With my apologies to those of you who aren't interested in this topic, now on to a little "heavier fare." For a little less than a year, I have been experiencing what the ancient mystics would have referred to as a "Dark Night of the Soul." A time where my mortal veil, this flesh through which I experience my life, feels distant from God. A time in which I no longer feel God. It is not to say that I don't love God, because I do. It is also not to say that I do not want to know Him, because I do. I love God, who He is, what He has done, the beauty of His creation and the unfathomable depths of His Mystery. It is, rather, the absence of any feeling in the practice of my faith.
I have no desire to read the Bible, as sometimes we all don't...but this time it is different. It is a tired disinterest. A blase, ehh, kind of "I'm not even going to walk across the room to the bookcase to pick that book up." When I do read, I feel (and maybe that is the problem word) like I don't get anything from it. Where is the newness that I crave? Where is the revelation? The wow-factor...the aha moment...the light bulb switching on...are all gone. I read it, and I know it is all true, and it is even good, and I can find comfort in it. The Word seems to come through muffled and fuzzy and my reactions to it are dull, even deadened. I feel like an arm that has fallen asleep, emotionally, all over. This malaise extends to books and studies and even secular books. Sure, every now and then I can get into a good novel, read it in a couple of days and be done, but that is it.
Church services seem "old hat." The sermons are all too familiar: didn't you preach this same thing last year, wrapped up in a different title? And maybe it IS true, the pastors are all drawing from the same well of "WikiSermons" and counting on the flock to either be: A. so forgetful (and stupid, thanks for that vote of confidence in our collective intellect) that they don't remember, B. so complacent that they don't really care or C. completely new thanks to high turnover rates that they just keep (lazily) recycling old sermons-but that used to be OK by me. Now, not so much (remember how Paul from "Mad About You" used to say that whenever he wasn't really interested in something...that's how I feel).
Even songs don't thrill me the way they used to. Somehow the combination of a true lyric with a decent melody has a way of tugging at my heart by way of my tear ducts. Only, these days, they can't seem to find a way to my heart. There is a Keith Green song that goes like this, "my eyes are dry, my faith is old, my heart is hard, my prayers are cold..." and here comes the kicker..."and I know how I ought to be, alive to You and dead to me." Perhaps that is just the conundrum that the dark night of the soul is meant to resolve-how, when we experience our lives through hour senses, through our flesh, through our SELVES, how can we be "dead to me." (You'll have to excuse the disagreement between we and me.)
As the song continues "But what can be done, with a cold heart like mine? Please, soften it up, with oil and wine. The oil is You, Your Spirit of Love. Please wash me anew with the Wine of Your blood." Hello God, Are you there? It's me, Jessica. I like to use the words of other people because it has already been said, and been said so well. And while I may have elegant thoughts in my head, when I search for the words to translate those thoughts to paper, they seem so clumsy and ill fit for what I am trying to convey. I have been praying that prayer, singing that song, for a year. I haven't ever seen God with my eyes, or heard Him speak to me out loud...He has, however, always spoken to me through His creation, through song, through dance, through movies, through books and TV and the still small voice that echoes in my heart, louder that all the noise of the world. According to San Juan de la Cruz, who wrote Dark Night of the Soul, I may be asking for the wrong reason. He says the novice stumbles on this journey through the night, where God is calling them from glory to glory, from breastmilk to solid food, from a mother/child relationship to a relationship between true lovers. The novice stumbles on this instance because of pride, because her eyes are on herself, because she is asking for her own peace of mind rather than asking for the sake of God. I'm not sure how I feel about this...but I bet there is at least some wisdom to be learned, I am sure I could benefit from getting the focus off of myself (oh how much easier said than done, no?).
Intermission: If you are expecting a resolution to this problem, I should warn you. There is none. I am just writing this in hope that this could be a literary catharsis and "break up the fallow ground" surrounding my heart and expose a soft heart that can somehow, someway, find it's way back to the Lord.
What is a Dark Night of the Soul? Well according to the EVER trustworthy Wikipedia, it is "is a metaphor used to describe a phase in a person's spiritual life, marked by a sense of loneliness and desolation" Wiki goes on to say: "Typically for a believer in the dark night of the soul, spiritual disciplines (such as prayer and consistent devotion to God) suddenly seem to lose all their experiential value; traditional prayer extremely difficult and unrewarding for an extended period of time during this dark night." Yep, that's me, that's why I am calling this a dark night. MY response to this loss of sensual reward for devotion to God has to become less devoted, in practice. Inside, in my mind, in the secret place, I am (although the heart IS deceitful above all things) still just as devoted to God as ever. Outside, as made evident by an absent prayer life and a shelved Bible along with all her accoutrements and studies, I have no devotion.
As Tyler Durden would say, "how's that workin out for ya?" Well, Tyler not so well. I indulge in fits of rage against my husband and children more often, I avoid responsiblity, I watch too much TV, I have lost the passion for charity I once had, and once thought might be a calling. When I finally turn to God, it is to rail against Him and ask Him "how and why" He could let all this happen, as if I am some mere bystander in my own life and that my choices and actions have had no affect on where my life has wandered. When I don't hear anything back, or when Bible Bingo doesn't provide a prophetic insight into my life, my rant continues, "WHERE ARE YOU!" Evidently mine is not a unique situation. In my research into this term I am using to label the past year of my life, I came across the treatise that Saint John of the Cross (referenced by his given Spanish name, above) wrote on the topic. He explains in poetic, 16th century language that "when the savour and relish in spiritual things is at an end, they naturally find themselves wihtout force and spirit, and this uneasiness makes them bring all their ill humor into their ordinary occupations, and wax angry at trifles, and even, at times, become insufferable." Big time, San Juan, Big Time.
When I think about it objectively, I might as well just roll with it and see what God has in store for me. I ought to just embrace it and press onward. But, I stubbornly refuse to do so. What would be the harm in continuing to read the Bible out of obedience and praising God for the mundane-because some of His miracles involve the mundane...like a new job at just the right time, a well negotiated 25% off dentistry I can't afford, a new motor in the washing machine (and with that - clean laundry) sunrise, sunset, breathe in, breathe out-I could choose to see the glory in all this. I suppose. I could even embrace this dark night as just the thing that San Juan claims it is. I could decide that this is God calling me from the infancy of my relationship with Him to something greater. Then my pride chimes in, I have been a christian for my whole life, what infancy??? Next, I can hear myself asking the childhood favorites: how and why? How are You going to use this to change me, as if by understanding how I could assert my control over the situation or participate more readily. Why? In an annoying whiny voice, WHY? I don't even know what I am asking. Why what? Who knows, Just WHY? Plus I'm not even SURE that is what this is, and if I am not sure I am not taking a step.
So for now, I pull further away from the traditional practices of the faith. I have found that nearly the only way I feel connected to God is through the TV show LOST. There is something so sweet about the character Jacob, touching, healing, seeking and loving the Lost character that just sings Jesus to me. He makes me wish that Jacob (really Jesus) would just come to me and tell me what to do, what is coming next in my life and how to get my "feelings" back. But as Jacob tells Hurley regarding his different treatment of Jack vs Hurley "Sometimes you can just hop in the back of someone's cab and tell them what they're supposed to do. Other times, you have to let them look out into the ocean for a while." While I am extraordinarily loath to identify with Jack, one of my LEAST favorite of the whole cast, I feel a bit like I've been left to look out into the ocean for a while. JUMP IN MY CAB!!!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Long Time No Blog
I need people to love me. No seriously, I have some sort of abnormal psychology (don't worry you have some sort of abnormal psychology of your own, so don't feel sorry for me, it's part of the human condition) that makes me want people to genuinely like me for who I am. I don't want them to like me because I do great things, I want them to admire the things I do for their intrinsic awesomeness. I guess what I am saying is: love me, but I won't change a thing for you.
