For Comfort in the Strife

Do you want to know a secret?

Sometimes I don't know what my own brain is thinking.

(I know what you're thinking, but just hush.  Let me at least pretend that was a secret.)

Most days when I go to write a post it's not because I have something to say, but because I need to know what I'm thinking.  (And here you thought it was all for you.)  I can't understand my own brain unless I write it out.  I have all these thoughts and stories tumbling around in there and I know it's trying to tell me something important but dang if I know what it is, and so I tell myself, "I need to write."  And (usually) by the end of the post, I go, "Oh.  That's brilliant."  And I can clearly see what it was I was trying to tell myself.

(I try to put heavy emphasis on the "brilliant" part, as it makes me feel marvelous.)

This morning I am walking around my house with my hair in a messy bun feeling a little lost.  Walking from room to room but not seeing the breakfast dishes on the countertop or the unmade beds or the piles of hair ties and smeared toothpaste in the bathroom sinks, because I know I need to write and sort the mess in my head first.  I tell you this to give you fair warning.  The rest of this could be a bit sketchy.  Then again, there is a very good chance it will be brilliant.  (I don't know about you, but I suddenly feel marvelous.)

Last night David was looking at me across the pillow.  I had my arms folded across my chest in lieu of words.  I was making a point, see?  He ignored my arms and sent me a message with his eyes and then I smiled, despite myself.

He said, "Do you know what I'm thinking?  I was sending you a message."

I said of course and rolled my eyes because I always know what he is thinking and he should stop being surprised at that.

"What was I thinking?"

"That you wanted to kiss me."

He laughed because I was right of course.

I said, "First tell me about your day."

"And then we can kiss?"

"Okay."

And then he told me about his day.  One of the worst in his career.  And we talked for a couple of hours.  As he talked I repented.  Because he hadn't come home to dinner and a smile.  And after a day like that, he deserved to.

As he was winding down, he said, "And then I came home and,"

I interrupted, "And there was no dinner on the table."

And he said, "I didn't need dinner.  Just comfort."

That is what marriage is after all.  Comfort in the wilderness.

Yesterday morning I was in the kitchen making Ethan's lunch.  I drew a picture on his paper lunch sack.  (Our little tradition, a stick-figure message for him in the middle of the day.)  He looked at me and said, "I'm glad you're here, Mom."

I grinned at him and said thanks.

He said, "Dad could keep us alive, but I'm glad you're here."

I wasn't sure if I should feel happy or sad at that.

Last night after David had exhausted his story and rehearsed his sorrows I was quiet for a while.  He turned out the lights and it was dark in our room.  I said, "If our life was a musical I would sing you a song right here."

"Like what?"

I sang the first verse of "Tomorrow" from Annie.  Yes, I really did.  And he didn't stop me, so I kept going.

"When I'm stuck with a day

that's gray

and lonely

I just stick out my chin,

and grin,

and say..."

I stopped then, fearing I had gone too far.  He kissed me and said, "You didn't do the chorus."

We sang it together then.  I'm not even kidding. 

In the middle of the night, the house quiet and still except for our soulful tribute to "tomorrow," which would surely be better than today.  We belted out the last line and even slowed down the last notes for a big, emotional finish.  And then everything was quiet again, and the air was heavy and full like something important had just happened.

David thanked me for the serenade and we smiled at each other even though it was dark.

Both of us, I think, comforted.

And now, another not-so-secret secret.  I've been struggling the last couple of months for purpose and place.  And how to navigate my new world of long, quiet hours.  Struggling to feel useful and joyful and necessary, to find meaningful work.

Perhaps I am here only for the comfort now.  Perhaps it is as Ethan says, that they could all keep themselves alive but it's good I'm around anyway.  For comfort.  For stick-figures on brown paper bags.  For serenades by Charles Strouse and Martin Charnin in the middle of the night.  For my ear and my heart, rather than my hands.  For comfort in the strife.

And you know, it's not a bad job.

More Evidence of My Good Taste: A Love Story

(This is the gas station where I fell in love with David.  I know, romantic right?  We stopped here on our way home from Canada this year, and I took this picture.  We spent the next 100 miles of the trip reminiscing.)

Last night after David read my post and we were lying in bed in the dark he put his hand on my back and said, "I think you've got great taste."

I asked, "In men?"

And we laughed.

And then he continued doggedly forward and hunted around a little for the right words about my writing.  I could tell it was like finding his way in the dark.  But I appreciated the effort.

This morning as he left for the hospital, I asked him to kiss me with courage and determination.

He smiled at me and then complied.

He knows I need the courage to face my chores today and did his best to pour a little into me.  I appreciated the effort.

And then a little later this morning, as I followed him out to the car and held his hand in a silent plea to stay and help (or at least stay and talk to me while I work) we passed the calendar.

