Whose Baby Are You?

The Worst Moment Of My Life

The Mall in Washington DC. Kite festival. Kite flyers everywhere. Cherry blossoms brightening the flat landscape. Objects, pictures, planes and boats dotting the sky, dipping and gliding with the currents. Thousands of people, mostly in groups, wandering, looking up, laughing, picnicking.

Our group: 3 adults. 4 little boys: 1-2-3-4

Look at kites in the sky. Play a little soccer with a new friend.

1-2-3-4

Eat grapes, strawberries, veggie sticks.

1-2-3-4

Watch Uncle Darren try to fly our kite. And try. And try. Laugh a little.

1-2-3-4

Watch Uncle Darren again. Cheer him on. Go Uncle Darren!

1-2-3...
1-2-3...
1-2-3...

"Where's Elias?"

Oh, he's right... he's .... looking looking looking
Oh my god here take Kindred

Start moving in circles, looking looking eyes darting everywhere what's he wearing? I'll see him in the next spot I look right? No. No. No no no, shit there's a million directions he could have gone. Running now. Bigger circle. How will I find him it isn't like he can answer me it isn't even like he can say his name do I call for police how will we find each other? thisisn'thappeninghappeningthisisn'thappeningthisisn'thappeningthisisn'thappeningthisisn'thappening
I should tell people. Ask them. How will anyone know?
Little boy, green jacket? No.
Little boy green jacket? No, sorry.
Call his name. ELIAS! ELIAS!
thisisn'thappeningthisisn'thappening

Minutes (hours? days?) passing. Then, women like angels are waving at me, pointing toward the ground. Little boy, green jacket, red snoopy hat (how could I have forgotten about the hat?) pointing back in the direction of the strollers and snacks, chatting away.

He was miles away from where he'd started and it had taken me four days to find him.

When I scooped him up and held him as close as I could get him, the semi-circle of women smiled and I could not speak. I was breathing, gulping in air of thanks and relief, like I was in labor, but I could not take breaths deep enough to tell them that I owed them everything I had.

Easter Mornin'

Remember last year's Easter shots? Oh man, they still crack me up. This series is a little calmer, but still cute as all get out.





Thanks to Grammie and PapPap for the comfy outfits.

Do NOT Let Go Of The Basket

Last Saturday our family was invited to a multi-family egg hunt in the suburbs. The hosts have an impressive back yard, complete with creek, cave and suspension bridge. It was great fun for the many boys and solitary girl to dash around and find the dozens of pastel colored plastic spheres filled with yummy "goodness" hidden in plain sight all around in the grass. While Kindred was happy to participate, mostly by watching the other kids scoop up all the eggs, Elias was dedicated to making sure his basket was as full as possible.

He was also dedicated fully to maintaining a constant connection with said basket.

Discipline, Devotion, Distraction

This one, this post, it's a little bit of processing. I figure stuff out by writing it down, or by talking it out. I'm not even sure I'm going to post this in the public realm, but if you are reading it, that means I decided to publish it. That also means that you should decide now if you really want to get any deeper into my head. If not, absolutely no offense taken. Skip on to the other ramblings and fun pictures. If you do continue reading here, know that I don't think I need to have answers as much as I need to put it out there.

A friend told me about going to holy week services at her Catholic church. Hers is not, I assume, a typical run-of-the-mill Catholic church, and they do their holy week services a little differently than most. (Cassie has a good description here.) Anyway, my friend mentioned that she walks into the Good Friday service every year in what she believes to be a solemn but pretty emotionally stable state of mind. But when the congregation processes to the front of the church to kiss the feet of the statue of Jesus, she completely breaks down. She said it takes all of her power to not just stay there, clinging to the cross, weeping.

I'm pretty sure, no matter if you believe Jesus was God's son or not, Jesus was a good, good man who loved the people around him, and who died a torturous, horrific death by execution for crimes of which he was innocent. If Jesus was only a mere man, a prophet who spoke truth and was killed unjustly by the authorities, his story should probably tear you up. If you consider Jesus your Savior you died for you because he loves you, well then, I would think your reaction should be a debilitating grief on Good Friday, even with Easter waiting in the wings. And then Easter should be, well, exhilarating (if not a little confusing and scary and huge).

So here's Jesus, this amazing man, tortured and killed. All day Saturday, he's dead. It's over. No more conversations over dinner, no more parables on the mountain, no more hugs and smiles. No more gentle looks. He died, and there was nothing you could do to stop his pain. You couldn't stop him from being taken away, beat up, slashed open.

