Political Protest and Fervent Prayer

 

Caleb as the wax version of Cesar Chavez.  My own little leader for social change.  His earnestness was my undoing.

Last night Ethan asked, "Mom, why don't we believe in grapes?"  And then he chanted "Grapes are bad, grapes are bad, down with grapes" all the way out of the school.  Cesar lent him his protest sign and he took up the cause.  With vigor.

I love a good political protest.

And you can rest easy knowing Ethan has been properly brainwashed.

But this morning I found him sneaking grapes into his pockets.  When I discovered his treachery, he said, tragically, "Don't tell Caleb, but I like grapes."  I told him his secret was safe with me.

There is very little difference between make-believe and reality at our house.

Take my budget, for example.

Or my to-do list.

Or my judgement of how long something will take.  Now there's a fantasy.

I had a meeting this morning with Ethan's Pre-K teachers.  They said he's ready for first grade.  He's passed off all the skills of kindergarten before kindergarten has even started.  They wanted to know where to put him next year.

Now I'm a big believer in being the oldest in your class.  In starting late and finishing first.  Or something like that.  I waited an extra year with every one of my other kids.  But just for a moment I hesitated.  Because the teacher said, "The decision is yours.  You can decide what is best for Ethan."

What?

How did I get put in charge of that?

I can't even decide what color to wear to a Spring Tea.  (Though I've ruled out black.  For the most part.)

But this is his whole life we're talking about.

And I'm afraid I will do what's best for me instead.  Accidentally.

The same reason I'm afraid of heights.  I might just jump.  Accidentally forget I can't fly.

And that's the feeling I have when I look at my five-year-old raising awareness (and eyebrows) about the unknown evils of grapes.  I look down and see his whole life yawning before me and my stomach drops, because I realize with one false move I could accidentally bump him and he will be hurtling through space without a net or a parachute or a soft landing.  (Don't look down.)

I swallow my tears and my fears and a bit of my breakfast again.

I need to pray about it I say.

His teachers smile.  They think I'm joking.

But clearly I am not.  Because even though I like to pretend I know what I'm doing, that's really just a fantasy.  I am a wax museum mother. 

And maybe I will ask about dress color while I'm there. 

Heaven knows it couldn't hurt.

Fishing for Compliments

This morning I threw my leg over David's and asked for a compliment.

He smiled.

And then had to think hard for a while.

He finally said, "Well.  You know you're amazing."

"Is that the best you've got?"

He shrugged, still grinning, "It's true."

I thought about it.  I still wasn't satisfied.  "Anything else?" I asked hopefully.

Then he said, "I had a dream last night that you were in a contest for the most perfect breasts.  You won."

Now that's more like it.

On Sunday night, we had waffles and cake at my parents' house.  We got talking about facebook and twitter and how blogs are "so passe" and how narcissistic people have to be to believe that other people really want to know what is going on in their lives.  I am just narcissistic enough, apparently.  In that spirit, here is my life by the numbers.  I know you're dying to know.

After (at least) 307 hours I finally finished the top of my quilt and passed it on to my fabulous and talented Aunt Tori who will spend another

126 hours quilting it. (Bless her.)

For the last 3 days, Savannah has been running a

102 degree fever, and is home with me again today.

We have watched The Princess Bride and Pride and Prejudice and Blue Planet 14 times each and have plans to watch

6 hours of Anne of Green Gables today.  (As you wish.)

We only have 17 more days of school which makes me downright giddy and wish that time could fly,

but only 10 days until the hospital Spring Tea benefit which makes me wish time could stop and is giving me violent panic attacks at random moments

like when I'm buying 22 yards of yellow organza and realizing that I'm going to need to hem it all,

and more importantly, that I only have 9 days to get the perfect party dress and shoes.  (Time to call in reinforcements.  David, this means you, love.)

Tonight we have 3 places to be at once,

1 of which is Caleb's wax museum rendition of Cesar Chavez.

I am off now to find 2 XL scout shirts and khaki's for David, who has a new calling with a new wardrobe to match, a bottle of temporary black hair dye for Cesar, and lunch and liquids for my feverish girl.

You can leave your compliments below.

Q is for Quilt and Queen and Quit

My house looks like a large quilt exploded all over it.

A large quilt that was unpicked several times first.  Quilt warfare.

My mother said, "Don't worry about it."

But that is because (ha!) her house has never looked like that.  It's like a law or something. 

Yesterday I ventured out of my sewing room for an hour or so (had to get more fabric), and happened to look down and noticed bits of thread all over my breasts, which is only a turn-on to a very select group of people.  Unfortunately, my husband isn't one of them.  I asked.