He tried to be bolstering, "Hey, it's the first day of autumn."

I rolled my eyes.

"No, come on, that's encouraging.  Even if it doesn't feel like it.  We could celebrate.  Let's bob for apples tonight."

He was teasing me, of course.  But it was enough.

I felt propped up.  And a little more courageous and determined, I made a menu for our celebration.  It will include 

the solstice candles

pumpkin soup (with curry and apples)

homemade bread

fresh raspberry jam

and, for dessert, I will take a break from peach pie and make one out of apples instead (my specialty)

When your courage is failing you on a very ordinary Tuesday in mid-September, it is very nice to have such good taste in men.

The Only Solace of September

Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy and I put up the rest of the tomatoes and peaches on Tuesday.

(They are my loyal canning companions.  It was nice to see them again.)

And then, because I couldn't help myself, I bought three more boxes of peaches yesterday.

I'm out of bottles, of course.

And shelf space.

But it's now or never.  There are no more peaches in November.  So we're making the most of it.  And eating peaches on everything.  Last night I had some on my hamburger.  Delicious. 

In bed last night, as I was drifting off, I remembered my grandmother's peach nectar, a drink so good it makes you feel wicked.  And I made a little plan to make some of my own.  That thought alone is enough to make me happy for the rest of September.

Which is saying something.

Because September is my hardest month to be happy.  (With May the close second.) 

It is the interminable month of the year.  Back at school full-time, the schedule and the early mornings taking their toll by now.  The heat is still oppressive while the rest of the country is getting a respite, and envy is making me crazy.  I am so madly jealous of every resident of Wisconsin right now I can hardly stand it.

And so I console myself with Austen and dreams of peach nectar. 

And sometimes I feel nearly human.  Though I was so prickly with David this morning he may disagree. 

Never mind.  I am off to drown my regrets in peaches and cream.

Just hope I bought enough.

Sights for Sore Eyes

Last week I wrote many posts in my head.

They were lovely.

And funny too.

But I got busy and so they stayed in my head.

Which is a shame.

Because did I mention they were funny?

Instead of posting, I made a quilt that was auctioned to raise money for ovarian cancer.  (Actually, my mom had to help me piece the top of it together as I ran out of time in the end.  I am thinking that at some point in my life, I should get it together enough to not have to be rescued by my mother.  I am also thinking that she is thinking the same thing.)

I put up jars of tomatoes and spaghetti sauce and raspberry jam for the winter (if it ever comes), with more to do today.

I've eaten about a hundred of these

and laid in bed dreaming about the tomatoes that made them irresistible.  One night I told David I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about getting up and eating another one.  They were that good.

[Peaches later this week.  Can you stand the anticipation?  I'm already drooling.] 

David and I put on a ward activity, which included a variety show that put me in front of the computer for hours and hours editing video submissions and compiling them all into a movie.  My family made a music video to kick it off.  I have included it below for your viewing.

You're welcome.

And every night I was sure to ask David how it felt to be married to someone so capable and amazing.

And every night he said it was so wonderful he couldn't put it into words.

I said, "Try."

Because I love positive feedback.

Almost as much as I love tomatoes from Utah.

And now, our version of the Black Eyed Peas:

Reading Lines

Dinner last night ended with a musical number.  (Dinner and show, I call it.)  Olivia treated us to a performance of Nat King Cole's "Orange Colored Sky", complete with matching dance steps and hand motions.

After that there were plenty of "Flash! Bam! Alakazam!'s" coming from the girls' room at regular intervals.

Ethan, who was nursing a brand-new cold, asked me to make them be quiet when I came to tuck him in, and wipe his nose, and turn on the humidifier.

By now the musical number had become a duet and so this took some doing.  Olivia said, "'Alakazam' is not a phrase I usually use, but I think I'm going to make it a big part of my vocabulary now.  It says things in a way no other word can."

I can hear it now.  "...and then after lunch, Alakazam!, we had a spelling test."

She can pull it off, too.

[Speaking of vocabulary, I know I owe you a few sentences on "truckle", but that will have to wait submissively for tomorrow.]

But after the song-and-dance and the duet and things had quieted down to just humming, David and I deconstructed the day.

It had been a trying one, and so it took a while to untangle it all.

I kept saying things like, "Start at the beginning" and "I don't understand.  Just start at the beginning and tell me everything."

But his analysis and emotions were all mixed in with the events of the day and so it took some time for things to shake out.

After a couple of hours, I made a comment and David said, "Haven't you been listening to anything I've been saying?"

Which is usually my line.

I smiled, in spite of myself.

So then I said, "I just want you to be happy.  What is it that you want?"

Which is always his line.

And suddenly things cleared enough for me to see and I thought, "Alakazam!"

We have traded lines and crises.  He said all my lines from the last three weeks and I said all of his. 

