The Sweet Mojave Rain

Most of my house was giddy this morning.

Rain.

Rain!

There was some digging through the closets for the rain jackets we haven't used since our trip to British Columbia.

There was an unsuccessful trip out to the storage room to hunt for the bent and broken umbrellas that we only use once or twice a year.

Olivia could hardly contain herself.  She must have kissed me four times in her excitement over the foreboding skies.  And as she was leaving she declared dramatically, "I'm off to make wedge history!  Wish me luck, mother!"  (That is a direct quote.)  And then swept out into the wet.

Savannah, on the other hand, clearly felt duty bound to counteract Olivia's excitement and woke up crying.  I could see the storm clouds blowing through her all morning.  One minute weeping, one minute nothing but thunder and lightening.  It was treacherous mothering, I tell you.  She kissed me once, quietly as she left.  A tiny, reluctant rainbow at the end of the storm.

I was exhausted by the time they all left.

The last couple of days have been especially difficult for David at work.  He comes home all chewed up and consumed.  Last night his brow was still sweating when we went to bed. 

And that means, of course, that the last couple of days have been difficult for me as well.  I have to row alone while he stares out at the sea and worries about other things than our swamped little boat.  Sometimes I feel like hitting him over the head with my oar.  When he finally came home last night I was alone in the kitchen because I had sent all the kids to their rooms.  I had had enough.  The storm clouds had gathered.

David asked, "Are you mad at me?"

I said, "I'm mad at all of you."

The lightening was cracking.

When we gathered for prayer we all held hands, but didn't let go of our grudges.  David began.  We bent our heads.  About halfway through his tongue slipped and he said, "Please help us to stop fart..."(then he corrected and said)..."uh, fighting."

When he said "Amen" the room dissolved into laughter.  We lay on the floor and laughed and laughed.  And every time one of us looked at another we laughed again.

And the clouds opened, the rain fell, and washed all the rest of it away.

Rain. 

Sweet mojave rain.

And just in time, too.

Sand in My Eye

How about something fun today?

I'm in a bad, bad mood.

In fact I may be teetering on the verge from "mood" to outright "funk."

It's that bad.

And it's all David's fault, of course.

Now he is reading that last line and I can hear him scoffing all the way from the hospital.  He is thinking, "That's outrageous!"

And it is.  (But don't tell him.)

I'm going to move on to the fun stuff in just a minute, but first, the straw that broke the camel's back.  (Because I know you are wondering.)  I went in the bathroom this morning to put Caleb's hair up for "Crazy Hair Day" and I walked through a substantial sand pile right in the middle of the floor.  I asked, "Who dumped their shoes out in the middle of the floor?"  And everyone said, "Not me." 

I know.  I was shocked too.  And if you are wondering how this is David's fault I will just remind you (as I reminded him) that he was the reason these children (and therefore, the sand pile too) exist in the first place.

I know what you're thinking.  "Wow, she can make a mountain out of a molehill  sand pile like nobody else I know."  What can I say?  It's a gift.

(Don't worry.  It's October.  I should be feeling better any day now.)

Now to the part where I make your life a little better.  Fun, right?

On the way to Utah last weekend, David asked me if I brought any books-on-tape.  I had.  But he wasn't interested in either of them, and so I casually mentioned that I had a bunch of "This American Life" podcasts on my ipod that we could listen to.  I've mentioned this before.  But honestly, David thinks my penchant for NPR is another of my charming character flaws, and has always declined.  But then he got a little desperate on our way out of the desert and I tempted him by saying, "There's a funny one I think you'd like."  And so he reluctantly consented.

We listened to every one of them before the trip was over.

I made a convert.

Some of them are so laugh-out-loud funny David and I just sat and hooted at each other and wiped our eyes afterwards.  Some of them are so sobering we just sat and looked at each other, our eyebrows doing all the talking.  Some of them are so informative we would have to pause the podcast and discuss our take on it, and how it made us think of something else we had to tell the other one right away.

Delicious.

And, as you know, I love being right.  So this was doubly wonderful.  David even asked me when it "normally airs."  Ha!  I told him Saturdays at two with a gleeful, triumphant smile.

So if you haven't already, you really should subscribe to the podcast and next week you can fold your laundry to the joy that is "This American Life."

And can I just say, that when I can't sleep and I am lying in my bed in the dark, I fantasize about being interviewed by Ira Glass.  And the stories I would tell him and the pauses he would make and the questions that would follow.

I can just imagine the one I would tell him about the sandbox I found in the bathroom this morning and after I told him the whole thing, how I harassed the children and made a federal case out of it and was nearly run through by the beam in my own eye, he would pause and ask, "At any point along here did you think 'This is crazy!'?"

