The Miracle

At 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning, my bedroom door opened.  Not the bedroom door right across the hall from my little boy's bedroom door, but the other one.  My little boy came into my room and told me he'd had a nightmare.

I hugged him to me for a few minutes, then asked, "Was your nightmare that a little boy had left a green crayon in his pocket when he put his jeans in the laundry?"

He looked up at me.  "No."

"Oh," I said.  "That's the nightmare I'm living right now."  Green crayon had been smeared across every piece of my brand new cream towel set, and had left a big blob of Oobleck on the expensive bath mat.

He continued to cling to me.  I rubbed and patted his back some.

"Why did you go all the way around the house when you could have just crossed the hall?" I asked him.

"I didn't want to wake Daddy."

I didn't comment on his lack of hesitation in waking me. That's what moms are for, and a mom is what I have always wanted to be.

I could have asked him to tell me about his nightmare, but I was afraid we would both wake up too much.  I'm an early riser, but 4:00 a.m. on a Sunday is a bit much.  Especially on a Sunday morning when I experienced a devastating laundry disaster at 11:00 the night before.

Then, he asked me if I would sing him his favorite hymn.  I've been singing this hymn to him all of his life.  I remember well the first time I did so, when he was just a few months old.  He was lying on the couch, probably following a feeding or a diaper change, and I had sung the lilting, comforting hymn to him, watching his eyes grow round in wonder as I did so.  My husband, who doesn't think I sing well at all (compared to himself, and it's true), graciously said, "He thinks you're miraculous."

It may or may not be miraculous for a mother to sing a certain hymn to her child throughout his childhood, but hearing that certainly did not discourage me from continuing.

One Sunday when this child was about four years old, his hymn was selected as the opening song in church.  As the introduction was played, I turned and watched him to see recognition spark in him.  And it did.  He turned his head sharply toward me, and we smiled at each other across various siblings of his who were sitting between us.

As I've said before, I'm not much of a singer, though I wish I were, and a request to sing a hymn at 4:00 a.m. is a temptation to decline, but I knew I could not deny this child that favor, and I told myself that I would only sing the first verse.

So, I did.  My son continued to cling to me, and I continued to pat and rub his back.  I paused after the first verse, then launched into the second.  When I was done, he was ready to face his demons and go back to bed.

Later that day, as the sacrament portion of our church meeting was starting, this little boy, sitting on the other side of his sister, caught my attention.  He whispered, "I'm sorry I left a crayon in my pocket."

I smiled at him.  Here was the miracle.

This child, if caught doing something wrong, struggles mightily with admitting it.  He has trouble not attaching himself to things he sees which are not his but that he likes.  He has trouble being where he is supposed to be and doing what he is supposed to do.  He is often in more trouble for lying than for whatever the original offense was that he is lying about.

I whispered back words of forgiveness, and we both took the sacrament.

Something Fishy

I opened the newspaper the other day and saw the obituary of one of my former classmates.  I didn't recognize him--not because decades have passed, but because, in the photo, he was standing back, with a hat on, behind a large fish.  I did recognize his name, though, and felt bad to learn his life had been short.

 

The next day, I opened the newspaper to find two obituaries, side by side, of my classmate and another man, both standing back, with hats on, behind large fish.  The images of both the men and of the fish were almost identical.  I had never seen anything like that before in my life!  And I started to wonder--maybe these are the obituaries for fish?

 

I have seen people pictured with their beloved dogs.  One time, an obit picture showed a man holding a black hen.  It had not occurred to me at the time that the hen may also have been dead, and its loved ones in need of notification.

 

Are the pets dying along with their masters, like some kind of ancient Egyptian ritual?

 

Obviously, the fish pictured have probably been dead for some time, by now.