Let me give you an example so as to clear this all up (or muddy the waters even further, who knows where this will take us-that's the fun of it). Today I went to the dentist. Well, lets back up a little and give you some background.
Last Thursday, after a long morning of being cooped up in the house trying to do chores and driving my kids insane, and vice versa, I threw the kids' shoes on, got their scooters and went for a walk. They wanted to scoot to the "big park" a mile and a half away, but cooler heads (mine) prevailed and we went to the "little park" about half a mile away. The trip to the park is mostly uphill, and both my 2 year old and 4 year old are out of practice and were complaining more than a little. Needless to say, I was frustrated. Hellooooo! I am taking this walk for YOU! Eventually, after several stops, we got to the park. They played for about 45 minutes (and lets face it, it was lucky they played that long, because the little park SUCKS) and then decided they needed water-which I, being the genius that I am, had forgotten.
So my little ducklings and I began our downhill march home. We had not even gotten 100 yards when my 2 year old slipped off his scooter and bit, literally bit, his handlebars. It didn't look like much, so I was getting ready to march right on. Then I saw the blood coming from his mouth and thought I'd better have a closer look. His right front tooth looked to be bent back at the gum line. "Phew, NOT broken, good." I thought. You should know before we go any further that I did not have my three week old in his sling, as I usually do when we go out...instead I was holding him in my arms. My 2 year old could not continue riding his scooter. I picked him up in my right arm and held the baby in my left. Then I picked up the scooter with my "free" right hand. If you can imagine the scene, please do. A crying two year old, a BIG crying two year old, boogers streaming from his nose, tears pouring from his eyes and all meeting and mixing with the blood coming from his mouth and then falling to the ground, leaving a Hansel and Gretl-esque trail in case anyone needed to find us. My 4 year old leading the way, checking back on us and urging us to "c'mon, guys." And me. Holding bleeding crying baby, holding littler, thankfully not crying, baby and holding the scooter. It was a sight to see. Halfway home I decided to check his mouth and ditch the scooter. To my surprise, there was no longer a tooth there. Because of all the blood, I couldn't tell if it had fallen out, or if it had broken off neer the gumline. Either way, it was not lookin' good for Ollie.
Fast-forward to this morning. I went to the pediatric dentist with my toothless wonder. He is the most cooperative child ever. He sat perfectly still in the chair as the dentist took several x-rays, poked and prodded his teeth and gums and discussed the whole mess withe me. His teeth were already losing enamel, due to (according to the oral surgeon we saw on Thursday) high fever during infancy or in me during pregnancy. "Nothing you could have done about it, sometimes these things just happen." Oral Surgeon's words, not mine. The pediatric dentist was not about to cut me such slack. FIrst he asked me if we were giving him a bottle, currently, to put him to sleep. I told him, no, nor had he EVER had a bottle. Next he wanted to know how long I breastfed, and instead of thinking that I was a champ for nursing as a long as I did, he started in on his diatribe about how the breast milk pools around the top teeth and rots them out and we KNOW you aren't brushing in the middle of the night, so that's how the decay starts...blablabla. He informed me that I had BETTER START brushing the poor kid's teeth twice a day, after breakfast and before bed (thanks for being so specific) and that I NEED to start flossing his teeth. The way I heard it, the implication was that I don't already brush and floss his teeth. I wanted to inform him, so that he would love me and think I was a great dental hygienist/ mother, that I have, since his first tooth appeared at the tender age of three months, been brushing his teeth twice a day-religiously. Not only that but since his canines came in closing some of the gaps that had been in his infant mouth, I have been flossing between those. I didn't say anything, mostly because when I thought about saying it in my head it sounded like a little kid giving an excuse that no one wants to hear. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have changed his mind about me anyway.
I left the dental office with a treatment plan that will set me back about 5 G's and my tail between my legs. I sat in my car and cried. Every time, I have a few bucks in the bank something comes up that demands not only those few bucks but several more! AND WHAT IS WRONG with that dentist, he didn't even ASK me if I brush his teeth and floss, he just ASSUMED that if there is decay, I must be doing a bad job. UGH! This is why I don't go to the dentist as often as I should. I would rather avoid you than hear how much I suck, Oh yeah and pay OUT OF MY YOU KNOW WHERE to hear it!
It has ruined my whole day. I have been fighting with this dentist in my mind ever since I left his office at 9:30 this morning. Listen, dude, I don't know where you got your medical degree, OH WAIT, you didn't-you're just a dentist...well that explains it. Are you really suggesting that I nurse my children less because of your enamel wear hypothesis? Do you mean to tell me you think that EVERY other parent is brushing their kids teeth more often, more thoroughly, more effectively than I am? YOu really want to tell me that the kids in your "no cavities" pictures on your SUPER * wall are better than mine. Because they aren't. And I am way better than those moms, and you are STOOOOOPID if you don't recognize it. Oh and by the way, I SEE your teeth. I see your little skinny, but long, occupying the space of one front tooth weasel teeth. I see them crowding each other out...oh wait maybe that's just your poop tooth. NOW I know why you got into dentistry, your parents neglected some obviously needed orthodontics and you are getting back at them by punishing all other parents you deem to be similarly neglectful. Well that ain't me, bro, I'm a very attentive mom, not smothering, just perfectly attentive to my the needs of my children. and on. and on. It is mentally exhausting to keep up both ends of an argument, so I am spent. Being tired leads to being cranky and then eventually to poor parenting.
PS the anesthesiologist just called and I most likely will not have to pay for their services, as they are covered by my medical insurance...so, amidst my pity-party I have that to be thankful for!
Let me give you an example so as to clear this all up (or muddy the waters even further, who knows where this will take us-that's the fun of it). Today I went to the dentist. Well, lets back up a little and give you some background.
Last Thursday, after a long morning of being cooped up in the house trying to do chores and driving my kids insane, and vice versa, I threw the kids' shoes on, got their scooters and went for a walk. They wanted to scoot to the "big park" a mile and a half away, but cooler heads (mine) prevailed and we went to the "little park" about half a mile away. The trip to the park is mostly uphill, and both my 2 year old and 4 year old are out of practice and were complaining more than a little. Needless to say, I was frustrated. Hellooooo! I am taking this walk for YOU! Eventually, after several stops, we got to the park. They played for about 45 minutes (and lets face it, it was lucky they played that long, because the little park SUCKS) and then decided they needed water-which I, being the genius that I am, had forgotten.
So my little ducklings and I began our downhill march home. We had not even gotten 100 yards when my 2 year old slipped off his scooter and bit, literally bit, his handlebars. It didn't look like much, so I was getting ready to march right on. Then I saw the blood coming from his mouth and thought I'd better have a closer look. His right front tooth looked to be bent back at the gum line. "Phew, NOT broken, good." I thought. You should know before we go any further that I did not have my three week old in his sling, as I usually do when we go out...instead I was holding him in my arms. My 2 year old could not continue riding his scooter. I picked him up in my right arm and held the baby in my left. Then I picked up the scooter with my "free" right hand. If you can imagine the scene, please do. A crying two year old, a BIG crying two year old, boogers streaming from his nose, tears pouring from his eyes and all meeting and mixing with the blood coming from his mouth and then falling to the ground, leaving a Hansel and Gretl-esque trail in case anyone needed to find us. My 4 year old leading the way, checking back on us and urging us to "c'mon, guys." And me. Holding bleeding crying baby, holding littler, thankfully not crying, baby and holding the scooter. It was a sight to see. Halfway home I decided to check his mouth and ditch the scooter. To my surprise, there was no longer a tooth there. Because of all the blood, I couldn't tell if it had fallen out, or if it had broken off neer the gumline. Either way, it was not lookin' good for Ollie.
