Instead of That

Rather than bore you with the details of me coming face to face with the realities of The Fall 

of how I spent part of my afternoon yesterday visiting a dear friend just diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer and part of my evening hugging a friend who had just lost her husband

of how afterwards I sent David to pick up Chinese (comfort food) and how in the middle of dinner I could no longer keep putting sweet and sour pork in my mouth

of how then I broke down and sobbed a bit

of how Savannah put down her fork and rubbed my back

of how the children were gentle with me the rest of the night, patting me lightly on the shoulder whenever we met in the hall

and, of how this morning after everyone was off I got back in bed and had another good crying jag,

rather than all that, I am sending in a substitute.

If this were a normal week, I would tell you how I finished my center medallion for this year's round robin project.  And how I was only 26 days late finishing it, but who's counting.

I would tell you how I had a long overdue conversation (the truth is I've been avoiding it) with Berni about our summer vacation to British Columbia and how perfect the beach was and how we ate hotdogs over beach campfires and rode our bikes in search of sand dollars.  I'd ask her how she thought kid's quilt retreat went and if she had any plans for the fall.  And then I'd carefully broach the tender subject of her recent separation from O'Dell and see if she was any closer to forgiving me.

And I'd tell you about round robin itself and how it's just about the most exciting thing in the world to get a quilt in the mail, that's made with bits of fabric from your aunts and cousins and sister-in-law and how I'm lucky enough to know these women and have their art in my home.

And I'm sure I'd point out how I went way out of my color comfort zone and picked the exact same colors for my quilt this year as I have for the last four years.  I'm wild like that.

And knowing me, I'm sure I'd note how I didn't lose a single point on my Corn and Beans blocks and how I really am a wonder and a domestic goddess and more amazing than even you had imagined. 

And how I wish that this was, in fact, a normal week.  And how a week ago, none of my friends' lives had changed.  And how when The Fall seems too hard to endure, a little creation, a little order out of chaos, a little rebellion against entropy, is just the thing to make you feel a little better.

Word of the Week: Stolid

stolid  /adj./  not easily stirred or moved mentally.  unemotional.  impassive.  matter-of-fact.  inert.  wooden.  uninterested.  unmoved, unresponsive.  lumpish.

stolid  /adj./  1.  I can tell that I'm out of practice at this.  In the past, the word I chose would shape my destiny for the week.  I picked "stolid," not only because Ms. Estes used it several times in her book and it caught my fancy, but because I could use a bit of stolid life.  I have talked to several people this week who said, "I read your blog.  Sounds like you're having a hard time."  And I needed a bit of unemotional, lumpish days to counteract all the internal upheaval.  I'm not sure if it was just wishful thinking or if an eight-month hiatus from word-of-the-week has changed things, but the week was not stolid in any way.  In fact, there were moments when I thought, "This is the exact opposite of stolid.  Where are you 'stolid'?"  And so in the midst of change, even word-of-the-week has failed me, and I feel as though I have lost my bearings altogether. 

stolid  /adj./  2.  On Friday David came home for lunch and asked me about my word-of-the-week.  He told me he'd never heard of it.  I assured him that it was an actual word.  "Well, what does it mean?"  I told him.  He looked skeptical.  I asked him if he was teasing me.  He grinned and denied it.  I asked him if he wanted to fight about it.  He said no and tried to kiss me.  I told him just for that I was only going to kiss him stolidly.  I tried as hard as I could to remain impassive (I had a point to prove, see?), and it worked for about ten seconds.  Then I gave up.  After the kiss, knowing that I failed, I asked, "So how'd I do at stolid kissing?"  He told me that he didn't marry me for my stolidness.  Which was some consolation, I suppose.

(It has come to my attention that there may be far too many kissing pictures on my blog.  More evidence that stolidness is not one of my strong points.)

stolid  /adj./  3.  After several days of tears about the length of the school day, Ethan has resigned himself to his fate.  This morning he sat on the couch, staring out the window, and said stolidly, "Today is the 11th day of school," and then asked quietly, "How many more days of school in this week?"  Caleb told him three if you count today.  And then he gave a stolid little sigh and went to dump the sand out of his shoes.  I almost prefer the tears to this stoic, subdued surrender.  It was like something had died in him.  (I told you, I can't be stolid for anything.  Melodramatic, however, is no problem.) 