 

I wonder if my obituary picture should include all of the insects and spiders I've killed in my lifetime.  To be honest, it has never occurred to me before now to save them, photograph them, or even give them another thought.  But maybe I'm really missing out on something here.  Imagine if everyone's obituary showed the impact that person's life had had on the animal world.  Like some kind of carbon footprint, on display as a testimony of the lethality of their life to other lives.

 

We may be on to something.

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March First

Every year, I look forward to March first.

Winter is my least favorite season, and spring is my favorite, so I can't help it.

Through the long, bleak winter weeks, I count down.  I give winter one hundred days, no more.  No matter when I start counting wintery days, when I get to March first, I feel I'm running the last lap, on home stretch, nearly to the finish line.

Yes, it still snows here in March, and snow is an ordeal, but snow in March is not likely to stick around long.  I can handle it.  We also see crocuses and violets struggling free from the earth and hear birds singing again.  It's a mixed bag, I admit, but at least it's mixed.

The worst winter weeks for me are when it snows heavily and often, when the temperature never even climbs up to freezing for days (or weeks) on end, or when some other trial presents itself.  Some weeks that I shudder to remember featured all three.

Even though we did have a couple of frozen wasteland weeks early on this year--as soon as December hit, actually, I am happy to report that this winter turned out to be not bad at all.  It's been raining.  Yes, raining.  In February.  Not something I ever remembering growing up with.  But who am I to complain?  I've never shoveled rain yet.  It's been weeks since I had to apply gargantuan force to ice sheets on my windshield in order to drive to the gym or shovel any amount of snow that tired my back.  Weeks!

Honestly, I confess that I thought I was due an easy winter--after the last one.  It snowed so much one night last year that it seemed I'd walked out onto another planet.  Everything was eerily still.  It was as if an ocean of white had come right up to my door, and nothing but white lay between me and the horizon.  The snow was over a foot tall everywhere, and it was still snowing.

Clearly, I would get a whole workout before I could even think of driving to the gym.  I'd grabbed the shovel and worked until my arms and legs were quaking, and I'd barely made it down the sidewalk.  Having seen my neighbor lying gray and still across his doorstep a couple of months before that, I just couldn't stop shoveling at the property line.  By the time I'd reached his driveway, two-and-a-half hours had passed.  Not only would there be no gym time, it was looking like I would be late for work.

I was a soaking wet mess by then--three parts snow, four parts sweat, and five parts tears.

I burst into the house with what felt like my last breath and apologized for waking my husband.  "I need your help, though," I sobbed at him.  I had not even begun to clear off the cars.  The snow on the cars reached up to heaven right along with my prayers, and I just didn't see how I could do anymore.

He stumbled out, my hero, to rescue me, and I pulled myself together to shower and dress.  Though he worked hard, too, I still got stuck in the driveway, yet another ordeal before getting to work.

And it kept snowing.  My husband shoveled another huge mess off the sidewalks that afternoon.  He got stuck going up the hill to take the kids to school.  Yes, in my city, we still have school, no matter how disastrous the snowfall.  The teachers are not going to give up the snow day that falls on Memorial Day weekend for anything.  He spent the day battling car problems with the "new" van we had just bought, and later had to abandon it (temporarily) in a left turn lane in the middle of the street when it died again.

That was the situation I came home to.  I found out about it after getting stuck in the driveway again, this time, going in.

It was the biggest natural disaster I had ever seen with my own eyes.

That snowstorm and its aftermath resulted in us having to do home repairs on the front of our house.  I  developed tendonitis from all that shoveling and the shoveling I had had to do later on that week.

And, thinking back, that was only the fourth worst winter of my life.

So, now you can see why I thought an easy winter would be nice.  And, fortunately, for me, at least, my prayers were answered.

Last year, I'd decided that there were way too many people praying for "moisture."  And I hope and guess they learned their lesson.

Now that I've thoroughly depressed all of us, let me get back to talking about March.

I don't only love spring because it's not winter.  Although, I admit, that is a lot of it.