Fast-forward to this morning. I went to the pediatric dentist with my toothless wonder. He is the most cooperative child ever. He sat perfectly still in the chair as the dentist took several x-rays, poked and prodded his teeth and gums and discussed the whole mess withe me. His teeth were already losing enamel, due to (according to the oral surgeon we saw on Thursday) high fever during infancy or in me during pregnancy. "Nothing you could have done about it, sometimes these things just happen." Oral Surgeon's words, not mine. The pediatric dentist was not about to cut me such slack. FIrst he asked me if we were giving him a bottle, currently, to put him to sleep. I told him, no, nor had he EVER had a bottle. Next he wanted to know how long I breastfed, and instead of thinking that I was a champ for nursing as a long as I did, he started in on his diatribe about how the breast milk pools around the top teeth and rots them out and we KNOW you aren't brushing in the middle of the night, so that's how the decay starts...blablabla. He informed me that I had BETTER START brushing the poor kid's teeth twice a day, after breakfast and before bed (thanks for being so specific) and that I NEED to start flossing his teeth. The way I heard it, the implication was that I don't already brush and floss his teeth. I wanted to inform him, so that he would love me and think I was a great dental hygienist/ mother, that I have, since his first tooth appeared at the tender age of three months, been brushing his teeth twice a day-religiously. Not only that but since his canines came in closing some of the gaps that had been in his infant mouth, I have been flossing between those. I didn't say anything, mostly because when I thought about saying it in my head it sounded like a little kid giving an excuse that no one wants to hear. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have changed his mind about me anyway.
I left the dental office with a treatment plan that will set me back about 5 G's and my tail between my legs. I sat in my car and cried. Every time, I have a few bucks in the bank something comes up that demands not only those few bucks but several more! AND WHAT IS WRONG with that dentist, he didn't even ASK me if I brush his teeth and floss, he just ASSUMED that if there is decay, I must be doing a bad job. UGH! This is why I don't go to the dentist as often as I should. I would rather avoid you than hear how much I suck, Oh yeah and pay OUT OF MY YOU KNOW WHERE to hear it!
It has ruined my whole day. I have been fighting with this dentist in my mind ever since I left his office at 9:30 this morning. Listen, dude, I don't know where you got your medical degree, OH WAIT, you didn't-you're just a dentist...well that explains it. Are you really suggesting that I nurse my children less because of your enamel wear hypothesis? Do you mean to tell me you think that EVERY other parent is brushing their kids teeth more often, more thoroughly, more effectively than I am? YOu really want to tell me that the kids in your "no cavities" pictures on your SUPER * wall are better than mine. Because they aren't. And I am way better than those moms, and you are STOOOOOPID if you don't recognize it. Oh and by the way, I SEE your teeth. I see your little skinny, but long, occupying the space of one front tooth weasel teeth. I see them crowding each other out...oh wait maybe that's just your poop tooth. NOW I know why you got into dentistry, your parents neglected some obviously needed orthodontics and you are getting back at them by punishing all other parents you deem to be similarly neglectful. Well that ain't me, bro, I'm a very attentive mom, not smothering, just perfectly attentive to my the needs of my children. and on. and on. It is mentally exhausting to keep up both ends of an argument, so I am spent. Being tired leads to being cranky and then eventually to poor parenting.
PS the anesthesiologist just called and I most likely will not have to pay for their services, as they are covered by my medical insurance...so, amidst my pity-party I have that to be thankful for!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Olympix Redux
What a great weekend. Four day weekend, can't argue with that. The weather was sunny and 75-still is, in fact. And, oh those Olympics were so very rewarding. So many of the stories got the happy ending I was hoping for! Shen and Zhang won a gold after 18 years of skating together and being so adorable on the ice that I'm pretty sure spectators and judges alike wanted them to win even if he threw her into the stands and they singled every triple jump. Alex Bilodeau winning the moguls for Frederic and Canada, breaking the "home soil gold medal drought." Wescott double golding in the snowboard cross - way to stay on your feet and come from behind.
I am most impressed by the graciousness of all those who didn't win gold. It was so nice to see the good sportsmanship of the likes of Apolo Ohno and Bode Miller, who seemed truly content with having done their best even if they came in second or third.
Oh yeah and on a more local level, shout out to my husband for a gorge bouquet of flowers and to my 6 year old son for taking a literal pounding from some 8-9 year olds in flag football and still playing really well the whole game. If I didn't think football players were by and large a group of dirt bags and therefore secretly hope my son doesn't want to continue playing, I would say he could be a pretty decent receiver...that boy can snatch a ball out the air!
I am most impressed by the graciousness of all those who didn't win gold. It was so nice to see the good sportsmanship of the likes of Apolo Ohno and Bode Miller, who seemed truly content with having done their best even if they came in second or third.
Oh yeah and on a more local level, shout out to my husband for a gorge bouquet of flowers and to my 6 year old son for taking a literal pounding from some 8-9 year olds in flag football and still playing really well the whole game. If I didn't think football players were by and large a group of dirt bags and therefore secretly hope my son doesn't want to continue playing, I would say he could be a pretty decent receiver...that boy can snatch a ball out the air!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Oh Canada! (warning, this blog entry is intended solely for the purpose of getting it out of my brain, you may want to reconsider before reading)
I love the Olympics. I loooooooove love love love LOVE them. I love the Summer Olympics the most, but because I am not a fan of favoritism I also love the Winter Olympics the most in a cold, cozy, intimate, Canadia (yes I meant to spell it that way- why? maybe that's a blog for another day) sort of way. Who can forget Jason Lezak stalking, and I mean S-T-A-L-K-I-N-G down the French (oh the special satisfaction from the braggadocio French getting snaked in the final seconds of America's relay) anchor? My neighbors certainly won't, windows open a little after midnight as I screeched (and evidently Michael Phelps and I felt the same way about it) my celebration at the top of my lungs - I can almost feel my heart pounding again. But enough about the Summer Olympics, lets talk about Vancouver 2010.
I love les Jeux Olympique. I love the way Apolo (Anton) Ohno scooted his foot across the finish line to snatch a silver medal from the jaws of certain defeat. I love the way he is satisfied with whatever place he comes in, despite constant manhandling from the Koreans.
I love the love story of Shen and Zhao. I love the way they skate as one. I love the way they look at eachother after each throw and side by side triple toe loop in triumph. I hate clowns and I even loved the sad clown routine of the German figure skating couple with the Russian names...could be the song, or the makeup, or the late hour, but it brought a tear to my eye.
I love Hannah Kearney's pigtails sticking out of her helmet, making me think she was half her actual age. I love the Canadiens, eh, finally breaking their no gold on home soil curse with that UNbelievable moguls run by Bilodeou. And I especially love the reaction of his brother Frederic, as he watched from the stands. (It made me a little nostalgic for my little brother Ben.)