This is the Sadie Hawkins of married life.  We have matching self-doubts.

Don't we look cute together?

Through A Glass, Darkly

This morning Caleb said the prayer.  It was longer than usual. 

Over the weekend our prayer list grew.

And he was reminding heaven about each of our loved ones by name, one by one.

On Sunday we went to church fasting and praying with the rest of our congregation.  I walked into church behind a good friend and thought about the comfort of worshipping together as I watched her Sunday heels enter the building.  I thought about what it means to pray together when tragedy strikes.  Of asking for help when we feel helpless.  And the comfort of belonging.

This weekend we received the news that one friend had died unexpectedly, and another two had come very, very close. 

And suddenly, in a flash of awareness, I remembered that one breath separates this life and the next.  That ordinary life is a luxury.  That asking your husband to take the garbage out is a gift.  That being irritated that he's in a meeting and late for dinner is a grace.  That most of the time, I am living blind to the real situation:  that anything and everything can change in a moment.

I thought about that all day.  I went to church and prayed with my family.  And in between my messages for comfort and healing for our friends, I asked heaven to also help me remember that regular, ordinary life with its dishes and homework and socks left by the side of the bed are evidence of the kindness of heaven.  That being able to wake up next to David and then blearily make pancakes for six is the tenderest mercy of all.

I thought about that all day.

And then we went to bed and had a fight.

(Technically, it was really just me fighting because David never participates, despite all my goading.  He'd rather kiss than fight.  And sometimes that, in and of itself, makes me want to fight.  I don't need a good reason, see?)

He rubbed my foot while I railed.

He rubbed by back while I got it all out.

And then I fell asleep and after a while, David's snoring woke me.  I pushed his heavy arm from around my waist and I thought about the luxuries of my life.  Of fighting over nothing.  Of an arm thrown over me in the dark.  Of someone lying next to me, waking me with their snoring.  Of how dark the glass I am peering through must be.  And how between that and the blindness of my mind, I must be nearly always lost.

And for a long time after that, I thanked heaven for my blessings. 

Especially the ones I can't see.

A Random Post That Might be Entertaining

(Well, that may be going too far.  I suppose I can only promise that it will be random.)

When I woke up on Wednesday morning this week, I was sure it was Saturday.

The weekend has felt a long time in coming.

Last night as we were doing up the dishes, I confessed to David that it had been a lonely, unproductive day.  (My deep clean is over and I am wondering what to do next.)

And this morning Ethan told me, with tears, that he didn't know that "all-day school" was going to be so long.

We're still adjusting, I guess.  I remember when Savannah started the first grade it took two months until she could come home from school and not dissolve into tears before dinner.  The Halloween decorations were already up.  I would like to promise that this will be my last post on our adjustment, but Halloween is still a ways away.

In other news, I have become enamored with a new word and ended my "Word of the Week" hiatus.  (I know.  You're welcome.)  Thanks mostly to Ms. Estes book, next week will feature a post about the wonder of "stolid" and maybe even the adverb form of "stolidly" if I can muster the emotional fortitude to be "unemotional and impassive" myself.  Let's be honest, this seems very unlikely, but David thinks this may help with the aforementioned "adjustment" we are going through.

I have become less enamored with our telephone.  With no one here but me to answer it, it seems to ring constantly.  And for someone like me, who absolutely hates talking on the telephone, this is growing wearisome.  I have even considered turning off all the ringers for one or two (or six) hours so that I don't have to listen to it ring.  But I always worry that it's the school calling.  And someone forgot their lunch or their viola or just threw up on the way to library. 

My mom used to have a code ring.  If it was my dad calling he would call, let it ring two times, and hang up.  Then he'd call back and she'd pick up.  I am wondering if this can be instituted at the school without raising too many eyebrows. 

I know what you're thinking, "Caller I.D., April.  It is 2009 after all."  But I still have to listen to it ring, and then get up and check the caller I.D. and good heavens, I need to conserve my energy for later in the day.  I am beginning to see why Mr. Alexander Graham Bell never had one in his house.

By the by, David sees my abhorrence of the phone as a deeply disturbing character flaw that he has had the good grace to overlook all these years.  Give that man a medal.

And lastly, there were some very sweet comments posted on the post-before-last, as well as a couple of gracious emails, about the fact that I turned off my comments on the last post about the Great Divorce.  I thought it was dauntingly courageous of me to do the post at all, and I did not think I had any courage left over to read all your kind thoughts of confidence and well wishes.  Turns out I heard them all anyway.  I have enough imagination for that at least.    

Well, I am off.   This weekend we will remember and celebrate the arrival of Savannah on earth.  Last night over chicken tacos we talked about a Saturday dinner party with a completely french menu, a three-layer chocolate cake, and decorations that include poodles and clay models of the Eiffel Tower.  Ooo la la. 