So instead of ravishing me, David played secretary to me last night, sending out emails and editing the hospital benefit program.  Whenever I would say, "Could you send an email to this really important person and make it sound like I am serious and need action right away?"  he would do it, just like that.  Or if I said, "Reply to that lovely person and make it sound like I am totally excited and super grateful" he would do that too.  Let me tell you how powerful I felt.

Meanwhile, I was working on my quilt.  Adding more borders for good measure.  Because, good heavens, that is all I do, and that is all you have to do if you keep unpicking.  Which I am going to stop doing.  Soon. 

Occasionally, when I'm quilting, I stop and look at what I am doing and if you happen to walk by at one of these moments you really should say how marvelous you think it looks and how hot I look with thread all over my chest, because I really need the praise and I'm seriously this close to cracking.

David looked up from his secretarial duties and said, "Don't you think you could have stopped at that brown part.  It's getting really big."  And for the record, his eyebrows said that "really big" was actually a bad thing.

Which might have been okay if he was married to a sane, well-rested woman with no time or effort invested in said quilt. 

But he is not.

He is happily married (thank you very much) to a woman who has a nearly intimate relationship with her seam ripper these days.

Doubt reared his ugly head.  And was quickly followed by despair, angst, and freaking out.

I looked around briefly for my towel and my white flag, but they were both buried under discarded and unpicked remnants of other versions of this quilt. 

So I headed for bed.

I know when I'm beat.

This quilt has finally gotten the best of me.

On Being Dog-ged and Other Canine References

On Friday, I asked David if he wanted to make out.

He said, suspiciously, "O. kay."

I told him I needed a reason to keep going.

That was three days ago, and now I need more reasons than ever.

Last night in the dark, we inventoried the past week.  We only sat down to dinner together one night.  I feel sick just thinking about it.  Persistent heartburn.  We spent the weekend near the border at medical staff retreat, which meant that David was in meetings all weekend, while the kids played, and I tried to attack my threatening to-do list.  The hounds are at my heels, so I hauled my quilt and my starch and my computer and worked through the retreat.  We returned home yesterday afternoon, in time for me to teach Sunday School.  And then an hour later, David and I were both back at the church for other meetings, in separate rooms, while the kids rooted through the cupboards and fended for themselves.

I feel like the washer when all the wet towels end up on one side during the spin cycle and it bangs like the end of the world is coming.

But then, this morning I looked up wearily from the pancakes I was cooking and noticed this:

You have to look closely.

Just in case you missed it:

It is unbelievably, mercifully, blessedly blank.  One day in an entire month.  And it is today.

Hot dog. 

And just in time too.

I was this close to giving up entirely.

Instead, I'm feeling positively dogged this morning.

When I told David about my change of heart, he asked, "What does dogged mean?"

I said, "It's dog-ged.  Two syllables."

"So?"

I said, getting excited now, "The second syllable makes all the difference.  It changes the word from 'being hunted or chased'  to 'being persistent and determined and stubbornly not giving in'."

He's used to this.  More information than he'd ever want to know about "dogged."  Still confused about the line of logic I was following and clearly hoping for another make-out session, he said, "Well, you're definitely stubborn.  I can see that."

Which only made me smile.  I kissed him hard and sent him on his way.  But not before reminding him to be sure to come home tonight.  We have a free night.  The "can't miss" event of the season.   

If, At First

Olivia in the throes of ecstasy over the last piece of lemon pie.  It was so delicious she nearly lost consciousness.

I am try, try, againing.

I ate a slice of lemon cake for breakfast this morning.  And was almost immediately sick.  I had forgotten that my blood sugar was bargain-basement low and the shock of all that lemon-sugary goodness nearly sent me into a coma.

I tried to breathe through the sugar high.  And as the world went spinning I firmly reminded myself (again) that I need protein first thing in the morning.  Lemon cake has surprisingly little protein content.

Clearly, I'm a slow learner. 

Do you remember this argument about the quilt I am working on.

CIM won.  (Big surprise.)  Almost as soon as I finished the post, actually. 

Which is a real shame, since I think my life has taken a steady decline since then.  And I should know better.

I am madly working on what, I think, is the fourth version of this quilt.  (I've lost track.)  I keep telling myself that this is the fourth and final try, but (let's be honest) that is probably just wishful thinking.

But wait, you say (full of genuine concern), isn't this supposed to be done this week?

I nod my head tremulously.

