Let's be honest

You probably know by now that I am living at the hospital, that we hope baby and I stay here, knit together, for a few months.  You probably have your own notions about what this is like, but let me stop you before you go too far:  It's not all bad.  There are things about lying on a bed with one's only orders being "Don't get into trouble" that are actually rather delightful.

Not to use my green stirrer of envy to upset your Saturday Springtime mojito, but there are other ways to relax.  Sure, I'd prefer to sip a mojito on my back deck with you, but at the moment I am sitting in a cool room with a treeline view that stretches over miles and reveals only the fanciest office buildings.  It is peacefully quiet, nothing other than the sound of Samuel's regular heartbeat.  I have two books at leisure to read, and I am currently beating my dad in Words with Friends (in and of itself making me feel heroic).

If you are still tempted to mourn over me, have at it!  Bear in mind, however, that by the time you drag yourself and all of your worldly belongings into a sweaty car and arrive at your Memorial Day vacation destination I will have watched all of the Academy Award nominated films from twenty twelve, will have read half of Tolstoy's War and Peace (therein accomplishing both entertainment and lifetime bragging rights), and will have blogged often enough to contact a publishing company.

Enough is enough, I know, but since I am enjoying this I will continue.  You know that moment when your alarm or your family or your dog or your neighbor's sub woofer wakes you up thirty minutes before your REM cycle ends?  Well, hello white sheets and REM cycle - you're welcome!  For as long as Samuel stays good and happy in here we have an all expense paid trip (well, mostly, thanks to Blue Cross Blue Shield) to sleeping in.

Don't be too disappointed, after all when I emerge from the hospital halls your spray on tan will make me look like an Irish girl who got trapped in a Siberian snowstorm.  That said, if you're considering breaking your femur bone so you can be my bed rest neighbor please think again.  I hear that's quite a drag.

Then Hannah prayed and said: 
"My heart rejoices in the LORD; in the LORD my horn is lifted high."   1 Samuel 2:1a

Adrift on my Pirate Ship

My toes are not going to sink into the sand next week.  Instead of to the beach I'm headed on a different kind of adventure.  It's funny the way life goes.  I have always longed for adventure.  As a child our wooden swing set was a ship, a fort, a barn for my horse (my bike).  Our neighborhood was full of dangers, imagined ones, and every curb was a hedge that my horse would jump over, tires on concrete, knees skinned in the street.

As a woman adventure seems somewhat distant, and my travels through Europe as a college junior seem so long ago, some ten years ago, every one of which I feel the full stretch of.  Motherhood is an adventure, but it is also the practice of discipline in sameness.  Tuck in the corners of the bedsheets, fold the clothes, scrub the counters, repeat.

Now it is my turn.  I am setting off on my own pirate ship, and no one can stop me.  I wish my boys could come along, but this is an adventure for me alone.  They are helping me with the provisions no less.  This morning they climbed aboard my ship, my bed, and we cuddled together against the storm, watching Mosters Inc previews on my laptop and giggling together.  Soon my bed will seem like a simple fishing boat, and the hospital bed will replace it -- for months if all goes as planned.

As I take the first steps, walking around my ship still afloat in the harbor and deciding what holes need to be patched, the doctors are helping with some of the provisions.  They are stocking my cargo hold with their treatment plans and ultrasounds.  As they load the cargo, lifting with their strong shoulders, they remind me that they can't come along.

It is becoming clear that my provisions will be found on my journey.  The winds will have to carry my ship and along the way I hope the fishing's bountiful.  I hear the water's fine, and in fact the blue of the sea is supposed to be a sight to behold.

Apparently fear is normal before a long voyage out to sea.  Oddly, I don't often feel it.  In many ways I am looking forward to this, even though I know of the dangers.  I remember sailing in the winters on my high school's sailing team.  There was a thrill in the ride, hiking out of the boat with my toes curled in the hiking straps and my wet hair slapping my cheeks as salty water stung my eyes.  The winds were uncontrollable, all I could control was my response to the dips in the wind and the waves.  Even in those frustrating moments when the wind flagged and we had to force the mast far out, then tilt the boat to catch the edge of the stubbornly quiet breeze, even then there was a simple joy of being out on the water.

The baby inside me -- Samuel is his name -- is coming with me.  He and I are off on an adventure.  It is our hope to reach the other side of the ocean.  Somehow, though, I imagine that one of the sweetest times of our life together will be this crossing.

ISA 69

I had a particularly difficult morning.  I was having the kind of morning that brings out the ugly in me, and I was trying to fight it by responding to my eldest child in a sweet, sort of high-pitched voice.  Having given up on speaking nicely to the younger one, I thought maybe I could cut my losses and be nice to at least one child.  Ugh.  Anyone who knows anything about leadership will tell you this is a faulty way of handling your team. Oh well, I was done. 