I love the way the stories of these strangers so enrapture me that I will cry, laugh and exult in their experiences as if they are my own. To me, the olympics are my biennial chance to park my rear on the couch for two weeks and peek in on what is best in the world, not only athletically, but also on a "human" level.
But I HATE, with every ounce of me, every fiber of my being, I hate what happened last Friday. I hate the senselessness of it, I hate the media capitalizing on the story, playing it over and over again, its seeming glorification of it, I hate it...and I don't really ever use the word hate.
On Friday, I was minding my own business, checking out Facebook, when I noticed a weird post from one of my sisters. It said something like so sad about the luger. Several people commented as if they knew what she was talking about. Because I am the number one fan of the Olympics, I was stunned to hear that they had already started when I KNEW the opening ceremonies were not until 7PM that night. I was soon informed that a luger from Georgia, Nodar Kumaritashvilli had died. It sounded like a sad story, but I was relatively unaffected by it. I chalked my sister's reaction up to the fact that she has older children and the fact that they were that very weekend participating in winter sports. I put it out of my mind for the next several hours.
Until Bob (annoying) Costas came on the TV that night and emblazoned it in my mind forever. Forewarned that there would be images I did NOT want to see, I fast forwarded through the first showing of the accident...believing it would be the last. How wrong I was. They played it over and over again. With no warning the video would run again and I would rush to fast forward through the DVR'ed event that I had joined about fifteen minutes into its airing. They played the accident even when it didn't make any editorial sense to play it...it seemed, as my brother put it, to be "death porn." Which brings me to the thing I hate most about this whole thing. Death. I am not OK with it, even though I know it is a part of life. There is something about the sundering of the spirit from the body that I feel I am just not supposed to be witness to. I feel like there are too many consequences to the psyche that I do not want to have to deal with. I have to pray when I see an ambulance speeding up the road or a car accident on the highway that those people aren't dead. I can't, nor do I want to, imagine what my husband and other people who have watched their loved ones die right in front of them must feel, or how they can bear the impossible pain of it. I was not even OK with seeing the wax-figurine-like corpse of my mother in the funeral home as we (my sisters and I) "fixed" it up for her wake. I was certainly NOT alright with the glazed, absent, fevered stare from my brother Ben, serving as the last glance I would ever get from him. AND I AM NOT OK WITH THEM SHOWING SOMEONE DIE ON TV. NOT ONCE and ESPECIALLY NOT COUNTLESS TIMES OVER AGAIN.
I have either averted my mind's eye so as not to look directly upon that memory, or I successfully averted my anatomical eyes even the times when it snuck up on me, but what I did see seems indelibly inked on my brain. The horror of it, the unspeakable sadness that his parents must deal with for the rest of their lives, the vicious irony of sending your son to the pinnacle of athletic competition only to have him die during a training run, the agonizing survivors guilt for family and fellow lugers alike...these thought turn and burn and course through my mind. I wish to banish them forever. I wish I could rewind and never have had them in the first place.
The evening wore on there were more things I came to hate. I hate how there was the suggestion that he made a mistake, that well, it was his fault after all. No! You should not have to be PERFECT, the tolerance for lifting your head, or shoulders or whatever the thing he did WRONG was, should not be so small that it ends in death. I hate that a local news program didn't turn off the sound feed for the accident during the late night news. Really, you aren't paying a producer to make sure no one hears that? I hate that on Saturday they FINALLY decided they weren't producers of snuff vids and FINALLY stopped airing the accident. Finally stopped airing a boy's death. I hate that on Saturday they suspended practice runs so that they could build a wall-WHY wasn't it built already? I hate that on Saturday they moved the starting line down lower so that you couldn't possibly be taking that curve at 90 MPH - WHY wasn't that done after one of the 14 previous luge accidents happened that week?
I hate this. I hate it so much. It is too soon to tell, hopefully writing about it will scale down the noise about it in my head...
My only comfort comes in the hope (and because my life is a musical, there is a song Death Bed, by Relient K that is the soundtrack to this comfort) that he flew into the arms of Jesus and that when he closed his eyes on Friday, He carried him home.
I love les Jeux Olympique. I love the way Apolo (Anton) Ohno scooted his foot across the finish line to snatch a silver medal from the jaws of certain defeat. I love the way he is satisfied with whatever place he comes in, despite constant manhandling from the Koreans.
I love the love story of Shen and Zhao. I love the way they skate as one. I love the way they look at eachother after each throw and side by side triple toe loop in triumph. I hate clowns and I even loved the sad clown routine of the German figure skating couple with the Russian names...could be the song, or the makeup, or the late hour, but it brought a tear to my eye.
I love Hannah Kearney's pigtails sticking out of her helmet, making me think she was half her actual age. I love the Canadiens, eh, finally breaking their no gold on home soil curse with that UNbelievable moguls run by Bilodeou. And I especially love the reaction of his brother Frederic, as he watched from the stands. (It made me a little nostalgic for my little brother Ben.)
I love the way the stories of these strangers so enrapture me that I will cry, laugh and exult in their experiences as if they are my own. To me, the olympics are my biennial chance to park my rear on the couch for two weeks and peek in on what is best in the world, not only athletically, but also on a "human" level.
But I HATE, with every ounce of me, every fiber of my being, I hate what happened last Friday. I hate the senselessness of it, I hate the media capitalizing on the story, playing it over and over again, its seeming glorification of it, I hate it...and I don't really ever use the word hate.
On Friday, I was minding my own business, checking out Facebook, when I noticed a weird post from one of my sisters. It said something like so sad about the luger. Several people commented as if they knew what she was talking about. Because I am the number one fan of the Olympics, I was stunned to hear that they had already started when I KNEW the opening ceremonies were not until 7PM that night. I was soon informed that a luger from Georgia, Nodar Kumaritashvilli had died. It sounded like a sad story, but I was relatively unaffected by it. I chalked my sister's reaction up to the fact that she has older children and the fact that they were that very weekend participating in winter sports. I put it out of my mind for the next several hours.
Until Bob (annoying) Costas came on the TV that night and emblazoned it in my mind forever. Forewarned that there would be images I did NOT want to see, I fast forwarded through the first showing of the accident...believing it would be the last. How wrong I was. They played it over and over again. With no warning the video would run again and I would rush to fast forward through the DVR'ed event that I had joined about fifteen minutes into its airing. They played the accident even when it didn't make any editorial sense to play it...it seemed, as my brother put it, to be "death porn." Which brings me to the thing I hate most about this whole thing. Death. I am not OK with it, even though I know it is a part of life. There is something about the sundering of the spirit from the body that I feel I am just not supposed to be witness to. I feel like there are too many consequences to the psyche that I do not want to have to deal with. I have to pray when I see an ambulance speeding up the road or a car accident on the highway that those people aren't dead. I can't, nor do I want to, imagine what my husband and other people who have watched their loved ones die right in front of them must feel, or how they can bear the impossible pain of it. I was not even OK with seeing the wax-figurine-like corpse of my mother in the funeral home as we (my sisters and I) "fixed" it up for her wake. I was certainly NOT alright with the glazed, absent, fevered stare from my brother Ben, serving as the last glance I would ever get from him. AND I AM NOT OK WITH THEM SHOWING SOMEONE DIE ON TV. NOT ONCE and ESPECIALLY NOT COUNTLESS TIMES OVER AGAIN.