I love the whole renewal thing.  Flowers, babies, rebirth, growth, warmth, sun, light, resurrection, lambs and bunnies, blue and green everywhere you look.  I love the message from nature that we get a do-over, because it seems that most all of us usually need one.  Here's a new year: try again. 

March is when I first agreed to be someone's wife.

March is when I got married.

March is when my long-lost friend reclaimed me.

March is when I once shrugged off my old life and started my life over, for reals.

March is when my grandparents got married.  And when my other grandparents got married.  So, it seems to me to have engendered my very beginnings.  

March is when I get out my spring green dress and try to wear it.  It's when I put away my brown, bulky sweaters that look so comforting in November but that I cannot stand to wear one more time by then.

March is often Easter. 

March is hope.  Faith.  Life.

Welcome, March.  Thank you for coming back.

Welcome, life.

Spectacular!

"How are you?"

 

"Fine."

 

Eighty-five percent of the time, this is how this exchange goes.  It's a formality, a cliche.  Honestly, no one usually really wants to hear a recital of symptoms or problems as a result of asking that question.  Well, it could depend.  But, generally speaking, it's just an acknowledgement of the other person's existence, a conversation opener. 

 

I noticed after my father died that my mother always responded to that question with "Okay."  Formerly, she had always said, "Fine."  I couldn't really blame her.  It was her way of acknowledging the change in her well-being that my father's absence made in her life after fifty-three years of near-constant companionship.

 

My recently widowed mother-in-law responded bravely the other day with, "I'm fine--enough." 

 

I totally respect where they are coming from.  This posting is not about them.

 

It's about something else that recently came to my attention whichI have been thinking about.  I have found that a new acquaintance always responds with, "Spectacular!"  Not just once, in a really good moment, but, consistently.  How great is that?

 

She is young and pretty, and seems like a nice person.  I don't doubt that she is spectacular.  But, obviously, I've been around long enough to know that no one feels spectacular all the time. 

 

But how would it be to be in the habit of saying so?

 

Is she lying, some of the time?  Trying to impress?  I don't think so.  Here's what I think.

 

Our feelings are often preceeded by our thoughts.  Our experiences are often informed by our expectations.  What if we thought of ourselves as spectacular?  What if we expected our day to be spectacular?  How would that impact our actual feelings and experiences?  I started wanting to say, "Spectacular!" back to her.  Not out of envy, or just to compete, but in order to improve my own day.

 

I tried it a few times.  I didn't really observe people's reactions, but felt my own.  Is my life not really spectacular?  I live in a great place, I have a job, many people love me. I have the freedom to do so many things I want to do.  I am well.  I have pretty much all I need.  What is not spectacular about that?

 

As Viktor Frankl taught us, even the rare person in a concentration camp could control his feelings and find gratitude for small things through managing his thoughts.  How much more, then, is there an onus on me to do so?

 

My new acquaintance came up to me today and shyly made a confession.  Her usually curled hair was in a pony-tail.  She was wearing glasses, unlike before.  "Today," she said, "I'm not spectacular." 

 

We laughed.  She had given herself permission to have a down day, and I reinforced that by giving her mine. 

 

Such is life.

 

But I'm still impressed enough to give her a shout-out in my blog.

Homophone Contest

One night, the children and I pulled something new out of the oven.  It looked like a casserole with bread crumbs on top.  It turned out to be somewhat soupy. 

My children know that there will always be new foods to try--their father has an insatiable need for variety.  One of them will eat and relish anything put in front of her.  Some of the others are wary. 

A discussion ensued about what was in the new dish.  White beans were discovered, and chard.

"Chard Soup," I proclaimed.  It was actually quite tasty, which I have come to expect.

"Chard Vegetable Soup," a child who takes after his father said, to improve upon my title.  Paul is very good at improving upon the clever things I try to say.

"Well, since chard is a vegetable. . ." the editor in me started.

"Oh!" he said.  I thought you meant "Charred Soup."  Even though it wasn't at all burned.