On a minute, microcosmic level, I've seen this. I've watched helplessly while people I loved were taken away unjustly by the authorities and I did not exactly know their fate. I held children as they cried while their mothers were being loaded into vans in handcuffs. I watched my husband, my partners, my friends get hauled away for the most asinine reasons. Every time Michael was arrested, I was emotionally drained. I didn't sleep well, I waited all hours for his call to tell me he was OK and when he might be getting released. And in many ways I know my fears and insomnia were ridiculous. Our justice system is flawed, yes, but there was little chance that Michael or any of the other arrestees were going to die in a holding cell overnight, or that they were going to be beaten or starved. Jail food might be gross, but it was offered, every 6 hours or so, and the episode might have lasted longer than 1 night, but it never lasted more than four. But ultimately, that rationale didn't really affect my feelings.

Which is why when I hear stories from friends and acquaintances from Central America who have loved ones who were disappeared, or hear about the detainees in Guantanamo, I feel like I can understand a hundredth of the feeling that these people might be experiencing. I might have a teensy tiny hunch into what the followers of Jesus might have felt on that night so long ago; the fear, the uncertainty, the dread, the helplessness, the grief. Jesus was a goner, and they all knew it.

So I ask, why can't my friend clutch the feet of Jesus, wailing? Is it because there is a line of people behind her? Because there are schedules to keep and this type of emotional outburst might screw the flow of everyone's day up? Maybe. But really, isn't hers the most pure, the most genuine, the most honest response on a day set to recall a good friend's death? Why must we pull ourselves away? And on the other hand, why are we not able to even get volume when we shout "Alleluia!" on the day of Jesus' rising? I'm not Pentecostal, but I am human, and I have been granted the greatest blessing, so why can't I shout and celebrate my socks off for hours? Days?

Because there are other things in out lives. Distractions, right? Is that what they are? How could I have brought my children to a service such as the Good Friday one and had the opportunity to cling to the feet of Jesus? I have to meet needs, every two seconds. I have to occupy and tend to and feed and on and on. If I were to get even a little teary in honor of the remembrance of our Savior's sacrifice, I might feel somewhat obligated to wipe the tears away so that I didn't frighten the children. Not that I want to shelter them from this story, but what the heck do I say to them? How do I explain this sadness? This terrible event? They can't really understand that the world itself is larger than our living room. I can't explain it now, so I don't allow myself time to face it even for myself.

And why, on the day of Celebration, do I have to be worried about what I wear to church? (I wore brown, people. Brown sweater, brown pants. So utterly inappropriate.) And do I need to get there early enough so that my kids can run around the sanctuary and find the plastic eggs filled with crap that's bad for their teeth? Is that what it's about?

(As an aside, I like my church, and I love my pastor. In an unusual deviation from truth and honesty and theology, she told the children during their little sermon that the Easter Bunny comes because Jesus died for our sins and was raised from the dead. I think it was a quick attempt at an easy way to get the focus off the larger-than-life rabbit-you-take-pictures-with-at-the-mall who kept coming up during the sermon. But no, it isn't true. Bunnies come around for the same reason the robins do. It's spring. The Easter Bunny comes because he means big business and loads of money. I think, other than his name, he's pretty unrelated to Jesus.)

I feel like spirituality has trouble mixing into my every day life. I know that I am simultaneously a physical and a spiritual being. I don't have the time to grant the attention that I feel like my "spiritual side" deserves. I mean, God is... well, who am I to say who God is? But it seems to me that the being of God is bigger (such an inadequate description), more important, more central to life for mere monotonous recognition on Sunday mornings. Even daily devotions and prayer times seem to be an exercise in futility. Not futility, I guess, if you consider those times to be maintenance of an on-going relationship, but I have a lot of questions for this God, a lot of misunderstandings. So much is unclear. I feel like I need several retreats by myself to even get into a place where I can feel like prayer (do I even believe in prayer?) can happen without needing to spend 10 hours on catching God up on what's been going on in my life. Who has time for that? But shouldn't I have time for it?

So how do I become someone who is truly devoted to my God without becoming as loony as the Saints? How did Jesus do it? How did he find balance? He must've been a little loony himself.