(This un-stolid picture was taken at our annual back-to-school brunch.)

stolid  /adj./  4.  Tonight David and I are going to the viewing of a friend.  He died unexpectedly on Sunday morning and left behind an amazing wife, four children and a baby on the way.  I can imagine that he did not want to leave them on any condition.  And still, heaven called him home.  My heart is broken for his wife and children.  I have wondered several times this week at how God bears it, He who is full of perfect compassion and boundless charity, how He can stand it, and how His heart must break at His children's unimaginable grief.  I do not believe in a stolid God.  I believe he weeps right along with them and with us, who know and love them.  I believe in a God that aches for us, that suffered every pain and tragedy.  All I can do is pray.  But I pray to a God that knows what is best, that knows it will be alright in the end, and sends comfort and angels in the meantime.

(More about that comfort here.)

I Gave Birth to the Opposite of "Stolid"

Last night Olivia had her first drama class.

She was unusually trepidacious when I dropped her off, brimming with worries.  She confided some of them aloud.  I kissed her and wished her well.  "Trust me," I said.

She was busting when I picked her up.  Grinning and laughing, she gave me a high-velocity, wildly ebullient run-down on the class, her new friends, their plans for the season, and a play-by-play of her first attempts at improv.  The joy was pouring off her.

The girl was in raptures.

At the end of class she said they had to make an alliteration with their name and then act it out.

"For instance," she chattered, "Kaitlyn did 'I'm Kangaroo Kaitlyn' and then she acted like a kangaroo."

I looked at her, waiting for it.

She smiled.  "Mine was a little different."

"What did you do?"

She beamed and raised her hand dramatically in the air, "I'm Obviously-in-love-with-acting Olivia," and then she swooned for the audience.

That's my girl. 

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.

Le Cafe Anniversaire

Last night we transformed the house into Le Cafe Anniversaire to celebrate Savannah's birthday.

There were white cloths and red roses for the tables, twinkle lights and candles in mason jars flickering on the shelves and fireplace, and maps of Paris on the walls. 

There was brie and croissants and herbed goat cheese and sparkling french lemonade.

And soda in a bottle.

There was a chocolate cake topped with an Eiffel tower and served with french vanilla ice cream.

And in the background there was La Mer by Charles Trenet (which only gets better with time) and Je Ne Sais Qui Fumer performed by Paris Combo, a (shocking) personal favorite of the birthday girl.

There were charming guests who spoke only French for the first fifteen seconds of the party with plenty of "Bonjours" and "Ooo la la's" to go around.

There was dancing and talking and wild, boisterous games of chance.

And in the center of it all, there was a nine-year-old girl who was lit up like Paris at night.  

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. 

The Great Divorce

I was going to title this post "A Trial Separation."  But it's more than that.

(I hope.)

So I stole the title from C.S. Lewis (the mark of any good writer...plagiarism) as it was a more accurate description.

(I hope.)

Towards the end of summer, I allowed myself during brief moments to think about the long, yawning hours of quietude and solitude that were coming.  I thought about going back to school.  (Nursing, I thought.  After all, motherhood has prepared me in the arts of blood and vomit and, especially, poo.)  I thought about going back to work.  (Teaching, I surmised.  But only part-time, as I still have a full-time gig here, only the hours have changed.)  I thought about volunteering.  (But then I remembered my whole life has been volunteer work.  I needed a change.)

And then I thought about the one thing that I haven't allowed myself to think about.

The little dream on hold. 

The writing dream.

The little dream I thought I'd never really get to.  (Perhaps even hoped I'd never really get to.  Excused out of failure, see?)  

And in an act of supreme courage and wild daring, I bought a writing table.

And this week I separated Berni and O'Dell.

In order to make my intentions loud and clear.  (Mostly to myself.)

Now there's nothing for it but to try, and Berni and O'Dell have resorted to yelling across the room.  Right now they're both hoarse and more than a little ticked off at me, but I told them to give it some time.  It's only the first week after all.  It's new for all of us.

I also told them on the plus side now they can roll their eyes at each other when I start losing it.  I can already hear the "I told you so's",  but, for now, I am firmly ignoring them.

For his part, David is trying to restrain his curiosity.  (Which he has never been good at.)  He keeps walking by the room, wondering what's happening between these two and hiding his mild interest at their apparent separation, but also being wise enough not to ask too many questions.

As for me, I am trying to remain hopeful.  (See the first four lines.)  However, I don't really think too much of a writer who uses this many parentheses in one post.

(11, including this one.)

(By the way, if you ever bring this post up in real life I'm going to pretend I don't know what you're talking about.)

(13.  Damn.)

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."