And then I'd give a long pause.

And we'd both laugh, because of course I hadn't.

Sweat, Tears, or the Sea

Ethan has asked me every day of school this week if I am lonely.

I assure him I am not, but he keeps asking.

Which makes me wonder if he is worried about me or if I am giving the wrong answer.

This morning he told me that if I get lonely I can watch "that movie about us."  I told him I would be sure to.

I'm still not sure how I feel about being on my own six hours a day.  All of you that are deep in the trenches of babies and toddlers are rolling your eyes right about now.  The thought of thirty minutes of freedom (let alone half the day) has you drooling.  In fact, for some of you the thought of being able to go to the bathroom uninterrupted seems like a luxury vacation.

But I'll admit it's not as glorious as it looks from over there.  This stage of motherhood is an adjustment.  Just me and my thoughts knocking around the house.

And I got here sooner than I thought I would.  My life plan had a few more years of babies in it.  But things do not always go according to plan.

And so I am here.  And it's quiet.

The melodramatic side of me knows that a part of my life is over.  That the years with babies at my breast and hip are already gone.  And perhaps it is a bit indulgent, but I believe that calls for a period of mourning.

You know that quote by Isak Dinesen about salt water being the cure for anything...sweat, tears, or the sea?  I believe in that.  Right now I'm using sweat and tears and getting through all right.  I started a deep clean on Monday.  Every drawer, every light fixture, all the baseboards and curtains.  And when everything is pulled out and I'm overwhelmed by my own undoing I sit and cry a bit.  It's working.  I'm feeling better every day.

David is doing his best to understand.  It is always an adventure.  You never know what you're going to get when you wake up with me.  On Wednesday, knowing the heaviness of my heart, he tried to be encouraging.  As he went out the door he called, "Have fun at lunch!" which made me feel like my life had dissolved into nothing more than lunch dates and pedicures.  He was trying to be bolstering, but I felt the loss more acutely than ever. 

But I did have fun at lunch.  Laughing with my friends about motherhood and marriage.  And then I went to Barnes and Noble by myself and found a book about my growing girl's changing body that I will read with her this weekend. 

And I saw it then. 

Another door.  Another room of motherhood. 

Waiting for me all this time.

And while I get settled, there will be sweat and tears and dreams of the sea.

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."

Epiphanies You May or May Not Want to Read

[The other day my sister told me, more or less, that my blog was just the same thing over and over again.  This post is about entropy and the return to school and my long-standing insecurities, all of which I have written about "ad nauseum," apparently.  So if you have something better to do than revisiting these themes yet again, go do them.  Otherwise, don't say I didn't warn you.]

This morning we went for a swim.  Trying to beat the sun to the pool.

On the way, the conversation turned to entropy.  And then to the fall and the resurrection.  And then, naturally, to the after-life, and the kids surmised about houses and babies in heaven.  I had to steer us back.

"We're not talking about the next life.  We're talking about this life.  And in this life there is the law of entropy."

The kids all groaned.

Because they know what's coming next.  A conversation that will turn into a day of fishing stuff out from under the beds.  And that's just for starters.

But after the swim, I was in the shower asking David to admit that living with me is hard, and that in addition to my many character faults, entropy currently has the upper hand in our house.

He refused.  (He's good like that.)

And then he said, "I don't care what you do.  I just want you to be happy."

I started to get emotional, but stopped myself just in time.  "But if I'm happy, what will that say about me?"

He looked at me.  Clearly mystified.

But in my head it goes something like this:  I live in a fallen world (remember all those briars and noxious weeds?), which requires toil and sweat and, yes, most of the time, tears.  And if you're doing it right, it means you're right down in the weeds mucking out your salvation.  And the harder you work and the more it hurts, the better the salvation.  Or, something like that.  Or maybe it's the harder you work and the more it hurts, the better the person you are.  (It's twisted either way.)

And for me, all of that gets mixed in with the return to school, which for the first time, this year will include all of my children leaving for the entire school day.  And not only do I feel that loss very keenly, I also feel like I will no longer be earning my keep.  (To say nothing of my salvation.)

I tried again, "The summer is one thing.  I can enjoy it because I'm with my children.  And the enjoyment of it is part of my nurturing of them.  Part of the job, see?  But if I enjoy my regular life, it means I'm not working hard enough, I'm not giving enough back, just taking up space."

And then he just sighed.  And kissed me.  Because he was long overdue at work and my issues are too big to resolve during his shave.  And like he said, he only wants me to be happy.

Why is that so hard?  Because what will it say about me?  That I'm more hedonist than pioneer?  That I'm more selfish than sacrificing?  That I'm more spoiled than deserving?  That I am more prodigal than saint?