Flagging Already

The second day is always harder than the first.  There's less adrenaline and more reality on the second day. 

And we are already showing signs of exhaustion.  (Incidentally, I rewatched that morning video I made yesterday and was astounded by the puffy bags under my eyes.  Looks like I haven't slept well in days.)

Last night at the end of dinner, Ethan put his head in my lap and told me he was ready for bed.  I could have eaten him for dessert.  It had been a long, full day.  His first day of the full schoolday, and he was done by seven.  He told me that he had yawned most of the day.  (Especially during the rules, he said.)  I tucked him in and then went in the girls room to read.

Last night it was The Hundred Dresses by Eleanor Estes.  A lovely little book you ought to read to your girls every year before school.  Before I got to the last chapter the girls were asleep beside me.  I finished it anyway because it is that good, reading aloud to myself and crying at the end.

Caleb went to scouts but came home when the obligatory after-scouts basketball game started.  Ready for bed, he said.

With everyone tucked away, David and I sat in bed and talked about the day and the year and David's new intern and the little signs of puberty starting to show around our house.  David rubbed my shoulders, which were already tied up in their pre-summer position, and we talked about how fast life was going.

And then the power went out too.  Exhausted after such a day, I imagined.  As worn out as the rest of us.

And it stayed off almost twelve hours.  The kids had cold cereal this morning with slightly warm milk, hair was tied up without curls, and Savannah finished The Hundred Dresses by lantern.

After the kids left I could think of nothing to do without power and so I went back to bed and napped until I heard the air click back on and the dishwasher start chugging again.

And perhaps most amazing of all, we had rain this morning.  The sky covered in clouds and a slight dripping everywhere.  Like even the sun was tired and maybe even the heavens are adjusting.

Hedonism has a price.

A Little Bereavement

Well, they're off.  Our summer is over.

And I am feeling bereaved at the loss.

Last night during family prayer, David blessed me especially "in this time of great transition."  I got a little misty at that.

Here are our last couple of undivided hours together:

As they climbed on the bus this morning, one of the other moms wielding a camera asked, "How was your summer?"

I said, "Short."  And then had to turn away for a minute.

It is as Thoreau says, "Short at the longest."

One Day of Summer

The moon followed us home last night.

We went to a movie for an impromptu date-night.  After pasta, with the dishes still on the table, we ran to make the 7:45 showing.

We saw

and if you want to have a really good time, you'll go see it too.

(You're welcome.)

And then I watched the half-moon follow us home from my car window.

And thought about how many ways there are to tell a story.

(If you go see that movie you'll know what I mean.  You're welcome, again.)

And then I lay in bed next to David and after five days at Girl's Camp remembered to be grateful for my bed and my husband and my circa 1988 shower, and then I reviewed my day.

We started cleaning the house, but got distracted cleaning out the drawers for the looming school year.  The process was interrupted when I realized we needed a few drawer organizers, but didn't have the heart to face the heat and run to Target.  As we sorted through candy wrappers and crumpled book marks and shoes that no longer fit, I asked the kids about their activities in the fall.  Which required a trip to the internet.  By then, everyone was hungry and so I went to the cupboards, but they were bare except for craisins and stale croutons and a sticky jar of nutella.  So we stopped everything while I showered and went to the store.  I very nearly melted by the time I brought in the groceries and felt amazing for just getting them put away.  So I rested a bit and moved the laundry one more station and helped the girls start an art project.  By then it was time to start dinner and I listened to Adele with my apron on while the sausage and onions browned in my pan.  Ethan talked me into a game of Go Fish and then David was home.

Before I went to bed I went around and kissed my children in the dark.  The vacuum was still out and the contents of all the drawers sat in little piles around their rooms.  The laundry was only half done and all of it unfolded.  The bathrooms never got started and the floors still made sticky noises when I walked across them.  The dinner dishes sat in the kitchen sink and the detritus from the bottom of everyone's backpack was in a sad little pile on the counter. 

He asked me how I was feeling.

I said, "It's complicated."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning you have an early meeting in the morning and so you don't have time to hear it all."

"Can you give me the gist?"

"No.  I'd have to sort it all out first."

He gave up then and started kissing me. 

But it's something like this:

The fall is coming.  If not on the thermometer, then on the calendar.  And with it, my doubts are returning.  My inadequacies.  My worries.  The questioning and disdainful voices in my head.  And yes, my regrets.  They are returning from their summer holiday.  I can hear them rearranging the drawers in my head.  Making room.  Leaving freedom and hedonism and possibility and joy and confidence in a grubby little pile on the shelves of my memory.

What, too maudlin for a Wednesday morning?

I'm just getting started.  (David was right to interrupt me with kissing.)

I only have 13 days left.

And that seems very unlucky, indeed.