tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23562380988805234452024-03-13T10:44:18.261-05:00This Heavenly Life -- Messy, Loud, Always WorthwhileMessy, Loud, Always WorthwhileThis Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.comBlogger1120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-77890432951321598252015-02-27T17:45:00.001-06:002015-02-27T17:45:26.281-06:00UnreasonableMia's hair is caught up in a ragged ponytail on her crown. Two tendrils dangle on either cheek like flyaway anchors dropped over the side of a dark boat. <br />
<br />
She dances out of view around the corner of the kitchen door then trips back in. "Oh, mom, I forgot to tell you..."<br />
<br />
Her cowboy vest is worn backward, baring her slim back down to a peacock-blue tutu and knee-high argyle socks. She's probably a fairy of some sort. Dropping magic on the already crumbed up hardwoods. (What's a little more?)<br />
<br />
"That book you loaned to Lanee? <em>The Tail of Emily Windsnap</em>? She loves it! Literally, she came to me earlier this week and told me she LOVES it. She reads it every day at school." Mia shrugs her shoulders and the pink fringe on the vest sways in agreement.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I'm so glad!" I say. The sharing of a book has a tendency to bring pride bubbling to my surface, like I'm the one who's done something wonderful, rather than the author and their untold hours of work and imagination. No small thing, though, the sharing. It's a risk. What if the book goes unappreciated and is returned with a gentle <em>thank you</em> while its eager spine was never cracked in the first place.<br />
<br />
My daughter hops from foot to foot, anchors lifting, fringe hopping, but I don't want her to go yet. <br />
<br />
"That feeling when you've found a book to love," I say, "there's nothing like it."<br /><br />Mia pivots in the bounds of a square tile and nods. She skips to another tile and says, "I wish I had a book to love right now..."<br />
<br />
I'm about to protest, because heavens! She loves <em>Harry Potter </em>so deeply that the arguments over when she'll be allowed to read book 5 pepper our days with unwanted spice. But then I don't say anything after all. It'll just reopen the wound. This is her point after all, I realize. She wants me to know the suffering she's endured at my strict policy of no <em>Order of the Phoenix</em>. I clamp my lips over my teeth and make sympathetic noises in my throat. <br />
<br />
I think she's about to dance back out to the hallway, trailing fairy dust and angst, but she holds her arms up in a pirouette and kicks her heel to her argyled calf. <br />
<br />
"Well, I <em>do </em>kind of love *Sophie," she admits. "I was just being unreasonable."<br />
<br />
I turn to her, breathless. We both giggle until she's gone, back to fairy business. She'd only stopped in for a minute to drop some magic at my feet, anyway.<br />
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<br />
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*<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Howls-Moving-Castle-Diana-Wynne-ebook/dp/B008LV8TSU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1425080575&sr=8-2&keywords=howl%27s+moving+castle" target="_blank"><em>Howl's Moving Castle </em>by Diana Wynne Jones</a>. <br />
<br />
This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-71346488247664374162014-12-18T20:44:00.001-06:002014-12-18T20:44:40.847-06:00One Day in DecemberI dressed in darkness yesterday morning, with the bedroom door closed against the chill of an ill-insulated front-of-house. Our broad, Northern wall collects the Arctic wind and welcomes it with love, funneling it into our living area like a Personal Pan Polar Vortex.<br />
<br />
This year's hips were forced into last year's skinny jeans. (And they were <em>not</em> welcomed with love.) I pinched my belly in the process and cursed respectfully; no husband was waked in the forming of the words. And all of my longish shirts were dirty, so a too-short thermal under an even shorter woolen sweater topped me off with disappointment. <br />
<br />
I huddled into a scarf and cardigan, just to ensure I would survive my first expedition to the frigid, tiled kitchen.<br />
<br />
(As it turns out, I did.)<br />
<br />
But the day got sketchier from there. <br />
<br />
Just enough chocolate milk was spilled to seep, irretrievably, into the seams of the coffee table. Blocks were thrown into buckets and dumped out again x 12. A load of freshly washed towels was freshly <em>re-washed</em> because they sat for too long in their own mildewy stench. Dinnertime came and went without Daddy's arrival, and baths were skipped in order to better facilitate a rousing round of The Children's Witching Hour. And under and around and in-between all of that, there was the simple fact of a three-year-old. Three-year-olds trump all.<br />
<br />
Oh, but the poop...I almost forgot about the poop. <br />
<br />
Landon took himself unassisted to the WC and did a stinker at naptime while he was supposed to be sleeping. Then he went to play in his big sister's bedroom, pants-free. He dragged his backside all over her carpet like a paralytic horse with an itchy bum. (I know that's a horrible analogy, but...see above causes of brain-melt as poor excuse.)<br />
<br />
So when the clock struck nine and I stumbled into my own bedroom to undo the effects of the day with a delicious novel, I first had to peel my skinny jeans away from my angry, squashed hips. The ankles caused a series of momentarily graceless disasters, but eventually I was liberated. <br />
<br />
I slipped into some stretchy black pants of unknown size, and fell in love with life. I breathed and expanded and settled in the lightness of uninhibited softness. Nothing pinched. Nothing wedged. You know the feeling, right? Pure bliss. Include the unhooking of one bra and the addition of one sweatshirt, and you've found nirvana. <br />
<br />
And as I sang with the angels, it struck me that I hadn't left the house once that day, except to retrieve some delivered packages from the front porch. I had even worn mascara. I couldn't bend at the knees, and I was ready to kill the person who failed to add an extra three inches to each sweater in America, and my ankles were mildly abused, for nothing. Nobody saw me but my singing, snuggling, poop-smearing kids.<br />
<br />
And my stretchy pants, they smirked up at me with reinforced seams and shook their spandex hips in rebuke of my madness. I got the distinct impression that if only I'd worn <em>them</em> instead of the hateful jeans, that my day would have been filled with singing birds and obedient children and at least one less incident of carpet-as-butt-wipe.<br />
<br />
It's an experiment I mean to follow up with during the entirety of Christmas break.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-49285658740110218592014-12-06T21:19:00.001-06:002014-12-06T21:19:30.770-06:00FamilyThese jellyfish float around on their white, twinkling caps, all directions at once, like snowflakes who don't pay any attention to gravity or wind. They open their hearts to the water, wrap themselves around it, and <em>move</em>. The smallest one, there in the back, has an underbelly of light and lacy tentacles tangling and straightening, pulsing with its own rhythm. It has no notion of <em>that</em> one's rhythm. It doesn't need to know.<br />
<br />