That is, in fact, the case.

And maybe that's it.  That I'm bothered that this truth is finally about to be revealed to the world.  That it was only a show after all, and now I am about to be exposed.  I made it look hard in order to be worthy, carrying the burdens on my back as proof of my value.  I made my life seem like a sacrifice so that I would be worth the sacrifice.  Of feeding and clothing me. 

And, especially, of saving me.

And there it was.  The stumbling block to my happiness.  It was me all along.  My fight against entropy.  My fight to build the facade.  My fight to be enough.

I will never be worthy of the beauty and magic in my life.  Of love, of salvation, of redemption.  Of any of it.

But it is there anyway.

And I'm out of fight.  I only want happy now.

And maybe if I'm not brave enough to choose happy, at least now maybe I am tired enough not to choose fight.  And then maybe I will get happy by default. 

And I'm not picky. 

I'll take it any way I can get it.

The Road Again

David and I both dreamed of Christmas last night.

He thought it was because it was so hot, we both were unconsciously wishing for the cold.  I thought it was because our summer holiday is almost over and we are already unconsciously pining for the next one.

Regardless, it was strange to dream about the same thing.  Made me wonder what kind of conversations our two brains have while we're sleeping.  Silly ones, I imagine.  Racy ones, I have no doubt.

David kissed me thoroughly this morning on his way to work, because I am off again.  This time I am taking my two girls and their two dolls and my two sewing machines and heading to Utah for our annual "Kids Quilt Retreat." 

I got my laundry done just in time.  And managed to scrub my kitchen floor and clean out the fridge,  (keeping the health department at bay, see?)  just in time to leave again. 

The last adventure of summer.

I am tired of roadtripping.  Last night David and I went for a Jamba juice alone.  I was grumpy about it.  Which confused him.  And me too, frankly.  Sigh.  But the thought of more gas-station restrooms, and views from my car window, and beds that aren't mine had me a bit out of sorts.

David reminded me of why I was going.

And I thought, "Oh, yeah."

Sometimes it is very helpful to be married to someone who is very nearly always right.

The Wailing Wall

The priesthood power in my home doubled yesterday. 

I felt a bit like Hannah. 

Both happy and sad.  Both blessed and robbed.  Both humbled and entitled.  Amazed at the opportunity to mother such a son, and tenderly aware that he is not really mine.  Utterly grateful for even one moment with this boy, and equally devastated by the brevity of childhood.

David's voice broke when he blessed Caleb.  Overwhelmed, I think, by the same feelings. 

Yesterday in sacrament meeting, when they asked Caleb to stand and be sustained, one of my friends turned around in her bench and mouthed, "He's twelve?!" to me across the room.  I nodded and she winced.

My thoughts exactly.

Makes me wonder how Hannah made herself get up that morning, what she cooked for breakfast, and if she touched her boy all the way to the temple.  And how she had the faith to turn around and walk home, or if it was Samuel who turned around and walked away first. 

The latter I think.

At least, that is how it is happening in my life. 

I reread her account last night when my house was quiet, but my head was not.  It comforts me some, that Hannah was given to emotional displays.  After all, I have a similar tendency.

But in the end, she took her three bullocks and her ephah of flour and gave thanks.

And after the ribeye roast and the apple pie and the kisses goodnight, in the dark and the quiet, I did the same. 

An Old Refrain

If you're busy, you might want to skip this one.  You've read it before after all.

Right now, I'm trying to talk myself into doing my chores from yesterday.  (Let's be honest, my iron is much too low to make this even a remote possibility.)

Instead, I keep pushing the refresh button on my blog, hoping that I've written something clever to read since the last time I looked at it.

(Do you find it endearingly charming or sadly pathetic that I find my own blog wildly entertaining? 

Never mind.)

Last night, as David and I lay in the dark reviewing our day he asked, "Do you think all parents feel like this?"

I thought about it but didn't answer.  I was busy counting.

Counting the years we've had with our boy, and the years we have left. 

I was alarmed to see that the hourglass has flipped devastatingly in favor of the years we've already had.  We're running out of time.

I asked David, slightly panicky, "Do you realize we only have 7 more family vacations together before he leaves.  Including this one?"

And then we both whispered together, "We've got to make the most of it."

And neither of us said "Jinx" because it was such a sober moment.

After the candles and the presents and the story about the first time we met, I tucked my boy in and told him to stop growing up.  He grinned at me, like we were sharing a joke.  

Little does he know.

I couldn't have been more serious. 

And if it weren't for the chocolate frosting smeared across his cheek, reminding me that he is, in many ways, still my little boy, my heart might have broken in two right then and there.

It was a very close call.