I have either averted my mind's eye so as not to look directly upon that memory, or I successfully averted my anatomical eyes even the times when it snuck up on me, but what I did see seems indelibly inked on my brain. The horror of it, the unspeakable sadness that his parents must deal with for the rest of their lives, the vicious irony of sending your son to the pinnacle of athletic competition only to have him die during a training run, the agonizing survivors guilt for family and fellow lugers alike...these thought turn and burn and course through my mind. I wish to banish them forever. I wish I could rewind and never have had them in the first place.
The evening wore on there were more things I came to hate. I hate how there was the suggestion that he made a mistake, that well, it was his fault after all. No! You should not have to be PERFECT, the tolerance for lifting your head, or shoulders or whatever the thing he did WRONG was, should not be so small that it ends in death. I hate that a local news program didn't turn off the sound feed for the accident during the late night news. Really, you aren't paying a producer to make sure no one hears that? I hate that on Saturday they FINALLY decided they weren't producers of snuff vids and FINALLY stopped airing the accident. Finally stopped airing a boy's death. I hate that on Saturday they suspended practice runs so that they could build a wall-WHY wasn't it built already? I hate that on Saturday they moved the starting line down lower so that you couldn't possibly be taking that curve at 90 MPH - WHY wasn't that done after one of the 14 previous luge accidents happened that week?
I hate this. I hate it so much. It is too soon to tell, hopefully writing about it will scale down the noise about it in my head...
My only comfort comes in the hope (and because my life is a musical, there is a song Death Bed, by Relient K that is the soundtrack to this comfort) that he flew into the arms of Jesus and that when he closed his eyes on Friday, He carried him home.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
My Much Maligned Baby
I woke up, nursed the baby, let him sleep the rest of the morning away. I got out of bed, took a shower, washed yesterday's madness off of me, brushed my hair, moisturized (it is dry out here in the SCV). I gave the middle two boys a bath, left them there to play - and inevitably fight, out of sight out of mind, though, right??? I let the oldest sleep in and skip a bath thanks to a post football, more accurately mudball, practice shower last night, went downstairs and got ready to blog.
Thanks to all the kind, sympathetic response I received to "...I lack the strength to stand," I have been overflowing with mind chatter about yesterday's blog, specifically, how I may have inadvertently given the wrong idea about the baby. Every time I woke up last night to feed the baby, my mind would teem with guilty thoughts about how easy he is, and how the only thing I have written for the world to see about him is that he kept me up all night, one night. One night out of the twelve he has been ex-utero. All eleven other nights he has slept straight through save the necessary feedings every 2-3 hours, for which I barely have to rouse myself, never mind fully awake. This boy is an angel, he hardly fusses. All out cries are reserved for truly horrible moments like circumcision and nasty heel pricks designed to let his blood in order to discover his bilirubin count once a day for almost a week.
Not that there is anything "wrong" with a fussy baby, believe me, I've had one of those. It's just a different personality type. I simply feel bad about giving the wrong impression about the most recent addition because it amuses me. Sometimes in writing things just for myself (and for dramatic effect), I forget that by publishing and advertising its existence that there may be an additional audience. In a way this has helped me understand son 1 and son 2 who do annoying things and then laugh and laugh and laugh at the secret joke, with no concern for the fact that no one else understands what is going on and everyone else wishes they would just stop!
For the record, Liam is super easy.
Ah, that's better.
Thanks to all the kind, sympathetic response I received to "...I lack the strength to stand," I have been overflowing with mind chatter about yesterday's blog, specifically, how I may have inadvertently given the wrong idea about the baby. Every time I woke up last night to feed the baby, my mind would teem with guilty thoughts about how easy he is, and how the only thing I have written for the world to see about him is that he kept me up all night, one night. One night out of the twelve he has been ex-utero. All eleven other nights he has slept straight through save the necessary feedings every 2-3 hours, for which I barely have to rouse myself, never mind fully awake. This boy is an angel, he hardly fusses. All out cries are reserved for truly horrible moments like circumcision and nasty heel pricks designed to let his blood in order to discover his bilirubin count once a day for almost a week.
Not that there is anything "wrong" with a fussy baby, believe me, I've had one of those. It's just a different personality type. I simply feel bad about giving the wrong impression about the most recent addition because it amuses me. Sometimes in writing things just for myself (and for dramatic effect), I forget that by publishing and advertising its existence that there may be an additional audience. In a way this has helped me understand son 1 and son 2 who do annoying things and then laugh and laugh and laugh at the secret joke, with no concern for the fact that no one else understands what is going on and everyone else wishes they would just stop!
For the record, Liam is super easy.
Ah, that's better.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
...I lack the strength to stand
I apologize ahead of time for taking up so much room with non-original material. One of my all-time favorite quotes from one of my all-time favorite movies is the following "discussion" between Wesley, our hero, and a pale by comparison, weak rival (if you could even call him that) Prince Humperdink from Princess Bride:
Prince Humperdinck: First things first, to the death.
Westley: No. To the pain.
Prince Humperdinck: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.
Westley: I'll explain and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.
Prince Humperdinck: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.
Westley: It won't be the last. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my tongue I suppose, I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.
Westley: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my ears, I understand let's get on with it.
Westley: WRONG. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears. That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
Prince Humperdinck: I think you're bluffing.
Westley: It's possible, Pig, I might be bluffing. It's conceivable, you miserable, vomitous mass, that I'm only lying here because I lack the strength to stand. But, then again... perhaps I have the strength after all.
[slowly rises and points sword directly at the prince]
Westley: DROP... YOUR... SWORD!
Prince Humperdinck: [Humperdinck's mouth hangs open, drops sword to floor]
I suppose I didn't need to put the whole dialogue here. But when I saw it there, in all its glory, on IMDB, I couldn't resist.
I went to bed around 9 O'clock last night, pretty decent, right? Then I woke up half an hour later to a gassy baby. I held him one position til that no longer relieved that gas, then in another and yet another til at last he wanted to eat and sleep. For twenty minutes ... and the cycle began again, and again, and you get the picture. Suffice it to say, I am exhausted and am avoiding all the things I have to do today. One of those things is writing my son's first grade teacher and/or the principal regarding her ineptitude (at best) or sabotage of my son's education (at worst).
Now what would possess me to use such strong language about a first grade teacher? I am glad you asked. It all started back in August. Well, maybe it didn't really start until September...tomatoes, tomahtoes. A few weeks into the school year, I began receiving middle of the day phone calls from this teacher, during which she would tattle on my son for some silly infraction of her rules. She seemed frazzled so I told her I would speak to him about remembering the rules. And I did. And he seemed quite willing to remember and obey. Next thing I knew I was in her classroom after dismissal one day, getting an earful about how she wants to discourage the children. Surprised, I corrected her, "Well, we don't want to discourage the children, just their bad behavior." Oh no, she wants to discourage the children. She made that very clear. After that we agreed on a behavior report she could send home every day to me so I could keep an eye on his behavior and make sure to correct the places where he was falling short. In case you were wondering, he talks in class (although he stops when asked) and sometimes gets out of his seat to discuss things with his close friends who don't sit at his table.
Thinking we had come to a bit of a detente, I left feeling proud of keeping my composure and giving in on the non-essentials while keeping the main points in focus. The next day I got a call from the teacher saying the principal wanted a meeting with my husband and myself. In preparation I wrote a two page summary of all the crazy things that she had done, that I knew about, either from my personal experience, the report of my son, or what I learned from speaking to other parents in the class. On second thought, maybe I should let me husband take care of this-he has a way with situations like this one.