And from the outside, with paying customers milling about, staring at the animals in their tanks, all seems silent. The jellies back up, back up, back up for hours, and never say a thing. Not when they collide. Not when one pushes another into the glass. Not when one starts to sing over another one's song and not when one corrects another's addition and not when one takes the last muffin from the kitchen. <br />
<br />
If they react at all, it's only to gently give way. They lean and dance to one side, finding a new current that's exactly as satisfying as the last.<br />
<br />
I back away from the thick, bluish glass: I've been extracted from an alien planet where touch is the only communicator and sound is nothing. The jellies billow and swoon, billow and swoon, eternally, no offense taken. <br />
<br />
If they're a family, they know nothing of scowls or stomps. They are pillows. They are caresses. They are <em>so quiet</em> above all else. <br />
<br />
But maybe not all is to be envied. Maybe not all is to be loved. Don't they trail venomous cells and stinging arms?<br />
<br />
We all make ourselves heard, eventually. This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-26630993912384257872014-11-20T11:08:00.000-06:002014-11-20T11:08:54.546-06:00Apropos of NothingIn 40 years, Justin and I will sit in matching chairs, reading silently in our own quiet brains. We'll turn pages -- or probably swipe at screens -- and repeat gentle quotes to one another. "Listen to this," I'll say. "'Lately she almost hated Ted for absorbing his grief better than she could absorb hers. What Marion could only guess was that Ted might have hated her for the superiority of her sadness.' Isn't that intricately said?" Because by then, in our mid-seventies, we'll be appreciative of things like intricacy. We'll have plenty of time to do so. <br />
<br />
Our floors will shine and our walls will glow. There'll be an aura of warmth about my kitchen -- Grandma's kitchen, they'll call it -- that welcomes one and all with patience and grace. Like it's been dipped in sunshine, and hung out to dry on a cottony summer day. And the laundry, well....it'll be done once a week, and take a morning only. His white t-shirts mixed with my knit cardigans. Kitchen towels washed separately, of course. I'll stream some oldies over the house speakers, something grand and epic from the good old days: Muse, maybe. Justin will putter in our library, reorganizing his History of Religion section and trying to pick a debate with an online buddy he only knows via FaceTime. <br />
<br />
Our children, they'll be busy with families and jobs and all the rest, and we'll see them as much as travel and schedules permit, but it won't be perfect. We'll miss them. Skyping with grandkids doesn't permit the fragrance of a scalp or the weight of a little body. Texting with kids doesn't transmit the strength of a hug.<br />
<br />
I'll cross my knobby legs at the ankles, fiddle with my cup of hot tea, and gaze out the window at the leaves piling up in our gutters. I'll examine my hands, the way the tendons pull tight under thin skin. I'll look at Justin, his crinkly eyes and dense, peppered hair, his broad shoulders and thickened wrists. I'll say, "Do you remember?" <br />
<br />
We'll stare into our history and it will unfold for a minute like a map that can never be followed.<br />
<br />
<em>It was a Friday night, and the afternoon had been a bust. There were green crayon tracks on the living room hardwoods, and the stench of remembered cat puke in the hallway. Toddler Landon stood by with his hands behind his back, saying, "But I'm sorry. I'm just sorry..." Dinner was hated by all, and who could blame them? Things burn while three-year-olds cause mischief. Mia, on the cusp of being nine years old, picked superiority fights with six-year-old Lauren. And after they were separated, they suddenly wanted to play. Wild games. Loud games.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Sarah (still softly full from young motherhood -- she was so vibrant, then) scooted the little ones upstairs for pajamas and toothpaste. They were too boisterous for the hour, and Sarah lost it. She threw her hands in the air and yelled to Justin: "You're up! I'm done!" He climbed the stairs and injected some levity into the directives: "Get your PJs on, or I'll make you run around the yard in your underwear for ten minutes. And it's COLD out there." Fits of laughter tumbled down the staircase, but it got the job done. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Sarah sat down and pulled her stocking feet under herself (the flexibility!) to breathe unbothered. After several minutes, Justin fell into the couch beside her. Great sighs. Closed eyes. A few minutes.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Do you want to put on a movie or something?"</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"I was really just thinking about heading to bed. Do you mind?"</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"God, no. I was hoping you'd say so."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Look at us. Friday night. Too tired to move. Will it ever slow down?"</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"I know. There's no end in sight, though."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"You're the one who wanted all of these kids..."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Giggles.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"I'll get the doors and lights."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Okay. I need to go up and say goodnight to Mia and Landon. Sing a song to Lauren."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Hey."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Yeah?"</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"I love you."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Stop it. I love you more."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
We'll half-smile and blink away at rogue tears. <em>Oh, yes</em>, we'll think. <em>It'll definitely slow down. </em>I'll look at the calendar on the wall. Friday night, two weeks until Thanksgiving. The house will be loud and full, then, like a landing zone. A dammed river, caught and held momentarily. An offering plate, refilled with the best of our years.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-53044830150293493542013-09-06T09:04:00.002-05:002013-09-06T09:04:59.110-05:00One Grain of Sand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
With Mia and Lauren at school all day, Landon is soaking up some extra-special one-on-one with moi. This basically means that he's crawling up my legs while I pretend to be a good housekeeper. </div>
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It also means that I leave the laundry to multiply more often than not. Because I don't know how I'm supposed to see <em>this</em>:</div>
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...and not feel an urgent, pressing need to be a part of that moment. And invite my camera along as a distinguished guest. <br />
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My baby, slathering kisses on <em>his</em> baby, and rolling around like a puppy in a field of clover, tongue lolling, feet kicking...</div>
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is far too precious to ignore. And if we have to be without our big girls for 7 long hours each day...<br />
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it only makes sense that we should console each other with roughly 5 hours of some serious, heart melting, belly rumbling, hug sneaking (nap inducing) playfulness.</div>