On the drive home from preschool I was quiet, and had successfully communicated to my children through body language, intonation, and music volume that I was unavailable for small talk.  The quiet lent to my observation skills and at a red light I noticed the license plate in front of me read "ISA 69".  "This is a sign!", I thought, so when I got home I flipped the Bible open to Isaiah 6:9.  I prepared myself for game-changing wisdom, some little nugget of refreshing truth and advice to give me sudden clarity and introspection, thereby rendering me a more admirable mother for the remainder of the day.

This is what Isaiah 6:9 reads: 

And he said, "Go, and say to the people: 

Keep on hearing, but do not 

understand;

keep on seeing, but do not perceive." 

"Unhelpful" would be an understatement.  I practically tossed the Bible aside.  

Once the kids were down for naps and I was able to sit down on the couch and finally attain that near meditative peaceful quiet, I realized my error.  My feverish search for meaning on the back of that car was completely unnecessary.  God knew the kind of day I was having; He knew that I would not have time to look up Isaiah 6:9 on my phone before the light turned green.  Surely he knew that my hungry, tired boys self would not allow for a long study of the Bible, so He simply gave me a visual.  The license plate itself was my advice, it was God reaching His hand down and slapping an "I am here!"  bumper sticker on that SUV in front of me.  I should have just laughed then and there, because He knew I needed obvious and simple.  Thank God. 

Lazarus and Easter

I do not think I have ever though of Lazarus' connection to Easter Sunday.  I have not noticed before the overlap of Jesus healing him and soon after dining with him, and then going to Jerusalem for his impending death and resurrection.  My pastor pointed it out this week and while he preached I could not stop thinking about what that meant for Lazarus.  It got me thinking about his wretched humanity, and mine.

If it were me in Lazarus' place, I wonder how I would feel...

He steps out of the tomb in a sort of trance, alternately staring with wide eyes down at his linen wrapped arms, and hands, and at Jesus' face.  There are tears on the Messiah's cheeks--he is sure he is the Messiah now-- and a yearning look, a far away look yet very intimate.  It seems like the people standing around are statues, but then they begin to move, to breathe, to whisper.

"Won't he embrace Him, He who just brought him from the grave?"

He can't embrace, he can barely walk.  The look in Jesus' eyes is a little too knowing, and he begins to fumble with the wrappings.  One of the linen cloths chafes at a tender spot on his shoulder and as the wrappings move an odor comes from his own body that startles and disgusts him.  Clawing and tearing at the grave clothes he begins to seem frantic, and then the Messiah says,

"Take off the grave clothes and let him go." 

Soon he is being ushered to his sisters' home, bathed and fed and celebrated.  There is wine and food, wine mixed with the tears of family and friends, and as they celebrate around him he begins to feel uncomfortable, wondering why dying has made him so instantly adored.  Days pass, and still they gawk at Lazarus in the streets, whisper behind their mantle and constantly ask him to recount the tale. 

"What does it feel like to come to life?  Did it hurt?  What is there after death?"

There are so many questions, he does not have all the answers.  Often staying home is easier than answering this unasked-for celebrity.  "Why, LORD, why did you bring me back," Lazarus finally whispers to himself. 

Soon Passover is at hand.  Jesus is in town, and they dine together.  This year, as in every year since the the first lamb blood was painted on the doorposts, the people hope for redemption.  This will be the year their sons and all their future sons will be saved, and His boot will crush the Romans, and all enemies of the Jews, forever.  "Is this why you have me back," Lazarus wonders. 

While the women prepare the food the men hope, and flex, testing their strength with axe on woodpile and fists that pound on trees.  "Yes, Lord," Lazarus thinks, "I will be ready." 

Now Jesus is in Jerusalem and there is talk of a plot, not only on His life but on Lazarus' as well.  It seems futile, strange, and wrong, but then Jesus is in hiding, not sharing the Passover meal out in open but in an undisclosed attic somewhere.  Lazarus looks at his healing grave sores, he rubs his temples after an interrogation by the Pharisees, and wonders, "Why?"

His sisters had told him Jesus waited four days to come.  They told him they had cried and hoped and feared and then finally seen him in Bethany.  They had told him this as they tended to him, as they had comforted him when he told them of the terror, of the memory of waking up and stepping out of the grave.  "Why?"

Surely he was saved for battle.  Knowing Jesus to be the Messiah, knowing he came to Jerusalem to confront the Pharisees, the Romans, seeing him ushered in on palm fronds with shouting, Lazarus believes he knows his course.  "I am saved to fight, I am saved from the grave because he needs me." 