Results of meeting: 1. I was pissed off by a lying 65 year old woman (miserable, vomitous mass) with what seemed like a vendetta against my son. 2. A mild suggestion that my son (who does not, believe me) may have ADHD ... although we don't usually make such suggestions until six months of observation of symptomatic behavior and this is only week five or the school year. 3. A revised agreed upon behavior chart, which was never put into practice because the teacher called me the next day to declare my child's behavior had cleaned up and we wouldn't need any reports.
Good meeting, as meetings go.
Over the next several months she refused to give my son a test he showed up for 10 seconds late, due to no fault of his own-more than once, even though the class helpers are supposed to administer the make up tests in such a case. And let me tell you that the southern California housewife lives to volunteer in class, so there is never a shortage of helpers. She has repeatedly not put pages into his STAPLED homework packet, and when asked to send them home, apparently refused. She has most recently, and most egregiously, given him the wrong math test. In this system, the children have color coded "math keys." The first set is red and is made up of the plus 1 family, the next is orange-the plus 2 family and so on. My son was on dark blue two weeks ago. He got 100%, the required score for moving onto dark brown. On the following Monday, as is the usual practice, the teacher handed out the new keys. My son got his dark brown ones. He studied them all week and got 100% on his practice test. Unfortunately, for him, his teacher gave him the dark blue test on Friday-for the second time.
I must brag about my six year old for a minute. He stood up for himself. He told her Mrs. ____ I took that test last week and I got 100%, I am on dark brown this week. She told him, "I don't have time to make another copy of dark brown, so you'll have to take this test." He aced it for a second time. The next Monday she was absent. Tuesday she returned with dark brown keys and said, "I forgot to give these to you." My son said, "No, you gave them to me two weeks ago, but you wouldn't let me take the test last week." She threw them in the garbage. Well played, madame.
It is my belief that she needs to be confronted about this. But I know she is unwilling to change. So maybe it would be fruitless. I also believe that this sort of inability to do one's job ought to be reported to their superior, and that I really should write the principal...but I, like our recently undead hero Wesley, lack the strength to stand. And then again, perhaps I don't. Perhaps writing this all down has put me in just the frame of mind to put my mightier than the sword pen to paper and tell these "warthog faced buffoons" using small words, so they'll be sure to understand, what they so desperately need to hear.
Prince Humperdinck: First things first, to the death.
Westley: No. To the pain.
Prince Humperdinck: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.
Westley: I'll explain and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.
Prince Humperdinck: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.
Westley: It won't be the last. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my tongue I suppose, I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.
Westley: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my ears, I understand let's get on with it.
Westley: WRONG. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears. That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
Prince Humperdinck: I think you're bluffing.
Westley: It's possible, Pig, I might be bluffing. It's conceivable, you miserable, vomitous mass, that I'm only lying here because I lack the strength to stand. But, then again... perhaps I have the strength after all.
[slowly rises and points sword directly at the prince]
Westley: DROP... YOUR... SWORD!
Prince Humperdinck: [Humperdinck's mouth hangs open, drops sword to floor]
I suppose I didn't need to put the whole dialogue here. But when I saw it there, in all its glory, on IMDB, I couldn't resist.
I went to bed around 9 O'clock last night, pretty decent, right? Then I woke up half an hour later to a gassy baby. I held him one position til that no longer relieved that gas, then in another and yet another til at last he wanted to eat and sleep. For twenty minutes ... and the cycle began again, and again, and you get the picture. Suffice it to say, I am exhausted and am avoiding all the things I have to do today. One of those things is writing my son's first grade teacher and/or the principal regarding her ineptitude (at best) or sabotage of my son's education (at worst).
Now what would possess me to use such strong language about a first grade teacher? I am glad you asked. It all started back in August. Well, maybe it didn't really start until September...tomatoes, tomahtoes. A few weeks into the school year, I began receiving middle of the day phone calls from this teacher, during which she would tattle on my son for some silly infraction of her rules. She seemed frazzled so I told her I would speak to him about remembering the rules. And I did. And he seemed quite willing to remember and obey. Next thing I knew I was in her classroom after dismissal one day, getting an earful about how she wants to discourage the children. Surprised, I corrected her, "Well, we don't want to discourage the children, just their bad behavior." Oh no, she wants to discourage the children. She made that very clear. After that we agreed on a behavior report she could send home every day to me so I could keep an eye on his behavior and make sure to correct the places where he was falling short. In case you were wondering, he talks in class (although he stops when asked) and sometimes gets out of his seat to discuss things with his close friends who don't sit at his table.
Thinking we had come to a bit of a detente, I left feeling proud of keeping my composure and giving in on the non-essentials while keeping the main points in focus. The next day I got a call from the teacher saying the principal wanted a meeting with my husband and myself. In preparation I wrote a two page summary of all the crazy things that she had done, that I knew about, either from my personal experience, the report of my son, or what I learned from speaking to other parents in the class. On second thought, maybe I should let me husband take care of this-he has a way with situations like this one.
Results of meeting: 1. I was pissed off by a lying 65 year old woman (miserable, vomitous mass) with what seemed like a vendetta against my son. 2. A mild suggestion that my son (who does not, believe me) may have ADHD ... although we don't usually make such suggestions until six months of observation of symptomatic behavior and this is only week five or the school year. 3. A revised agreed upon behavior chart, which was never put into practice because the teacher called me the next day to declare my child's behavior had cleaned up and we wouldn't need any reports.
Good meeting, as meetings go.
Over the next several months she refused to give my son a test he showed up for 10 seconds late, due to no fault of his own-more than once, even though the class helpers are supposed to administer the make up tests in such a case. And let me tell you that the southern California housewife lives to volunteer in class, so there is never a shortage of helpers. She has repeatedly not put pages into his STAPLED homework packet, and when asked to send them home, apparently refused. She has most recently, and most egregiously, given him the wrong math test. In this system, the children have color coded "math keys." The first set is red and is made up of the plus 1 family, the next is orange-the plus 2 family and so on. My son was on dark blue two weeks ago. He got 100%, the required score for moving onto dark brown. On the following Monday, as is the usual practice, the teacher handed out the new keys. My son got his dark brown ones. He studied them all week and got 100% on his practice test. Unfortunately, for him, his teacher gave him the dark blue test on Friday-for the second time.
I must brag about my six year old for a minute. He stood up for himself. He told her Mrs. ____ I took that test last week and I got 100%, I am on dark brown this week. She told him, "I don't have time to make another copy of dark brown, so you'll have to take this test." He aced it for a second time. The next Monday she was absent. Tuesday she returned with dark brown keys and said, "I forgot to give these to you." My son said, "No, you gave them to me two weeks ago, but you wouldn't let me take the test last week." She threw them in the garbage. Well played, madame.
It is my belief that she needs to be confronted about this. But I know she is unwilling to change. So maybe it would be fruitless. I also believe that this sort of inability to do one's job ought to be reported to their superior, and that I really should write the principal...but I, like our recently undead hero Wesley, lack the strength to stand. And then again, perhaps I don't. Perhaps writing this all down has put me in just the frame of mind to put my mightier than the sword pen to paper and tell these "warthog faced buffoons" using small words, so they'll be sure to understand, what they so desperately need to hear.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Fair to Middling
Let me first start out with today's scoreboard: Blog-1, Constant Inner Monologue-way more annoying. I guess yesterday's blog while initially having the effect of silencing some of my mind babbling ended up creating a sort of thought vacuum into which was sucked a bevy of blog related self talk. After the cathartic cleanse of writing came the furious torrent of "ick why did I write that" and its various related ideas. Truthfully, I am not a fan of putting myself out there. Everytime I do, whatever the situation - book clubs, bible studies, English and philosophy classes, mom's groups, drinking groups, parties - I end up wishing I had never opened my mouth. Keep it secret, keep it safe. The realization that I misspelled more than a couple of words hits me. I am so pissed. I don't misspell words, I MOCK people who misspell words. I certainly don't PUBLISH something ONLINE for people to READ with misspelled words in it. (Hey didn't that program have spell check? How did they not catch those????) Oh, don't you worry, deary, no one's going to be reading your stupid blog. Why are you even writing a blog? Do you think someone cares. UGH and then the idea that some idiots are going to read the blog and have their idiotic comments to make assails me. Now, this is too much! By the way, thanks to all of you who did read and comment for not being THAT person.