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In the meantime, if he continues to question the absence of those sweet and sassy sisters a dozen times per day, I think you'll understand why it's become so necessary that I shower him with adoration. <br />
<br />
Because it will only be one grain of sand falling down the hourglass before he's off to school himself. I don't dare blink.<br />
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There's far too much to see.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-35666337112065593872013-08-20T10:07:00.000-05:002013-08-20T10:07:10.308-05:00And Then I CriedLauren was the baby who held on tight. <br />
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Mia, she was different. She balked against the wrap of my fingers, trying to break free until I finally had to spell it out for her: you will hold my hand, at least while we cross the street. There was probably a scowl involved when she gave in. Or halfway gave in. She merely held out one finger and allowed me to use it like a leash. That's Mia, though: she <em>deigns </em>to allow my hugs and my hand-holding and my sap. She loves in a hundred different, beautiful ways, and holding tight to mama is not one of them.<br />
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But my Lauren holds on. When I tried to grab a finger or two while she cruised across the floor on chubby bare feet, she opened my hand and buried her palm in mine. When she walked into preschool, her fingers were as starfish, suctioned to the stable floor of my hand. When we cross the street, there is one place she wants to be: wrapped up in mama's hand.<br />
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I don't think it's always about security. I think it's also about belonging and comfort. It's where she lands when she reaches out for balance. It's where she summons the bravery to move ahead. It's home, I guess.<br />
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So now she's summoned all the bravery five-and-a-half years can offer, and the dimpled fists are hiding behind graceful fingers.<br />
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But on the way into Kindergarten, she held on extra tight. She squeezed out a secret-coded <em>I love you!</em> and tried to smile. She sat down at her table and looked at the world.<br />
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And then....<br />
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She simply let go.<br />
This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-36194543902763162682013-08-14T15:21:00.000-05:002013-08-14T15:21:53.610-05:00This is Your Brain on KindergartenI don't exactly have the correct metaphor for right now. Something about having been taxiing down a runway for all these years, and suddenly feeling my heart in my throat with that first lurch against gravity as we go wheels-up. But that implies a speeding rush. Landscape blurring past. A little bit of nausea. All true, and yet...not a <em>perfect </em>summation.<br />
<br />
Something involving painting myself into a corner, living in single moments without realizing that the wall behind me is about stop my wandering gait. But that feels like the wall is wholly undesirable; on the other side lies a dungeon. A pit. A Trunchbull. I know for certain that this is not the case.<br />
<br />
Closer still: something about picking berries off a bush, plunking each bit of sweetness down on top of the pile, never realizing the bush was growing bare. I've picked all the best berries already, haven't I? The slow days and long nights and halting innocence all thins out towards the top, leaving, what? Bare branches? Thorny vines? Sunburnt leaves?<br />
<br />
But that's not right, either. It can't be. <br />
<br />
Surely we're just moving further into the field, finding a new sort of fruit. A low-lying shrub, maybe. Or a heavy-laden tree. A stubborn patch of brambles around a bend (occasionally). A fragrant glade on the other side (hopefully). <br />
<br />
Because tomorrow isn't the ending of something, I tell myself with a giant helping of cliché, so much as it is another beginning. <br />
<br />
This is what Lauren + Kindergarten does to my psyche.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-85183183780870632942013-07-18T14:00:00.001-05:002013-07-18T14:00:21.269-05:00Five Things + Six Photos <em>I've been tagged by the dear-hearted <a href="http://alitajewel.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Alita Jewel</a>. So. Let's do this!</em><br />
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<br />
<strong>5 Things I have a passion for...</strong><br />
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<strong>1.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Reading</span>. Although I'm not sure it's a passion so much as it is an addiction. You know all those pithy comments about folks being unable to cope without coffee? That's me, but I mainline stories instead of caffeine. I <em>neeeeed</em> to read. I <em>neeeeed</em> it. Reading is good for your soul. <br />
<br />
<strong>2.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Natural Childbirth</span>. I think if I had more time, I'd study to become a doula, because I'm so in awe of women's bodies and all that they can accomplish with a bit of encouragement and education. We think we aren't strong enough to bear children without chemicals and micro-management and disastrous imaginations. But we are! You are! We've lost the community of women who used to surround us during childbirth when we gave control to the doctors and hospitals, thinking it was better this way. Sometimes, it is. But MOST of the time, we're better off not being fiddled with. Believe it.<br />
<br />
<strong>3.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Breastfeeding</span>. If you know me at all, you know this. I will talk your ear off about the perfection of breasts and all they can do. I will accidentally invade your personal space if you come to me with questions or needing help. I will try really hard not to judge your decision not to breastfeed, but I might cry about it later. I will cheer you on. I will physically adjust your latch. Maybe I will be a lactation consultant when I grow up...<br />
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<strong>4.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Peace</span>. It's a hard-line of idealism running through me. It's a current under my skin when I'm about to lose my stuff with my kids. It's a hope. It's kind of a desperation within me. I crave peace.<br />
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<strong>5.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Rose-colored glasses</span>. I am one-hundred percent committed to the idea that if I try very hard to see the best at all times, the best will come through. Life is kind of ugly sometimes, you know? But with these handy, rosy tints clouding my judgment, I can pick out the beauty and focus on it until the rest fades into obscurity. <br />
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<strong>5 Things I would like to do before I die...</strong><br />
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<strong>1.</strong> Travel to every country in Europe. Really, most of this list could be filled with travel dreams, but Europe especially holds my fancy. And Asia. Oh, and South America. <br />
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<strong>2.</strong> And I would like to do all of that while flying first class. Please. Even just once would be nice. <br />