In Jesus' hour of need, however, Lazarus was not there.  As he walked the road to Golgotha it was not Lazarus who carried his cross.  The eyes that should have blazed with fire to destroy the Roman authority wept tears at their scourges.  The hands that should have wielded a sword against them were nailed to wood.  The mouth that should have told the Pharisees of his mightiness cried out in pain.   

Perhaps Lazarus feared battle, or perhaps he lusted for it.  Yet battling the Romans was not in store.  Jesus did not need Lazarus, and in Jesus' eyes as he hung on the cross Lazarus saw that same look he had seen when he exited the grave.  It was suddenly crystal clear. 

Jesus had saved Lazarus because he wanted Lazarus' company.  He wanted to dine with his friend before his death.  He loved him, very simply and very much.  

He didn't need him, He wanted him there.

Dance, girl, just DANCE

The other day I was sitting in the sunroom, a room in which I subconsciously expect people to behave, not be messy, and merit the floral patterned couch on which they sit. William swaggered in and did something messy, or maybe outright defiant, I don't remember, I just remember that I had to sharply reprimand him, "No!".  He stopped, I relaxed, he smiled, I smiled.  Then he danced.  Not ten seconds before, I had been verbally slapping his hand, and here he was dancing, punching the air and grinning from ear to ear, his little body bobbing along with his tiny fists.

In the moment I didn't know whether to laugh or give him my "this is inappropriate" face. After all, it seemed as though he was relishing the grace and not at all learning the lesson.  Nonetheless I laughed - it was all I could do - and he grinned a squint-eyed grin and kept on dancing. 

Later that day the boys were playing happily together in their room and I took the opportunity to tackle a mountain of clean but unsorted laundry that had lain in wait for about a month.  I heard from inside their room Jonathan's small voice say,

"Here, let's hold hands William."

William's voice answered, "OK Ja-jee."

"We're going to ask Jesus to go to Dragon-land."

He started to pray, asking Jesus to send William and him to a land of dragons, and even specifically that the dragon be purple. 

I smiled, and sat very still so as to hear it all.  As I listened I remembered a similar prayer Jonathan and I had prayed a month or so ago.  We were in the car and he told me he wanted his whole body to be red (or blue or green, one of his favorite colors, I don't remember which) and asked if Jesus would do that for him.  I told him, after a brief hesitation, that yes of course Jesus could do that.  He had only ask, but I also told him that Jesus might say no.  He then asked if we could pray for me too, that I would turn purple, and I admit I was a bit reluctant to pray this prayer.  Nonetheless, after internally reminding God that I was happy with my current pigment, we prayed to be different colors.  Nothing happened.

"It didn't work," I stated

"No it didn't," Jonathan confirmed.

"Well, I guess Jesus wants us to stay the way we are."

There are moments in parenting when you don't know what you want for your child, for their craziest dreams to come true or not, and in these moments I think maybe they don't know either, so you just hold your breath and hope the end result is good.  In that moment I hoped I had taught him that prayer is always good and that Jesus is always right.  I also thought how glad I was that I did not turn purple, and how bummed he must be not to be suddenly red.

Hearing him say the Dragon-land prayer I wanted to dance.  I smiled ridiculously, alone in my room.  I dance in God's grace, just as William did, in the grace that in spite of myself they are learning the mystery of Jesus's love.  I dance in the grace that Jonathan shares his dreams with Jesus, and that he invites his brother to come along. 

Jonathan told me later that night, over dinner, that he and William would be praying before bed to go to Dragon-land.  He told me not to worry if, come morning, they were gone.  He assured me they would come back.  He believed it to the point that I imagined how much faith I myself would have to  have if, come morning, they were gone.  I realized it would take a lot.  It would take about as much faith as my son already has.

What my dog is teaching me that the Indigo Girls couldn't

The Indigo Girls wrote a song in which there is a line that says, "...the best thing you've ever done for me/is to help me take my life less seriously."  For my own reasons I always remember it as, "to help me take myself less seriously," and honestly I think of this line, and the way they sing it in sort of a raspy yet melodic way, about once or twice a week.  Nonetheless, I take myself pretty seriously.

One thing I take very seriously are life's consequences.  I think often of what long-term effect my mothering will have, whether my not allowing my one-year-old to paint watercolors along with his brother will engender a deep seated belief in his adult heart that he cannot be creative, or what if allowing my four-year-old to chant la-la-la-la in a whiny tone over his breakfast cereal will create in him an inability speak like a mature adult.  These are the mental rabbit trails I live with, and while in the moment I think I am being more than sane, but also rather wise and endowed with great foresight, the reality is it's maddening.  It doesn't end with  my kids, I sometimes see dog hair clumping like dried grass in the Western desert on my floor and imagine that one day ten years from now my friends will visit and wonder why I never decorate, clean, or take care of my home in general.