But then I rally, remembering that this is how I do everything.  Pull the rabbit out of the hat.  And then kiss my husband fervently for enduring another week of crazy.   (Apparently, I'm a very good kisser.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some sewing to do before that cake wears off.

Easter Weekend, Perspectives from Two Photogs

 

I checked my camera this morning for something to write about.

It was full of pictures I didn't take.

This is one of them.

Apparently David had the presence of mind to capture a few pictures of the kids in their Easter finery, while I was making lemon pie and telling the asparagus how nice it was to see him on my table again. 

Early this morning our house alarm went off, when Ethan went outside to dump the sand out of his shoes.  It was a rude and brutal awakening.  (Ya, that's right.  My kids were up before me.  Add it to my list of shortcomings...which is ironically, not short.)  I sat there stunned and confused, wondering where the weekend went.

Here are a few of the highlights.

Stood in line at the courthouse for the third time to apply for Olivia's passport.  She was beginning to think they would never let her out of the country. 

Returned our overdue library books.  I like to think of myself as a philanthropic donor with all my library fines.

Went to Costco for ham and free samples of key lime cheesecake.  Which we didn't buy, but are still dreaming about.

Colored eggs and fingertips.

Had a Saturday Easter egg hunt that dissolved into a water fight and ended with my nude children skinny dipping in my parent's pool.  (Much to my mother's chagrin.)  Never mind that the water temp was a frigid 56 degrees.

Made two lemon pies and three pitchers of fresh lemonade from lemons off my neighbor's tree.

Helped host a ward pancake breakfast and Easter-egg hunt in the rain.

And mopped up afterwards.

Spent three hours at the mall trying to find new dresses for the girls. 

Only found one, and sent David out for the other one.

He was, of course, victorious.

Let my pride get in the way of being really happy or sincerely grateful about it though.  (Who, me?)

Ate a brunch of fruit and BLT's on a blanket on the lawn.  The sunshine was glorious.

Went to church and worshipped and prayed.

And wished that every Sunday could be just like this one.

Hosted Easter dinner on my fine china and ate every last spear of asparagus. 

Finished with pie and the Amazing Race.

Washed and dried my china by hand.  Almost as delicious as the pie.

Kissed my husband goodnight.

And just like that, we are back to Monday.

Which makes me feel like swearing or crying, but instead I proudly present my photo of the weekend:  Savannah and her Mona Lisa smile.

The Coming Storm

I'm just shy of crazy.

Just.

It's an uncomfortable place to be.  Knowing how close you are to really, truly losing it.  My toes are testing the water today.  It might not be so bad to just jump in.  It could save an ungracious fall.

This morning, on my way to make pancakes, I walked past the quilt I am working on for the hospital benefit, spread all over the kitchen table.  Right away CIM piped up.

"Oh my gosh, that is so ugly.  You've got to do something."

RIM:  It's fine.

CIM:  Are you kidding.  What's with that border fabric?

RIM:  I'm sure it will be fine once it's done.

CIM:  You always say that, and it's never true.  Remember the time we painted the living room chartreuse and I kept saying how bad it looked and you kept saying, "Just wait until we get the tape off,"  and then, "Just wait until we get the furniture back in here."  Remember that?  That was a disaster.

RIM:  Why do you always bring that up?  What can't you just let that go?  Every time you get the least bit jumpy, I have to hear about the living room again.

CIM:  You just don't like it when I'm right.

RIM:  (under her breath)  Luckily that rarely happens.

CIM:  I heard that.  I'm standing right. here.

RIM:  (with a huff)  Look.  It will be fine.  You've just stared at it too long.  Let's just keep going.

CIM:  I know you think I'm crazy, but I know what I'm talking about.

RIM:  (not even trying to hide her doubts, rolls her eyes)  Whatever.

CIM:  Just because I've had a few questionable moments in the past, you think everything I say is crazy.

RIM:  I'm done having this conversation. 

CIM:  I'm just getting started.

RIM:  (silent)

CIM:  I know you can hear me.

RIM:  (silent)

CIM:  And you know I'm right.

RIM:  (still silent, but clamping her jaw)

CIM:  Fine.  But you're going to come crawling back here in about a week, begging for a maelstrom.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  Then we'll see who's crazy.

What Did the Violin Say to the Cello?

David is loading the dishwasher.

The sink has been full since yesterday, and he finally gave up on me.

In my defense though, I did go to a two-hour meeting at the hospital today, and that's usually his job.