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<strong>3.</strong> Write a novel, and have it published. <br />
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<strong>4. </strong>I would like to find a way to kick my self-centeredness to the curb. I want to give of myself and my time and my money, without worry about my own comfort.<br />
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<strong>5.</strong> This particular list is really hard for me to nail down. I don't have exciting, adventurous aspirations. I don't want to skydive or climb a gnarly mountain or go white water rafting. I don't want to accomplish big, noteworthy things or become an expert or a success. I mostly just want to be content where I am. (Except for in business class. You CAN'T be content there. You just can't.)<br />
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<strong></strong><br />
<strong>5 Things I say a lot...</strong><br />
<br />
<strong>1.</strong> "This is not a disaster." I say it to myself, and I say it to my girls. <em>This is not a disaster</em>.<br />
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<strong>2.</strong> "Shhh...I'm crushing candy..." I say it to my husband when he wants my attention after the kids are finally down for the night. I'm ashamed that I enjoy this game so much. <br />
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<strong>3.</strong> "Is that how YOU would want to be treated?"<br />
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<strong>4.</strong> "You are in control of your own actions."<br />
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<strong>5.</strong> "I love you." This spills out at the oddest times. Like when Justin sneaks a pouch of applesauce from the kids' snack stash. Or when Lauren burps on me. Or when Mia is scowling over an unsatisfactory meal. Or when Landon pees on me. I do love it. All of it. (And when I need a minute away from all of it, I go crush some candy.)<br />
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<strong></strong><br />
<strong>5 </strong>(good) <strong>Books I have read lately...</strong><br />
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<strong>1.</strong> <em><span style="font-size: large;">In the Shadow of the Banyan</span> </em>by Vaddey Ratner. Whew -- my rose-colored glasses could <em>not </em>stand up to the conditions in this world. What a terrifying place Cambodia was during the reign of the Khmer Rouge. Frightening. Such a captivating, gorgeous novel, though. <br />
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<strong>2.</strong> <em><span style="font-size: large;">Song of Achilles</span></em> by Madeline Miller. This was one of my impulse Kindle purchases because it cost only two dollars or something. I buy cheap. And this book was worth ten times it's price. It absolutely gave me chills and I wept and fell in love and was inflamed with the passion of regret and fear and hope and love. I have a soft spot for Greek and Roman mythology, and this book is packed with some really amazing characters from those myths. If you don't care to read about a loving relationship between two men, you might steer clear, but if it makes you feel better their relationship is not graphic. This is a beautiful story. <br />
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<strong>3.</strong> <em><span style="font-size: large;">The Thorn Birds</span> </em>by Colleen McCullough. I've been recommended this old 'classic' several times, and I wasn't disappointed. Maybe a little depressed by some (okay, a TON of) sadness in the story, but the writing was so compelling and lovely that I couldn't put it down. <br />
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<strong>4.</strong> <em><span style="font-size: large;">Ender's Game</span></em> by Orson Scott Card. Wow. This book is...wow. In my old age, I'm starting to realize how much I actually enjoy fantasy and even a little bit of science fiction. I read this one several weeks ago and I still think about it often. <br />
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<strong>5.</strong> <em><span style="font-size: large;">Strange Fits of Passion</span></em> by Anita Shreve. I've adored Shreve's writing for over a decade now, but I have to take her books slowly and with large breaks in between novels. Her words and characters burrow so deeply that I become overwhelmed with emotion. So I go read some nonsense for a month or a season or three years. And then I can come back to her fresh and ready to be flayed open again. <br />
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<strong></strong><br />
<strong>5 Favorite Movies...</strong><br />
<br />
<strong>1.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Persuasion</span>. It is the BBC version, with Rupert Penry-Jones, and it is exquisite.<br />
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<strong>2.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Dirty Dancing</span>. For-evah.<br />
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<strong>3.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Clueless</span>. It makes me feel nostalgic and content.<br />
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<strong>4.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Shawshank Redemption</span>. Because I feel a little bit idiotic with so few really <em>good </em>movies on this list, and I love Morgan Freeman even if it's a cliché to say so.<br />
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<strong>5.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Gone With the Wind</span>. Although the book is much better. <br />
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<strong>5 Places I would like to travel to...</strong><br />
Whoops. I already talked about this. Whatever :)<br />
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<strong>1.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Ireland</span>. Because I feel drawn there. Pulled by the weight of my freckles, perhaps.<br />
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<strong>2.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Brazil</span>. <br />
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<strong>3.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">China</span>. Chinese culture feels so ancient and mysterious to me. Shrouded in mist and nestled in mountains. Spread across deserts and plains and swamps. There's just so <em>much</em> and I want to see some of it.<br />
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<strong>4.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">Northwestern and Northeastern North America</span>. I've never seen northern beaches, and I'm drawn to the idea of Maine, Oregon, Washington, British Columbia.<br />
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<strong>5.</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">The great cities of Europe</span>: Rome, Paris, London, Prague, Munich...where else? Where have you been that you would recommend to a would-be traveler?<br />
<br />This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-79200339689382329212013-06-14T10:56:00.000-05:002013-06-14T12:28:00.596-05:00Blue Blesses It's an apple-shaped pillow, faux-velvet red. Lauren pulls it from a box of still-packed linens, toppling a pile of blankets. The garage is half filled with these packed boxes, and almost one year after moving in, I'm still looking at them skeptically; if I haven't needed them yet, I don't plan on needing them at all.<br />
<br />
"Mama, what <em>is</em> this?" She turns it over and hugs it close. A dusty smell poofs from its center. <br />