We had a good laugh.

And I was reminded all over again of the homophone contest I never entered.  Charred and chard would have been a pair I probably would not have come up with in fourth grade.  But, it's a goodie!

I blogged about the homophone contest a year-and-a-half ago.  (See "That Hole in Your Soul.)  I still hadn't made a list.  And I still hadn't bought myself a king-sized candy bar.  I supposed I should make a bucket list and put those two things on there.

Better yet, since that would involve making a list, anyway, I might as well just make the darned homophones list.  So, the next night at dinner, I invited my children to join me.  They were all excited, not just about the prospect of a king-sized candy bar, but about competing at completing a homophones list.  Who wants to bet that charred and chard end up at the top of each list?

We spent the next week carefully not talking about the homophones we came up with for our lists.  "I have six!" my baby would beam.  The oldest boy kept a careful list on his iPad.  We did talk about some rules.  Proper names were out, as were foreign words, unless they have been adopted into our language--like taco, which, of course, doesn't have a homophone.  We discussed that words that just have variant spellings are not homophones, nor are different meanings of words spelled the same.  

Because two of my children had access to the Internet, and the others didn't, I made a rule that we couldn't "cheat" by looking at reference materials that would help us.  The homophones had to spring from our own minds. 

My husband weighed in on rules he thought should exist for the contest, but, since he wasn't playing (his choice) and no one had appointed him judge (my choice), those may or may not have stuck.  I reminded him a couple of times that he was not in charge.

Because there is a large diversity of ages among my children (and because I totally intended to win this contest like I didn't before), I decided that we would all be winners--anyone who made an effort would be rewarded.  As the week progressed, my baby bragged that he had thought of seventeen pairs of homophones in the exact same voice that my teenaged son bragged about having over one hundred.

My most anxious child asked me several times how many I had.  "I'm on my tenth," I would say vaguely.  He didn't know I meant tenth column.  I didn't want anyone to get discouraged.

At the end of the week, all the lists were presented.  

And, as everyone had done her or his best, each received a king-sized candy bar for effort.  

I was proud of my kids but also dismayed to learn that they had thought up sixty-two homophone pairs that I had not thought of.  How could I have forgotten flour and flower?  Those were so. . .fourth grade!  In fact, I'm pretty sure they were on my fourth grade list that never got completed. 

My husband came home from work at that point and reminded me that weather and whether are not pronounced the same way.  I had taken all my "wh" words off my list when he'd said that earlier in the week, but then I had found an official list of English homophones, and those "wh" and "w" pairs were on it.  So, I put them back.  

The official list had words paired as homophones that I would never say the same way, such as "aren't" and "aunt."  I took those off the official count.  We would never have come up with those!  

I told my husband about the official list and its sometimes strange pairings.  "I decided to go with my own dialect," I told him. 

"I go by the standard pronunciation," my last-worder said, as though one English dialect could be standard and all the rest not.  

My husband grew up in another state, and we just simply say "laurel" and "peony" differently.  As both pronunciations can be found in the dictionary, I choose to consider them both right but just different.  He chooses to consider his way to be correct.

As judge for my contest, I decided that if I--or the kids--pronounce two words the same way, they could be considered homophones.  And we all won. 

I had come up with 284 pairs of homophones.  My kids each had somewhere between 21 and 188 pairs by the end. Together, they came up with 62 pairs I had not thought of.  So, collectively, we came up with 346, which was 86% of the standard list.  And, yes, charred and chard were on all of our lists.

Not bad at all, and that hole in my soul is now filled.  Not to mention my belly.

Seven a Day

I've been stuck for an idea to blog.  It's not that nothing happens around here--quite the opposite.  I'm busy.  But a lot of it is mundane or just not funny enough to tell the world about.

