We all have bad days, right? I seem to have forgotten that even before these events I had bad days. I had days where it seemed that the entire world went out of its way to ensure I'd feel like yanking my hair out by the time the sun went down. There were times I felt like I went weeks hitting every stop light and pot hole life had to offer before the road smoothed out again.

Recently, I have felt like I have emotional amnesia. I don't seem to remember life before panic. I was tired before panic, but now being tired freaks me out. "Why can't I keep my eyes open? What's wrong with me?" It doesn't occur to me immediately that I only got 5 hours of sleep the last two nights and I might actually be...tired.

Being stressed out is another state of being I was once quite familiar with. Papers due, drama ensuing with my group of friends, what WAS I going to wear Saturday night, would I ever get a job? And even more recently getting two kids dressed and out the door and still having enough sanity left by 8 a.m. that I might actually be able to work hard enough to keep my job. These were common enough occurrences that it shocks me just a little that I don't seem to recognize the signs anymore. I mistake just about everything for the beginning of a panic attack. Heartburn is due to me worrying about my heart rate instead of the result of massive amount of pizza I just ingested. Tiredness is due to depression or medication instead of just being the result of a busy day and a lack of sleep. Excitement is due to mania rather than...well excitement.

I don't think I ever would have considered my self a glass is half empty kind of person. While I'm not Suzy Sunshine I have never really been Pessimistic Pam. Until recently when the glass isn't just half empty is also filled with a toxic substance guaranteed to make me ill. There is a show on the Discovery Channel right now called Worst Case Scenario, where the host talks you through how to escape some of the most bizarre accidents possible. John has threatened to cancel our cable if I so much as browse past that channel. I could have my own show on the topic, except I'm not sure I'd be conscious enough to show viewers how to escape.

I never thought this blog would last this long. At least not on this topic. I think when I began it, I thought by this time I'd be writing about how I'd found freedom from Depression. To be this far away a year later is...well...depressing. I still believe God will deliver me, or even just show me how to live with it, but the wait is difficult and the path seems so long. For now I'll try to remember that everyone has bad days, that doesn't mean there won't be good ones; everyone gets tired, that doesn't mean they are sick; everyone worries about something, that doesn't mean the half full glass is poisoned. Hopefully very soon I'll be able to return to lighter topics as I'm beginning to feel very much like Eeyore.

Night Sweet Readers,