<br />
"That's GG's graduation pillow," I say. "Do you remember GG?"<br />
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"Mmmhmm." She nods and walks into the house, swinging the apple pillow by its loop of yarn. <br />
<br />
Incongruously, it most resembles a Christmas ornament, but enormous. It used to hang from a nail in my Grandma's study/library/sitting room, proudly displayed for all to see. Not that we needed the reminder. We cheered when she walked across the stage in a blue cap and gown, smiling for all the world to admire. A great-grandmother accomplishing a forgotten goal sixty-five years later: a G.E.D.<br />
<br />
"Why did she have a grad-a-dation pillow? Why did she give it to you? Because she was about to be dead?"<br />
<br />
It always stings to hear death spoken of so matter-of-factly by little ones. I cringe, but admit the truth: kids see it straight-forward. Without understanding all the strings of emotion braided around the edges of the words.<br />
<br />
"I think she just wanted me to remember. And do you know -- she probably wanted <em>you </em>to remember too. She loved you so much!"<br />
<br />
"You should have given her a picture of me when I was all grown up. Before she died, I mean, you should have given her a picture of me."<br />
<br />
I smile. "But you were just a baby! Even <em>I</em> didn't know what you would look like when you got older. You know what, though--" I'm treading softly now. This is a conversation I'm always awkward with. It's not heavy, exactly, just too broad to fit comfortably in my grasp. <br />
<br />
"I believe that GG is watching us from heaven. Paying attention to us and loving us even when we can't see her." <em>There,</em> I breathe. <em>No pressure, just thinking out loud.</em><br />
<br />
Lauren squeezes the pillow in her lap. She's sat down on the floor in my bathroom, where I'm laying towels in the cupboard. She thinks for a minute, and clears her throat. <br />
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"And whenever we get hurt or scared or something bad is happening to us, GG is in heaven -- she's kind of like...blessing us?"<br />
<br />
My baby girl's eyes are huge and blue, young reproductions of the bright eyes my grandma, herself, had. They stare at me with questions, but when I try to answer, I find myself looking deeper into <em>her</em>, looking for answers <em>there</em>. Swimming in impossibilities and dreams and things I won't know until I'm old and soft. Until I'm in the arms of my Lord. There's a bit of an angel there, in those indigo eyes. <br />
<br />
"Yes, that's it exactly," I whisper. "She's still blessing us, even now."This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-67904605670223204162013-05-28T12:50:00.000-05:002013-05-28T12:50:21.255-05:00Snapshot: ComplimentaryMia is an invalid, sinking into the sofa with the weight of a smoldering log. Her neck is mottled red, hot and dry. She clutches a bottle of cold water in one hand, blankie in another. With glassy eyes, half-shuttered, she watches across the room at her sister, dancing. <br />
<br />
The wall of western windows is a bridge, spilling sunlight as it gallops into the room. Lauren's toes grace the puddles of light for quick-step seconds before she's twirled into another quadrant -- a shadow. Her arms make perfect arcs and swoops. A rainbow in motion, a fluid parabola. Now that her hair falls to the middle of her shoulder blades, it makes curtains that open and close as she swings, allowing glimpses of the backstage action. A forgotten smile. A raised brow. A deep breath.<br />
<br />
Into the light and out again, Lauren dances. <br />
<br />
Mia clears her throat. "Lauren," she says. Her voice is thin and transparent, with no fullness behind it. It sounds like it could be heard even in a vacuum, it is so without shape or force. It falls from her lips rather than flies, slow and melting.<br />
<br />
We all stop -- Lauren pauses, hands akimbo; I turn, ears cocked; Justin sits very still.<br />
<br />
"Lauren," she says, "you're a beautiful dancer."<br />
<br />
The dancer looks at her toes, hiding a radiant smile behind her curtains. Then she throws her head back, beaming, and takes flight once more. <br />
<br />
The sun has fallen just low enough to fill the entire floor with light. There is not a spot of darkness for miles. This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-90615010546536259732013-05-19T14:06:00.002-05:002013-05-19T14:06:19.794-05:00Creating a Family Narrative
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It had been a fabulous Mother’s Day, but not one I would
have initially planned as my perfect day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My kitchen was a disaster: dishes and pans and wine glasses littered our
counter tops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Toys were spread over the
coffee table like art-imitating-life-gone-messy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside, we lounged, exhausted, in porch
chairs around the patio table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
smaller cousins raced around the back yard, screaming and tossing bright balls
in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Snuggled in her daddy’s lap, though, was my oldest
girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the adults talked and laughed,
she watched our faces, and I knew what would happen next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the same almost every time we have
visitors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Can we tell stories?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so it began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Uncle Eric launched into an embarrassing tale complete with sound
effects and voice-overs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aunt Emily made
us roar with laughter and shake our heads in sympathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nana recounted a childhood fiasco that had us
giggling and tearing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We told family
stories – and what we remembered of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">extended</i>
family stories – until sunset, with my seven-year-old listening and laughing
and staring into the middle-distance, contemplating all she’d heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Though our stories that night were lighthearted and silly,
they were also universal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As families,
as cultural beings, we tell our stories, often passing them down through
generations, teaching and guiding our little ones with shared history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes, the stories are about a hardship
that someone we know and love has overcome; sometimes they’re about failure,
loss, or trial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We remember details of
hilarity and heartbreak, sweetness and success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It all comes out in the retelling, and through it, our histories have
meaning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I read an article a few months
back in The New York Times, titled, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/17/fashion/the-family-stories-that-bind-us-this-life.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">TheStories That Bind Us</a>.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The author,
Bruce Feiler (who has also written a book about the subject: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secrets of Happy Families</i>) had been