Tonight we sat in the dark of the gorgeous Ikeda theatre and watched our son play the Wabash Cannonball with the city youth orchestra.  I leaned over to David and said, "Look at our boy."  He smiled indulgently back at me.  Because he forgets that it was just yesterday that I was feeding Caleb his first bowl of rice cereal, admiring and flattering him for his ability to swallow.  It's harder than it looks.

Olivia spent the concert trying to think up string-instrument jokes and then leaning over to try them out on me.  I didn't try to quiet her.  She has her sixth (!) and final day of standardized testing tomorrow.  Good heavens.  She can do the testing instructions by heart by now, complete with exaggerated eye rolling and a demonstration of the proper way to sharpen a number 2 pencil.  She's had just about enough.  And after all that, even orchestra concerts are hilarious. 

On the way home, Ethan used the word "thrice" in a sentence.  David asked him if he knew what that meant.  He slowly and carefully explained the definition to David, to make sure he understood.  David said, "I don't think I've ever used the word 'thrice'." 

I smiled to myself.  And then Olivia did her material one more time. 

It was a good night.

Threads

 

Quilt retreat is over and I am lonely.

Melancholy is setting in.

I think this makes David crazy.  (Add it to the list.)  But I can't help myself.  It will be another year before I am surrounded by women who are so kind they will leave their own projects to gather around me, pick up a needle and thread, and help me sew a hundred leaves onto a tree, just because I bit off more than I can chew.  Three hundred and sixty-one days before I will be in a room with women who understand my delusions of grandeur (because they have their own) and empathize with my over-full plate.  Their love humbles and quiets me.

My cousin, Sarah, is burying her baby today.

The tiny casket will be draped with a beautiful and simple quilt that we made together.  Nine patches and snowball blocks in soft blue and white.  Stitching out our thoughts and prayers, to comfort her in her grief, to add our tears to hers, to let her know that she is not alone.

My cousin, Amy, will play her harp, and my aunts and their daughters will wrap their arms around Sarah, and as far around her grief as they can get. 

They are angels.  Doing what they can to ease the staggering pains of earth life.

There are no words for the love I have for these women.  These who share my burdens and listen to my sorrows and regrets, and help me create a better, sweeter life for my family.  My burdens do not compare with Sarah's, and yet I felt just as comforted and cared for in my own simpler struggles, as she will surely feel today. 

On Thursday, we stood in a room full of quiet sewing machines and still scissors and wet cheeks, and listened as my Aunt Jill described the short and perfect life of her grandbaby, and Sarah's amazing courage and testimony. 

In a roomful of this many women there is not a life experience that someone else cannot understand. 

We have lost houses, and children, and husbands.  We have been sick and afflicted and close to death.  We have had babies who won't sleep, or nurse, or keep anything down.  We have had children with disabilities, and cancer, and addictions.  We have miscarried, and birthed, and adopted.  We have shared experiences, and prayers, and kidneys.  We have husbands who have lost their hair, and their jobs, and their faith.  We have built houses, and remodeled, and made do.  We have sent children to kindergarten, to college, and on missions.  We have been robbed, and raped, and defrauded.  We've held each other's babies, each other's secrets, and each other's hair as we've thrown up through the first weeks of pregnancy and well into the thirty-seventh week for some.  We have waited for the telephone, for test results, and for miracles.  We have buried our grievances, our dreams, and our loved ones.  We have built, and feathered, and emptied our nests.  Our children have broken their bones, and their curfews, and our hearts.  We have cried at weddings, and graduations, and reunions.  We have ironed, and scrubbed, and washed, and woken up to do it all over again.  Our wombs have felt kicks and contractions and more than one heartbeat.  We have been acquainted with death, and infertility, and the first moments of life.  In this one room there is a world of grief, and joy, and understanding. 

There is not a safer, sweeter, more sacred place to be.

And whether you are overwhelmed by your to-do list or your aching grief, these women come to your aid.  It is no wonder to me that it was the women in the Savior's life that were the last ones at the cross and the first ones at the tomb.  They understand.  And they reach out to help.

David always wonders why I cut up all my fabric into a million little pieces only to sew it back together again.  To make something beautiful, I say.  When it really comes down to it, my life is just scraps.  Nothing of worth to anyone outside of it looking in.  And yet, through my careful work, it may turn into something beautiful.  And all of these women--my sisters, my mother, my cousins, my aunts, my grandmother--will have contributed to that creation, just like my quilts.  They encourage me, they stitch with me, and perhaps most importantly, they even unpick and sew-it-back-together-again with me.  My life, and my quilts.

Quilt retreat is over, but I feel its magic around me.  I feel dressed and bandaged.  Healed and lifted.  I am hoping that Sarah feels the same today.