Oh right. But I am just writing this as an exercise to "Let it all out, Get it all out." So all of the rest of it shouldn't matter. Because it does matter, I give it a paragraph and get IT out too.
Done.
Now, I'll move on to the real topic du jour. The perfect cup of coffee at home. For me, a cup or three of strong, but not bitter, hazelnut coffeemate sweetened, starbucks extra bold roast is a delight I have been looking forward to my whole pregnancy. It serves so many functions: wakes me up with its jolt of caffeine, warms me up (oh and HOW I have been having such troubles with being fu-ree-zing since I had Liam...in the hospital we had separate thermostats in each room. The first night I asked my nurse to turn it up. I had no idea how hot she had turned it until they wheeled me down the hall to go home two days later and a brisk Nor'easter blew across my face. I asked the orderly who was wheeling me to the elevator, "do they keep it pretty cold out here?" I could almost see her quizzical face as she answered, "nope, it's about 72 throughout the ward.") and is a pretty good laxative-and those ladies out there who have gone through childbirth know how important that is!
Nine months ago, I would have told you that I make a pretty mean pot of coffee. Somehow, in the attempts I've made over the last week or so I have missed the mark, big time. Too bitter, followed by too weak, then bitter and weak (really? is that a possible flavor combination with coffee?). How could things be going so wrong? I have a pretty decent Cuisinart coffee maker, not top of the line, but it'll do. I have the French Roast from Starbucks, and it is fresh thanks to a Starbucks run by Meghan last Wednesday. I even have a Starbucks coffee grinder...although that MAY be under a recall, and now that I think about it, I should probably look into that. So, what's going wrong?
I have given it a lot of thought. You'd probably be surprised by the space this line of thought takes up in my brain. I have even googled it. I google everything. I found out the bitterness comes from grinding the beans too small for the method of brewing you are using. I am using a traditional drip machine, so you need a good medium grind. 9.5 seconds of grinding should do the trick. I found through trial and error that you MUST strictly obey the suggested 2 tbsp of coffee per 1 six oz cup of water ratio. You must carefully measure and level out the tablespoons, and you must accurately measure out the water, to the ounce.
Finally this morning, after 5 or 6 failed days of attempts (yes, I drank that gross coffee, because bitter, weak or not, nothing is worse than wasting coffee) I made a delicious pot of coffee. Only to be thwarted in my drinking of it by running out of coffeemate after my first cup. Two more perfectly delicious cups of coffee sit, neglected, in my coffeepot as I write. Oh Murphy's Law. Eh, I probably only needed one cup.
Hey maybe I should readjust the scoreboard...Blog - 2, CIM - fair to middling.
Oh right. But I am just writing this as an exercise to "Let it all out, Get it all out." So all of the rest of it shouldn't matter. Because it does matter, I give it a paragraph and get IT out too.
Done.
Now, I'll move on to the real topic du jour. The perfect cup of coffee at home. For me, a cup or three of strong, but not bitter, hazelnut coffeemate sweetened, starbucks extra bold roast is a delight I have been looking forward to my whole pregnancy. It serves so many functions: wakes me up with its jolt of caffeine, warms me up (oh and HOW I have been having such troubles with being fu-ree-zing since I had Liam...in the hospital we had separate thermostats in each room. The first night I asked my nurse to turn it up. I had no idea how hot she had turned it until they wheeled me down the hall to go home two days later and a brisk Nor'easter blew across my face. I asked the orderly who was wheeling me to the elevator, "do they keep it pretty cold out here?" I could almost see her quizzical face as she answered, "nope, it's about 72 throughout the ward.") and is a pretty good laxative-and those ladies out there who have gone through childbirth know how important that is!
Nine months ago, I would have told you that I make a pretty mean pot of coffee. Somehow, in the attempts I've made over the last week or so I have missed the mark, big time. Too bitter, followed by too weak, then bitter and weak (really? is that a possible flavor combination with coffee?). How could things be going so wrong? I have a pretty decent Cuisinart coffee maker, not top of the line, but it'll do. I have the French Roast from Starbucks, and it is fresh thanks to a Starbucks run by Meghan last Wednesday. I even have a Starbucks coffee grinder...although that MAY be under a recall, and now that I think about it, I should probably look into that. So, what's going wrong?
I have given it a lot of thought. You'd probably be surprised by the space this line of thought takes up in my brain. I have even googled it. I google everything. I found out the bitterness comes from grinding the beans too small for the method of brewing you are using. I am using a traditional drip machine, so you need a good medium grind. 9.5 seconds of grinding should do the trick. I found through trial and error that you MUST strictly obey the suggested 2 tbsp of coffee per 1 six oz cup of water ratio. You must carefully measure and level out the tablespoons, and you must accurately measure out the water, to the ounce.
Finally this morning, after 5 or 6 failed days of attempts (yes, I drank that gross coffee, because bitter, weak or not, nothing is worse than wasting coffee) I made a delicious pot of coffee. Only to be thwarted in my drinking of it by running out of coffeemate after my first cup. Two more perfectly delicious cups of coffee sit, neglected, in my coffeepot as I write. Oh Murphy's Law. Eh, I probably only needed one cup.
Hey maybe I should readjust the scoreboard...Blog - 2, CIM - fair to middling.
Monday, February 8, 2010
m + 2 days
Amidst my early morning thought spin cycle - a jumble of thinly connected inner ramblings about life after Meghan, being a mother of four (boys), Peyton Manning and getting son number one to school despite his waking declaration of illness - I decided I would put it down on paper. Or computer screen. I hate the idea of a blog, everyone has one, and next to no one should...but that is another day's topic.
I had my fourth son just short of ten days ago. And, despite an eleventh hour panic attack that the impossible weight of having four children would overshadow the mothering instinct in me and render me incapable of loving him at all, Liam is the love of my life...yet again. For a moment, a brief, ephedrine crazed, narcotic glazed moment, as I pushed this baby out of my body, as I partook in creation, and looked at this baby's tiny face...For a moment, I understood (ever so dimly) how God would have stretched His right arm across time and space for just one of His children. How He can love each one of us so completely, so perfectly, I could feel it in the love I suddenly and inexplicably felt for this little one they were laying in my arms. Ten days later, the noise and clutter of "real life" have been turning my gaze from the light of that truth, from the lightness of that love and seem to be placing a heavy, and again, unbearable weight on my shoulders.