researching the secrets behind what makes families and other organizations
function better. From board rooms to dinner tables to military bases, Feiler
searched for the common bridges that made groups work well together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He found resilience, camaraderie, strong bonds,
and a shared sense of teamwork among groups that practiced, of all things, lots
and lots of storytelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It turns out that kids (as well as employees, soldiers, and
companies) tend to gain a whole passel of benefits from something as simple as
having what Feiler calls a Family Narrative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When children have heard (and heard, and heard again) the stories of
oscillating hardship and success, disaster and recovery, they inherit a sense
that their own lives aren’t about to be ruined by one misstep or embarrassment
or failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They learn that we’re all a
part of the whole, and that we’ll have troubles for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we’ll also have stories to tell about the
wonderful moments mixed in among the difficulties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is a mosaic of dark and light, and when
we share the story of our great-grandparents’ wars or immigrations or
recessions, we share the truth: we’ll survive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sharing of stories isn’t just something we do after a
family meal, it’s a way to connect and communicate without lecturing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a way to build our kids into strong,
resilient, happy human beings who look around them and see possibility rather
than defeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So tell your stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Create your family narrative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Recount your histories, both good and bad, so that your children will
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the telling, they’ll gain
much more than a bit of entertainment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They’ll be instilled with a personal history that can bolster them into
adulthood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
[<a href="http://www.joplinglobe.com/healthandfamily/x319987890/Sarah-Coyne-Family-stories-help-children-understand" target="_blank">Originally published in The Joplin Globe</a>]This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-34390399028004069222013-05-02T09:57:00.003-05:002013-05-02T09:57:35.998-05:00A Late-night Scolding: A Bigger Picture MomentI've been trying to quiet my spaces, recently. Both here, blog-wise, and in my head, I'm trying to be on-purpose calm. It helps that I don't have as much free time as I used to: there just isn't a big chunk of the day that will hold me still in front of the computer. So when I <em>do </em>get a moment of silence other than the one that comes right before I fall asleep, I'm trying not to fill it.<br />
<br />
It's surprising to me (I don't know why; it makes perfect sense) how much creativity can flourish in that not-filled space.<br />
<br />
I'm working on some stories that are more than short exercises. I'm putting words in characters' mouths and filling their heads with ideas. I'm trying so hard not to pressure myself, but I have to say: I want to write a novel. I want to tell stories that other people will want to read, and I want to tell these stories to myself because they are sometimes as exciting as picking up a new book by a favorite author. The fact that I<em> want</em> to write a book is bolstered and given wings because of the fact that I'm also having <em>fun</em> trying. <br />
<br />
So that's part of where I've been, lately, besides the usual: peeling dried grapes off the floor under the couch, combing bubblegum out of hair, filling humidifiers and dispensing allergy meds. <br />
<br />
But the more I write, the more it becomes clear to me that, though I enjoy it, I don't really know how to <em>do </em>it. I don't have any degrees in writing. I have never taken a creative writing course in my life. I feel like those shouldn't preclude any true success (by which I mean the eventual finish of an entire manuscript, published or not), after all, amateurs are honest talents, too. Writing doesn't <em>have </em>to be taught. It can be felt. I've proven this to myself time and again. I feel it pulsing from my center. Words and settings and conversations beg for release. <br />
<br />
Still, the lack of mechanical knowledge can stop me in my tracks. Can frustrate me beyond redemption.<br />
<br />
Last night I finished a cheap book on my Kindle that left me thinking: <em>If SHE can write a book with this many problems -- plot, pacing, character development -- then what in the world is stopping me?</em> I made a quick study of all the ways I could improve upon this other author's work if she'd only passed me a copy of the book before it went to the publisher, and that made me wonder if my true calling isn't to be a writer, but an <em>editor.</em> Not as glamorous, perhaps, as authoring, but editing is vital, right? Because I <em>do </em>love to edit. I love nitpicking and trying different words on for size. I enjoy the fixing and the smoothing. <br />
<br />
When I was a little girl, I rode the bus to school each day. Forty-five minutes or more around rural routes and back roads. The ditches were lined with weeds and grasses out of control. I nestled into my seat, propped my knees on the back of the seat before me, and watched the ditches pass by. And in my head, I pushed a lawn mower beside every road we traveled, clearing the rough, shoddy grass and leaving perfect strips of green neatness in my wake. I cleaned it all up. I made it beautiful where only tangles and brambles had been before. <br />
<br />
So when I tried to fall asleep last night, it was with the thought that maybe I'll never be an author. Maybe I'll just edit.<br />
<br />
And somewhere in the back of my dulling brain after I'd closed my eyes, a few leftover thoughts flashed bright against the night, illuminating and stark:<br />
<br />
<em>Silly. You can edit your OWN messy brambles. Just keep writing. You'll get to edit soon enough.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I slept well after that. We'll see what tomorrow brings.<br />
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<em><a href="http://biggerpictureblogs.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Linking up with the lovelies at Bigger Picture Blogs.</a></em></div>
This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-12500274684646873412013-04-29T16:13:00.000-05:002013-04-29T16:13:00.422-05:00The Requirementsfor childhood:<br />
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Mud. A great lot of mud, squished between fingers and painted-on like gloves.<br />
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Sunshine. For lighting your palms when filled with earth. For seeing.</div>
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Puddles. To step into with socks and toes and shins. To splash through with screams. To wash away the doldrums that accompany ceiling-topped rooms.</div>
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Shorelines. For wandering, exploring, traveling, and dreaming. For pirating and charting. For setting sail and washing up.</div>
