8 Years Old...

I am officially the mother of an 8 year old.  Ana’s birthday was yesterday, and while not the grand affair she had hoped for, I think she had a good day all in all.  When I married, I got a “bonus” with my stepson, Michael, but Ana ushered me into full time motherhood.  She was due on Mother’s day in 2001, but fortunately for me, came a few days early, so I had her in time for my first Mother’s day.  I can still remember staring at her and crying because I just knew she was the most beautiful baby in the world. 

The only time in my life I’ve ever truly wanted to commit murder was because of Ana.  I took her in for her 2 week appointment at the pediatrician and they, of course, wanted to draw some blood.  A routine heel stick, right?  No big deal.  Except that Ana wasn’t bleeding, and the nurse kept stabbing her with the lancet, Ana was screaming and I seriously wanted to kill the nurse who was hurting my baby.  Since then, I’ve learned to temper my mothering instincts. 

Ana has grown into a beautiful young lady.  As I told someone at church, I sometimes have to remind myself that she’s only 8.  You can have an almost adult conversation with Ana.  She likes to read (and still likes to be read to) and thus, has a pretty good vocabulary for an 8 year old.  She’s a dependable girl and I know I can count on her to lend me a hand.  Lately, she’s been creeping into the kitchen to help me make dinner, unasked, of course.

What I love most about Ana, though, is her great big heart.  She really cares for people, animals, whoever needs love.  And she’s willing to pour out that love, pretty much unconditionally.  Even her little brother, with whom she can become quite exasperated, she manages to love quite thoroughly.  He threatened to run away after a heated argument with Ana one day.  She came to me in tears, “Mama, I don’t want David to run away.”  I hope she always holds on to that God given ability to love the unlovely.  The world needs more people like her right now.

Blessings!

11 years...

Jim and I went out for dinner last night to celebrate our 11th anniversary, nearly a month late due to a lack of cash and time.  We went to the same restaurant as last year, the “Treaty of Paris,” in Annapolis, and, as fate would have it, had the very same waitress.  She herself has been married for 18 years, which she said, “is an accomplishment these days.”

I guess maybe it is.  But why?  Have we been conditioned by the final kiss in the movies?  You know what I’m talking about.  The girl finally gets the guy, or vice versa, we see them kiss and then the credits roll.  What we rarely get to see is the dirty laundry, mortgage payments and day to day drudgery of marriage.  Have we come to expect that marriage is a continual flight of fancy and when we don’t get our  misty eyed “fix”on a daily basis, we should move on to the next adventure?

Somewhere between years 7 and 11, I realized, even though I may have verbalized it in the past, that love is not just some flight of fancy…a feeling that lets you float along and sustains you through tough times.  Love is an action.  Love is a race to be endured.  Love is putting up with your lover even when he/she drives you crazy.  Love is sticking around when you feel like leaving.  Love takes lots of sweat equity and prayer.

I, think, like a lot of people that I married with the idea that my husband and I would always be on the same wavelength (read *my* wavelength) and that we would sail through our marriage,  up born by some mystical current of “love.”  Yes, I was shocked to discover that my husband couldn’t read my mind nor could I read his.  We had to talk.  We had to fight.  It got messy sometimes.

That being said, 11 years later, I can’t imagine a different marriage.  No it hasn’t always been an easy marriage, but I don’t know of any that are.  And there is something to be said for keeping on keeping on.  Once the years pile up behind you in marriage, you begin to feel that foundation beneath the two of you…two becoming one… 

Keeping that foundation intact becomes important. To keep shoring it up with the sweat equity of resolving differences, accepting the other as he or she is, rather than trying to change him or her and appreciating the rare duty of surviving the dirty laundry, mortgage payments and sick babies screaming in the night.  Abandonment seems foolish, as though part of you would be ripped away in the process.  I’ve yet to see a movie tackle *that* kind of love…

Happy (late) anniversary, Jim.  Thanks for building with me!