So, this is a bit of a stretch, but, last time I was home for maternity leave (which was quite a while ago), I had the opportunity to once again agonize over the fare of daytime television in my area.  Daytime television is the only thing that makes sense of the phenomenon I experience at work of people coming in wanting as if with their dying breath to become a massage therapist, an aesthetician, or a paralegal.  Aha!  I see.  Their minds have been taken over by the repetitive brainwashing of these mindless commercials that convince them that Easy Street is only a signature (of their life) away.

I have nothing against massage therapists, aestheticians, or paralegals.  If only there were jobs for the masses who train in these fields, though!

I also got my fill of court TV shows.  These are most interesting as studies not so much of the law, but of human behavior.

One show in particular from that time period sticks out in my mind.  It must have been a divorce court type show, because the poor female plaintiff really had her hands full, not so much with the idiot she'd married, but with his mother!  Even though her husband must have been at least 35 years old, his mother jumped in to answer every question for him, whether or not the judge allowed her to.  And what answers!  Even if he'd been Prince Charming, I would have wanted a divorce just to get away from that MIL.  My husband and I must have looked at each other with raised eyebrows more during that half hour than we have in all the rest of our married life added up.

The MIL complained that the house was a mess.  The wife tried to explain to the court why.  She made efforts in the house, yes, but her husband was a pack rat, and she spent most of her time supporting him.  It seems that, even though he was home all day, she couldn't get him to help with the housework. 

"That's not true!" the MIL exploded, with the husband faintly echoing her.  He stated for the benefit of the court, and his wife, and us, that he had actually made a promise to do a certain number of dishes every day until they were caught up.  He'd written it down like a contract, and his wife knew it!

"Yes," she said, as calmly as she could.  "Please tell the judge how many dishes you said you would do."

Into the microphone, he said in a low voice, "Seven."

My husband and I shot our eyebrows up at each other.  Then hooted.  Seven dishes a day until they caught up! 

This has become a favorite family joke at our house.  Sometimes, the children try to figure out just how many dishes the seven of us use during one meal, let alone a day.  As they navigate this story problem, I hear things like, "Even if we fasted two meals and then had pizza for dinner, there would be seven plates PLUS seven glasses."

I don't know if others use ridiculous people and stories to teach their children values, or if that's solely my parenting style alone.  But they did learn this lesson.

Last night, I came home late from a special dinner at my church, my fifth turkey and mashed potatoes meal in three days.  This is because, due to a death in my husband's extended family, we ended up traveling on Thanksgiving Day, and held our "Thanksgiving dinner" this Sunday.  The week of Thanksgiving is always a challenge for me, because I try to go light on carbs.  There is no such thing as light on carbs when your entire meal is white, and there are leftovers for several more meals.  And then, there's the pie.  I mean, pies.  We had five, for the seven of us.  My husband made the traditional pumpkin and his favorite pecan.  I made my mother's lemon meringue and the favorite of everyone but my husband--chocolate.  The lemon and the pumpkin recipes each made two pies.  We do this because he is not willing to give up pecan or pumpkin, and I am not willing to give up lemon or chocolate.  But, six pies for seven people is, um, yeah, a lot of pie. 

After that initial meal, I went to my closet and reordered all of my clothes--fattest to skinniest.

Which was an ingenious thing to do, actually. 

By the time I got home last night, after yet another day of lunch-and-dinner-mashed-potatoes-and-gravy, and, yes, pie for breakfast and dessert at the dinner, I was feeling it.  I wailed, "I've got to get to bed so I can get to the gym early tomorrow!  I'm too fat!"

My husband is not stupid.  He knows a cue for a husband line when he hears one. "No, you're not," he said automatically.

I looked at him.  I can't tell yet if losing my thyroid is impacting my weight, because, well, I'm still not quite up to my pre-surgery workout fervor, and, then, there's the pie.  But it's time to find out, so denial is not helpful.

"I've gained five pounds," I told him, then joked, "and I'm just going to keep eating seven desserts a day until I lose it!"