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Wind. Because when it combs its fingers through your hair, you begin to fly. And when you've begun to fly, the world cannot stop you.</div>
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Bravery. For shoring you up and buffeting you forward and surrounding you when you're afraid.</div>
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Hugs. To keep your heart safe and your giggles replenished. To hold you back and lift you up.</div>
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This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-6297758732340538122013-04-16T08:00:00.000-05:002013-04-16T08:00:13.754-05:00What Not to Read: The Wussy EditionI have read some <em>really </em>interesting books in the past few months, friends. There's a caveat, though: most of these books, while excellent, were also hideous bummers.<br />
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Here's what I mean.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vy51C8Ya7EA/UWwce43fcFI/AAAAAAAAGqU/rLjfqG5dxbw/s1600/wintergirls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vy51C8Ya7EA/UWwce43fcFI/AAAAAAAAGqU/rLjfqG5dxbw/s1600/wintergirls.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wintergirls-Laurie-Halse-Anderson/dp/014241557X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366037420&sr=8-1&keywords=wintergirls" target="_blank"><em>Wintergirls</em> by Laurie Halse Anderson</a> <br />
This author did exactly one thing: blow me away. Her use of metaphor and emotion in language was stunning and often beautiful, even though the content was harsh. The protagonist is also the antagonist: a teenage anorexic. It's horrid, scary stuff, and I was drawn in so completely that it left me empty. I couldn't take it. Beautiful, frightening, and gut-checking. This book is not good. It is awful and exquisite, and I could recommend it for those qualities, but good? No.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7JtK6gYCoPg/UWwcgUgZCoI/AAAAAAAAGqc/mctEAM3_pF0/s1600/wallflower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7JtK6gYCoPg/UWwcgUgZCoI/AAAAAAAAGqc/mctEAM3_pF0/s1600/wallflower.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Perks-Being-Wallflower-Stephen-Chbosky/dp/1451696191/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366037448&sr=1-1&keywords=perks+of+being+a+wallflower" target="_blank"><em>The Perks of Being a Wallflower</em> by Stephen Chbosky</a><br />
I read this on the advice of a dear friend, and I <em>did</em> love the book. Every word and gesture, every blunt truth and honest sadness. I can completely understand why this book has developed a cult following, and if I were a teenager reading this, I would have been devoted to its perfection. But I'm a mom. And I was disturbed by mom things. By teenagers who hate their parents or parents who don't notice their kids. By children who explore (because that's what children do, right? Only now, it scares me).<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2emKLaT7Y-g/UWwcibZYdBI/AAAAAAAAGqk/Y1x4jOlYw9M/s1600/nightcircus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2emKLaT7Y-g/UWwcibZYdBI/AAAAAAAAGqk/Y1x4jOlYw9M/s1600/nightcircus.jpg" /></a><em>T</em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Night-Circus-Erin-Morgenstern/dp/0307744434/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366037523&sr=1-1&keywords=night+circus" target="_blank"><em>he Night Circus</em> by Erin Morgenstern</a><br />
Oh, I'm only putting this out there because I feel like there was <em>something </em>lovely about <em>The Night Circus</em>, but I can't put my finger on it. There's only so much redeeming you can do when the main characters are out to murder one another minus their own consent. But it was magical, in a creepy way. Still, I didn't want to be disturbed. I wanted to be entertained. Shallow? Maybe. As a book consumer, though, it's a valid desire.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z5OQpml0G1Q/UWwccxBbjyI/AAAAAAAAGqM/5XsNA-7n_dY/s1600/faultinstars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z5OQpml0G1Q/UWwccxBbjyI/AAAAAAAAGqM/5XsNA-7n_dY/s1600/faultinstars.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fault-Our-Stars-John-Green/dp/0525478817/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366038017&sr=1-1&keywords=the+fault++our+stars" target="_blank"><em>The Fault in Our Stars</em> by John Green</a><br />
Love, love, loved this one, as have most others in the known literary world. These characters were so complete, so real, that I felt like I knew them intimately. Which, as it turns out, was a devastating effect, you know, because of the terminal cancer and all. It's a true testament to good writing when you actually find yourself <em>wanting</em> to stay with the book even though you know it will hurt you in the end. So, yeah: this one was perfect. Still, I don't want to read any more like it for a good, long time. Too many sad stories of families whose kids were invaded by bastardish cancer cells. I don't want to think about it. Let's move on.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-imAHnBXHOvA/UWwcbNEJbxI/AAAAAAAAGqE/Qs8rO4ETS7Y/s1600/hourfirstbelieve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-imAHnBXHOvA/UWwcbNEJbxI/AAAAAAAAGqE/Qs8rO4ETS7Y/s1600/hourfirstbelieve.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hour-I-First-Believed/dp/0060988436/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366038266&sr=1-1&keywords=the+hour+i+first+believed+by+wally+lamb" target="_blank"><em>The Hour I First Believed </em>by Wally Lamb</a><br />
Massive, scary behemoth that it was, I found much to love about this book. I also found much to hate. Much to question. The main character in this book wasn't really lovable, but still, I couldn't <em>not</em> sympathize with him for all the absolutely <em>shitty</em> things he had to endure. Some because of his own decision-making, but others? Like the Columbine shooting? His wife's incarceration? His childhood? Very ugly. I wish I could sum it up more succinctly, but at <em>almost 800 pages</em>, the book defies narrowing. It's just....big. Depressingly large, both physically and mentally. Now that I try, I can't remember what I liked about it. Masterful writing, perhaps. Compelling situations. What else...?<br />
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So after <em>all </em>of those challenging and ugly things (which were mostly wrapped up in beautiful words), I've given up on literary endeavors for the time being. I'm defecting to genre. I can't help it, and judge me if you will, but I <em>can't take</em> the sadness of real life right now. I find myself too wrapped up in what my children's futures hold to look bald-faced into the scarier parts of reality. I know it could be rough. I know it could get messy. But I don't want to be disturbed right now. <br />
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I want to relax and love my family in the present without imposing the possibilities of life on them. <br />
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And that means that my reading choices will be geared toward the unlikely, the fantastical, the romantic, and the happily ever after. <br />
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I just downloaded a romance about a cowboy and his big-city neighbor. She moved to the wide-open spaces of Montana to escape the wilderness of her fallen-apart life. I'm sure the cowboy will rescue her at some point. Probably kiss her silly, too.<br />
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Bring it on, cowboy.<br />