Today our golden retriever, Madi, jumped up on the deck furniture to bite at a leftover tortilla shell from lunch.  She noticed no one was out there, took her opportunity, and, well, acted like a dog for Pete's sake.  I immediately snarled at her, firmly stated, "Crate!" as if it were the period at the end of her happy sentence, and watched her with brow furrowed disapproval as she obeyed, tail between her legs and cowering.  As logical as my methods seemed, I didn't actually enjoy shutting the crate door.

I have tried to teach our adopted sweet ball of golden fur that eating from the table is wrong.  The thing is, it is entirely ineffective.  No matter how often I provide her with a consistent and firm reprisal, she continues to be a dog who loves food more than freedom.

Unfortunately for me, I actually have a compassionate heart sandwiched in between an insatiable need for justice and the desire to teach my own life's bitter consequences.  I also love to read, and I really don't like to read quite as much without Madi curled up, her collar occasionally jingling as she grumbles and switches positions, at my feet.  As I stalked back to my chair to read my book on this lovely Sunday afternoon, I felt like a fool.  Madi lay down in her crate, her large dark brown eyes looking at me as I walked away, and I sat back in the chair, huffing, to enjoy my book less than I had three minutes before.

When I let her out of her crate an hour later, (it takes me a long time to learn these let-go-of-control lessons), I thought of the Indigo Girls song.  I sing it in my head regularly, but Madi's dark brown eyes really tugged at me more than their raspily melodic voices do.  As she scurried happily out of her crate and took her place on the floor near my feet while I started to read again I realized that maybe I should stop just singing it in my head and maybe start singing it out loud.  Maybe it is true that dogs will be dogs, kids will be kids, mothers will not want their houses painted with watercolors, and it is all going to. be. okay.

LAUGH.

It has been an interesting new year.  No, let's be honest if we're going to take the time to sit here: It's been a hard new year. Nonetheless I will spare you the nitty gritty details (if you want to share in my pity party just call and I'll happily oblige) and skip straight to the first lesson of my chain linked illnesses.  The short version, so we're up to speed, is a long flu combined with pregnancy nausea and the mental and physical repercussions therein.

Finally: skipping to the good part.  I have no new wisdom!  Ha! Please laugh here.  I feel that after all the phlegm, too few showers, too much medication, piles of dirty laundry, piles of tears, (Oh sorry, I said I'd spare you the details.) I deserve a bit of sage-like wisdom to impart.  Don't I?  I mean, isn't suffering supposed to be for the good of humanity, so that I can say to you while you are on your sick bed, "Oh dear, I so understand, and soon you will see life the way I do... blah blah blah."

Apparently the sage in me will have to wait.  One thing I have learned is that when you are on your sick bed the LAST thing you will want is my enlightened view of life.  You will probably want me to drop soup on your door, leave before I see your greasy hair, and then text you, "I hope you feel better soon! I am so sorry you are so so sick.  I will be by to pick up your laundry later... will bring it back folded."

What illness and lying around has afforded me is that I have noticed that things are funny.  No, seriously, I was living life at such a fast clean-bathe-feed-eat-drive-discipline-play-clean-bathe-feed-drive-ohforgottoeatisthereajellybeaninthiscartosatisfymyhunger????-discipline-play, etc., etc., etc, -that I missed the funny stuff.  For example, I had to call poison control TWICE in the last two weeks because William can reach anything he wants in the whole house.  First it was stool softeners (sorry, TMI again) and then it was Zicam (a cold remedy).  The lady at poison control laughed at me the second time.  She actually giggled.  Luckily I was too sick and tired to care, so I just kind of laughed too.  She said he could have eaten the whole bottle, it was fine, and no I am not in trouble with child services.  Well, she didn't actually voice that last but I did not get a follow up call or police visit so I am resting easy now.  Apparently it is NORMAL for two-ish-year-olds to pull these stunts.  My astonishment/horror fades into mirth at this news, because after all, we have a whole year of age two ahead of us (and one on the way) so I might as well sit back, eat some more Pirate's Booty*, and enjoy the show.


*Aside note for those of you in or soon to be in the state of pregnancy wherein you must eat at all times to avoid nausea: Pirate's Booty.  It's like flavored air.  I take it to bed with me and have a baggy in my purse for long rides in the car, aka anything exceeding 2 minutes.