He smiled, and then he did help me.  "You could blog about that," he said.

Daily Blog Posts

So, one of my brothers let me know yesterday that he'd noticed I'd fallen down on the job.  He knew I'd spent the last week or so at home, so he asked where the "daily blog posts" were.  He may be my biggest fan.

My life has been interesting this past month--maybe both too interesting and too mundane to share.

Maybe it involved travel.  Maybe a move at work.  Maybe transportation problems.  Maybe health problems.  Maybe all or none of the above.

Maybe my brother really did just wonder if I was really okay following my surgery.  My husband had told him I was, and he was mostly accurate in his reports.  But my brother had searched for--and not found--me.  Maybe he's not so much a fan of my blog as he is of me.  That would be fine.

After all, I haven't really been home a whole week.  I spent some of it in the hospital.  And oh! What a hospital!  I'd tell you where it is, but you would all flock to it, volunteering to give up body parts just to get inside.  It's as nice inside as a good hotel.  The staff were all great--no Hitler nurses, like when I'd had my babies.  And the food!!!!

Anyone who reads me much knows that I am completely spoiled when it comes to the level of gourmet food I eat on a regular basis.  My husband could be a chef, but he's not, because, well, then he wouldn't cook for us.

My first mouthful of food at this hospital was divine!  Tomato basil soup.  To die for.  Well, to have one's thyroid out for, anyway.  My first spoonful filled me with the warm, heart-pounding, guilty feeling that I was cheating on my husband.  And the knowledge that he would probably forgive me, because he would probably consent to having something removed just so he could taste it, too.

How could a hospital soup be better than Paul's?  I didn't care.  I just savored each hot, sensuous mouthful until it was devoured.

And then ordered another one.

Yes!  You could order whatever you wanted!  Of course, you pay for it three days later when your bowel wakes up from the general.

But I digress.

So, I came through my surgery and early days of recovery like a rock star.  I told myself that my being in pretty good shape for a woman my age who needed her thyroid removed because it may or may not have had cancer in it was partly responsible.  I pat myself on the back whenever I can.

Then, Saturday afternoon, I suddenly became extremely ill.  I was home alone.  The family had gone to see a movie in order to be out of my hair.  After I'd cleaned up the bathroom and myself, I wondered just how much time I had left to live.  I immediately stopped all my extra medications, including those for pain and whatever was supposed to be "helping" my GI tract but wasn't.

Sometime in the next day or two, I decided living was still an option for me.

Yesterday, it was a big deal for me to just drive my children to school.  But I knew that if I was going to put my life back up on my back this week, I had to make myself start somewhere.  I wore my pajamas to do it, though.

And, today, I think I am "back."  Yes, I'm still somewhat weak and I have a lovely piece of dirty white tape across my neck--too high for my clothes to hide it and too low for my chin to hide it.  I've decided--I think--not to worry about it.  Stuff happens. I had my thyroid out.  So what?

Today, I put on actual gym clothes and actually went to my actual gym.  It was later than my usual workout hour, so I didn't see anyone I knew.  No one commented on the tape across my neck. My nephew's wife brought me some lovely scarves--which I will wear.  But, to the gym?  No. I did a few minutes of easy movement and went back home.

Today, I got on the scale.  No weight gain.  Woot!

Today, I picked up an orange out of the box and ate my usual breakfast for the first time in a week. 

Tomorrow, I will take on a bit more.  By next week, it should be business as usual.  I love scarves, but I hate stuff tight around my neck.  I may not even try very hard to hide my scar.  Or my tape.  I intend to go forward from here, and, well, just keep moving forward.

Next week, I will see my brothers.

And, maybe, someday, now, a doctor's report won't contain the sentence "She has a wide neck" randomly stuck somewhere in the notes.  Maybe it won't say, "She appears to be her stated age," which hurt even more.

And, maybe, someday, there will even be daily blog posts.