The bottom line for me is it feels half-assed unless I'm able to give it everything. It feels unbalanced and frivolous and a relationship of convenience unless I can really make a relationship with GOD a central part of everyday life. Everyday stuff. I just don't have any idea how to do that, or if I really can. This is GOD we're talking about. (And in another way, I feel a little silly that I even have to think this much about it. I'm sure it comes far more naturally to people in the world who have many fewer "conveniences" and schedules to wade around in.)

I got an inkling of how this might play out when I read a recent post of a friend whose tiny beautiful son died after 4 months of life in September of last year. In many, many ways his is a different situation entirely from my own. Yet his anecdote of being out amongst strangers and allowing himself to openly wear his tears or his smiles when he felt either (or both) nudge him represents to me and idea of how to live in the reality of something that touches such deep raw emotion while continuing to do the daily work of mailing your taxes.

Geezlouise, this is turning into a book. Not a good or helpful one, I suppose. But while we're on the subject, I guess I want to know if anybody has any good book (or activity) recommendations for me. I'm willing to read up for some guidance. (But please, folks, no one recommend either of Claiborne's books, OK? Not even in a funny-haha sort of way. Not even if you found them to be life-altering and profound.) (If that statement makes you feel bad, you can talk to me about it. My email is at the top of the page.)

A Simple Project

The Fight Tonight

Kindred had a terrible night last night. He didn't go to sleep when I put him to bed at 8:10pm. He pulled out every excuse he could think of to explain why he was out of his room: I have to pee/poop; my back/head/leg/penis is itchy; I have to tell you a story; I need water/something to drink; Elias is making noise; I want to be with you; I want to sleep in your bed, and on and on. It was 10:45pm by the time I finally heard the last sounds from him. Until 2am, that is, when he peed his bed. It was chaos, mostly for Michael who dealt with Kindred and a newly woken Elias and a wet bed. Oh, and another of those darn humungous black roaches that invade the house when it rains for a long time outside. Michael reports that he was with wide awake Kindred until after 4am. They watched videos, read books.... (Kindred was singing 'Twinkle twinkle little ROCK STAR' tonight in reference to the show they watched.)

Anyway, so I knew that today was going to be long and hard and bedtime might be a battle again. Contrary to my assumption, the day went rather smoothly. P Maggie and Ben came to play which was wonderful, then Amber dropped by (also great) and then we had extended family dinner. (Naptime was a battle wherein Kindred ended up waking Elias too early and then found himself in the playpen in the basement to sleep with a diaper on.)

So bedtime rolls around. Both boys seem to be chill and relaxed, so I try to take advantage of the moment and read them quiet books in the mostly-dark, sing a few gentle songs and set them in their beds. Where they proceeded to stand up and jump around energetically. The next 40 minutes were a filled with demands, orders, wails, requests, itches, bathroom runs and proclamations of anger and sometimes near-fury on all of our parts. Nothing was working. I went downstairs (for the 6th time.) After a few minutes, Kindred called me. (Big shocker.) I stuck my head up the stairs, weary of the fight. He was standing in his doorway in the dark.

He said softly, "Mommy, I need you."

I replied gently, "Kindred, I need you to. We can be together tomorrow."

To my utter surprise, he responded, "Okay. I'll go to bed now."

He shut the door almost all the way, then his face poked back out the small opening. His eyes glowed in the light from the living room and his teeth were bright from his grin-- a smile that is so big it scrunched up his face. He blew me a kiss and shut the door.

I didn't hear another peep from their room after that.

My friends downstairs speculated that this approach might be the way to world peace. It certainly feels like it when a long hard battle ends so simply.

The Afterbath II: When it's Cold

Perspective

Read this slowly and you might get it the first time:

Elias is now exactly the same age Kindred was when Elias was born.


I had an Elias when I also had a newborn.

elias

kindred

Got that? Now let it sink in.

elias

kindred

I am certain that if I had been given a choice (in the choosing of the pregnancy, not the choosing of the sex), I would not have done it that way.

elias

kindred

But I'm thrilled at how it turned out.

elias

(to see bigger pictures of these shots of kindred, go to my august 2006 archives.)

I Have to Ask

How on earth does a mother go about herding her children off to bed when this is what she would be putting a stop to?






Would you like to see their new kicks? (They adore them. Seriously, Elias cries "Jooooooz, joooooz!" when he has to take them off to sleep. The story behind their purchase will come soon.)



And finally, can they get any cuter than this?

(elias is dancing and singing)

(people, please stop saying he looks like a teenager. you're freakin' me out.)