Flip, flop, flam, flip....

to quote our previous president, whether you loved him or hated him, you have to admit some of the bush-isms were rather alliterative and kind of fun.

I suppose it’s rather obvious that I took a blogging hiatus. I can’t even remember the impetus. Maybe I was sick back in February? Once I hadn’t updated for a week or two, we were into Lent and I thought, “maybe it’s best if I just shut up for a while.” There was a time when spewing my garbage into the void seemed like a good idea. Now, I’m not so sure it’s always for the best. I’ve always struggled with the dichotomies between portrait I paint for the world to see and the one that exists inside myself. What you see is not always what you get with me. I’m not qualified to decide if that’s a personality trait or a negative anomaly, but there it is. At any rate, for those few weeks of Lent, I decided to be quiet in order to study my inner portrait.

Jim and I have also been in the midst of a flip flop (along with many families today. The wife more often has the degree where the jobs are, health care and education and is taking the greater on the role of financial supporter) for the last 18 months since he lost his job. Slowly, but surely, I have been assuming “the breadwinner” title in our family. He will be the primary caregiver for the children over the summer while I work. Neither of us ever pictured this happening. I wanted to stay home and he was willing to make that happen. It would not do well for us to complain considering the number of people in the world today who are losing their homes and standing in lines at food pantries.

That being said, neither Jim or I like change and change is all we’ve had since November 2007.  First, I worked part time and homeschooled the kids. Then the kids went to school and I added about 5 hours of work to my week. Then I started working full time, thinking I’d be able to stay home with the kids this summer, which isn’t going to happen for financial reasons, so I’m looking for yet another job for the summer. Change again.

Normally, I’m a mess in situations like this. For the most part, I like things cut and dried, but that just can’t be the case here. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, unsure of what I might step in, but “onward” seems the better choice over “retreat.” Prayers have been asked for and they must be going up because I’m not freaking out. However, I am realizing the truth of the old axiom, “life happens while you are making other plans.” No we didn’t plan it this way, but here it is.  Anyway, the better choice is to county my blessings. A loving husband, beautiful (and healthy) children and friends/family who love, endure and pray with us.

It’s not “all good,” in the worldly sense, but it is “all blessed.”

Blessings to you, readers, if there are any of you left out there…

Christ is Risen!

…I’ll be back soon!

I love the seasons...

but I must be honest, I hate February.  Particularly, I hate the last two weeks of February.    By the time summer ends, I’m ready for Autumn.  I love the first six weeks or so of winter, the sweaters, warm woolen socks, the luxuriousness of cuddling up with an afghan and a warming libation.  But right about now the afghan starts to feel itchy and I long for the sharp coolness of a tart beverage.  I know that within a few weeks, a pinkish green fuzz will begin to replace the stick brown barrenness currently coating the earth around me.  But, right now, I’m feeling the dry, crackling and restless of February’s end.

I did find a poem today which sort of describes my feeling about, but the language is rather indelicate and some may find it offensive.  Ezra Pound’s, “Song” now occupies space in my “Poem’s I Like” document. 

(What?  You don’t have one of those? Maybe you should.)

If you’re feeling adventurous, try googling…but you’ve been forewarned.

At any rate…I am ready for spring….

Spring?

The other day, I saw a cardinal

from my back porch.

Bright cherry red, perched

in a tree.

He stood out against the muddy red bricks

of the row home behind him.

I thought of spring.

And then,

a flock of pigeons flew from

a neighboring yard,

and chased my hope away…

The Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee

This short essay is taken from a “Lenten Reflection for Kids” I wrote a few years ago. I hope it is edifying.

Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee

Memory Verse: Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ” Matthew 11:29

Gospel Text: Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, `God, I thank thee that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week, I give tithes of all that I get.’ But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, `God, be merciful to me a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other; for every one who exalts himself will be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted. Luke 18:10-14

The Lenten Triodion service book is venerated At Saturday Vespers the night before the Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee. From now on, we will use its special prayers and texts. Lent is now three weeks away, but the church in its grace wisely begins preparing us for the journey we will soon take.

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