My sister Meghan, probably the best friend I have in life, the one person who truly understands me (as much as a person can understand another), the adult to whom I best relate, left my house on Saturday. Today is M +2, my second day after Meghan. My first day doing this thing by myself. Sidebar: I visited my sisters Wendy and Meghan after each of their first couple of kids...I think I was under the impression that these were social visits. Sure, I tried to be mildly helpful, certainly tried not to be a burden, but in light of what Meghan did for me last week, I am going to publicly apologize to the two of them for so woefully missing the mark of a proper post-partum doula. She cleaned my house every day. She did regular cleaning, deep cleaning, rationalization (as my dad would say) of closets, cabinets and all manner of "storage" messes. She parented my older children, took my six year old to school and back, shopped for me, cooked for us. God literally ordered events so that she could arrive the day after I came home from the hospital. It was nothing short of a miracle.
But now she is gone. And my mind wanders, and wonders, and says how the bleep am I going to do this without her. I got Sebastien off to school: fed, dressed, and carrying a lunch in his backpack. I got Jake and Oliver bathed and dressed for the day. I even took my own shower. I ventured downstairs and was so relieved to find the living area still pretty clean and as I rounded the corner to the kitchen my heart sank. The sink was filled to high heaven with foul dirty dishes. The table was cluttered from last night's meal. Oh God Help me...and twenty minutes later I had cleaned the dishes and moved the pile to dry on the counter ( because my dishwasher is broken) and I had cleaned up the mess from the table, and swept the floor, and killed a few hundred ants.
An hour and a load of laundry and a breakfast batch of dishes later, I sat down to start this blog. My mobile, vocal, middle two sons have interrupted me with their incessant fighting begging for treats of all kinds, attention deficit-ed requests for movies, games, book reading, paper to color, cut, paint and I am reminded of my dad's favorite saying: "THESE are the things that make a rich man poor." No, he actually said it the other way around, for his quiver was full of nine children and he wanted that counted as righteousness on his part. But his actions, and the way he said it and nearly everything else he said to/about his children, had a way of translating the actual words he said into the above quote. And there I was, yelling at my sons to leave me alone for ONE SECOND, so I could blog about how much I love them. I hate that about myself, that my earthly father's influence has such an affect on me...that by observation and unwitting conformation, I can so accurately mirror his reaction toward normal childhood behavior...that as Paul would say "what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do." My thoughts accuse me, and berate me, and ask myself, is this love? is this why you have children? is this why you have had yet another child? this is why people look at you funny at Target. that guy from Rick's work is right, you shouldn't be so busy populating the earth. Asked and answered.
But thanks be to God! Paul reminds us of our rescue from this "body of death." That Christ did indeed bring salvation to me, and that I can sit here, nursing Liam, cuddling Oliver, watching Jake eat the popcorn I finally made for him as he watches the movie the two of them at last agreed upon. OK so the house isn't as clean as it was two days ago, and it will incrementally get filthier as the days without Meghan progress. But, I had those 5.5 days with her, sharing her much missed adult company, enjoying my relaxation without having to worry about a single chore and basking in the knowledge that things that hadn't been touched in two years were being organized by her capable hands. I am still way ahead of the game. And OK, so i lost my temper (more than once) with my kids this morning, but those moments were short lived and there are so many more good moments that we can, and I hope they will, choose to remember instead. And OK, this blog is pretty rambling and may have wandered far from the point, but there is less clutter in my mind and maybe you enjoyed reading this (if anyone ever actually reads this!) or at least made you feel a little better about your own madness. Blog - 1, Constant inner monologue - less annoying. So far so good.
I had my fourth son just short of ten days ago. And, despite an eleventh hour panic attack that the impossible weight of having four children would overshadow the mothering instinct in me and render me incapable of loving him at all, Liam is the love of my life...yet again. For a moment, a brief, ephedrine crazed, narcotic glazed moment, as I pushed this baby out of my body, as I partook in creation, and looked at this baby's tiny face...For a moment, I understood (ever so dimly) how God would have stretched His right arm across time and space for just one of His children. How He can love each one of us so completely, so perfectly, I could feel it in the love I suddenly and inexplicably felt for this little one they were laying in my arms. Ten days later, the noise and clutter of "real life" have been turning my gaze from the light of that truth, from the lightness of that love and seem to be placing a heavy, and again, unbearable weight on my shoulders.
My sister Meghan, probably the best friend I have in life, the one person who truly understands me (as much as a person can understand another), the adult to whom I best relate, left my house on Saturday. Today is M +2, my second day after Meghan. My first day doing this thing by myself. Sidebar: I visited my sisters Wendy and Meghan after each of their first couple of kids...I think I was under the impression that these were social visits. Sure, I tried to be mildly helpful, certainly tried not to be a burden, but in light of what Meghan did for me last week, I am going to publicly apologize to the two of them for so woefully missing the mark of a proper post-partum doula. She cleaned my house every day. She did regular cleaning, deep cleaning, rationalization (as my dad would say) of closets, cabinets and all manner of "storage" messes. She parented my older children, took my six year old to school and back, shopped for me, cooked for us. God literally ordered events so that she could arrive the day after I came home from the hospital. It was nothing short of a miracle.
But now she is gone. And my mind wanders, and wonders, and says how the bleep am I going to do this without her. I got Sebastien off to school: fed, dressed, and carrying a lunch in his backpack. I got Jake and Oliver bathed and dressed for the day. I even took my own shower. I ventured downstairs and was so relieved to find the living area still pretty clean and as I rounded the corner to the kitchen my heart sank. The sink was filled to high heaven with foul dirty dishes. The table was cluttered from last night's meal. Oh God Help me...and twenty minutes later I had cleaned the dishes and moved the pile to dry on the counter ( because my dishwasher is broken) and I had cleaned up the mess from the table, and swept the floor, and killed a few hundred ants.
An hour and a load of laundry and a breakfast batch of dishes later, I sat down to start this blog. My mobile, vocal, middle two sons have interrupted me with their incessant fighting begging for treats of all kinds, attention deficit-ed requests for movies, games, book reading, paper to color, cut, paint and I am reminded of my dad's favorite saying: "THESE are the things that make a rich man poor." No, he actually said it the other way around, for his quiver was full of nine children and he wanted that counted as righteousness on his part. But his actions, and the way he said it and nearly everything else he said to/about his children, had a way of translating the actual words he said into the above quote. And there I was, yelling at my sons to leave me alone for ONE SECOND, so I could blog about how much I love them. I hate that about myself, that my earthly father's influence has such an affect on me...that by observation and unwitting conformation, I can so accurately mirror his reaction toward normal childhood behavior...that as Paul would say "what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do." My thoughts accuse me, and berate me, and ask myself, is this love? is this why you have children? is this why you have had yet another child? this is why people look at you funny at Target. that guy from Rick's work is right, you shouldn't be so busy populating the earth. Asked and answered.
But thanks be to God! Paul reminds us of our rescue from this "body of death." That Christ did indeed bring salvation to me, and that I can sit here, nursing Liam, cuddling Oliver, watching Jake eat the popcorn I finally made for him as he watches the movie the two of them at last agreed upon. OK so the house isn't as clean as it was two days ago, and it will incrementally get filthier as the days without Meghan progress. But, I had those 5.5 days with her, sharing her much missed adult company, enjoying my relaxation without having to worry about a single chore and basking in the knowledge that things that hadn't been touched in two years were being organized by her capable hands. I am still way ahead of the game. And OK, so i lost my temper (more than once) with my kids this morning, but those moments were short lived and there are so many more good moments that we can, and I hope they will, choose to remember instead. And OK, this blog is pretty rambling and may have wandered far from the point, but there is less clutter in my mind and maybe you enjoyed reading this (if anyone ever actually reads this!) or at least made you feel a little better about your own madness. Blog - 1, Constant inner monologue - less annoying. So far so good.
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