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Bring it on.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-58223755240475784472013-04-15T08:00:00.000-05:002013-04-15T08:00:11.696-05:00Homecoming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
They walked without me, and I couldn't say I was sorry. I got golden silence. I got silver stillness. They got stretched out and unfurled. They forced their noise into the big, big sky. The sky must have absorbed it like a great, blue belly full of laughter. </div>
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Anyway, they returned.</div>
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First, the screecher...</div>
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She bounced into home base. I think she even flew at one point, which was probably against home-base-rules, but I'm a terrible umpire, so I let it pass. It was either that, or devour her with penalty kisses. Or maybe it was both.</div>
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Next, came the girl with the tucked-in tunic. Her sherpa boots contrasted superbly against her sister's sandals. Juxtaposition is her middle name. She's not afraid of a showdown.</div>
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Plus, she was prepared to woo: she carried a flower for mama. Instant heartmelt. She can tuck tunics for the rest of her life (or at least until adolescence descends, bringing too much self-awareness) and all I will see is the smile on her face. </div>
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Then there was this one. The one who expects walks to extend nigh unto eternity. The one who will run away down the street before submitting to the cruelty of being put back in the house.</div>
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The one who would rather chew carrots (not ever, not at all) than be escorted away from the street. The one who had fallen into a puddle two blocks ago, and must have been chilled to his tiny bones. </div>
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But since he was the third runner (assisted by the handsome coach and his handsome muscles), I let him have a home run. I thought it might cheer him up. Turns out, it didn't. <br />
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Something about the fresh air, though, and that insulating layer of blue-bellied sky helped soak up his cries. I was kind of jealous of the sky; those angry yells belonged in my arms. <br />
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So the golden silence was gone, but my family was home. It all balanced out in the end. This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-39164256384892913532013-04-02T10:02:00.000-05:002013-04-12T22:15:12.597-05:00FiveFive is fast. Five throws her arms out and flies, fueled by a buzzing field of clover. Five is spacious and stretched out and winded. Five is free.<br />
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Five is a dreamer. Five sees fairies in flowers and mountain ranges in tree bark. Five walks right up to the imaginary and makes it real, draping it around her shoulders as a constant companion. Five is breath and song, tangled together.<br />
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Five smells like vitamin D and honeysuckle. Like clover and raindrops. Five knows the softness of the grass and the perfection of the breeze. Five fills her lungs and closes her eyes and shouts <em>do you smell that air, mama? It's delicious!</em> Five is right.</div>
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Five is a picnic party; five is a doll. Five is gingham and lace and buttons and grace. And her grace is mine. Five is bashful and boisterous; five is a paradox. Five burrows and hides, then smiles and laughs. Five is joy.<br />
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Five finds the clouds and the sky with her toes. Five knows the way. Five matches the rainbow -- arcing all the colors into the world. Five spins in circles until she falls in a heap at my feet. Five pulls my hands until I'm spinning, too.<br />
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Five convinces me that life is to be dizzying and giggly and sweet. </div>
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Five is Lauren. Lauren is five.</div>
This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-80690285767882356492013-03-26T17:11:00.001-05:002013-04-02T10:02:43.876-05:00InstaDumping<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Some of our recent shenanigans, courtesy of the square-photo club:</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hKDezpgFmIk/UVGxb1mHasI/AAAAAAAAGmk/idaxC5t5SDU/s1600/bucket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hKDezpgFmIk/UVGxb1mHasI/AAAAAAAAGmk/idaxC5t5SDU/s640/bucket.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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After he wore it this way, he turned it around backwards to cover his face. Then he walked into the same wall three times within eight seconds. I only stopped snorting long enough to get him turned around. He was cool with it.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFu8PPA9MLM/UVGxdxMH2YI/AAAAAAAAGms/XIrkfj_xk8U/s1600/suckers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFu8PPA9MLM/UVGxdxMH2YI/AAAAAAAAGms/XIrkfj_xk8U/s640/suckers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This happened shortly after nine o'clock in the morning. Because I felt like untangling sucker-hair all the live-long day. And I wanted to see how much of the paper on Landon's stick would melt in his mouth. (Answer: 2/3 of it.)</div>
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My heart was singing and crying at the same time. They're so <em>grown UP</em>. And in this moment, they were so <em>getting ALONG</em>. Suckers are my new mediator of choice.</div>
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Blueberry smoothies. A bit on the thick side. Straws didn't work, but nostrils were surprisingly adept.</div>
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Middle parting like it's 1995.</div>
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Oh, the rainbow birthday cake. Always a hit. Always a giant tub of red-dye-40.</div>
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And this husband of mine is not a guaranteed morning person. At least not until after his superman coffee mug has rescued a few Italian-roasted cupfuls. </div>
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Lalaloopsy picnic (inside because it was drizzle-aired and cold that day) for my almost five-year-old. Lauren is not allowed to grow any bigger, therefore I ate most of her rainbow birthday cake myself. It's a hard knock life, right?</div>
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Peanuts are cool, as long as his binky is taking up all the room in his mouth. Also, he's not interested in sharing just yet. I assume that trait will be honed within the next decade or so, but current household evidence has yet to back me up.</div>
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I hate math, and I hate laundry. I just didn't know they hated me back.</div>
<br />This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-12039854244555251882013-03-19T09:21:00.000-05:002013-03-21T14:42:00.941-05:00Venus and Mars<strike>They say blue-eyed humans are more sensitive to sunlight. Something about the pigment in the cornea not being as capable of deflecting much light so it all funnels directly into the waiting pupil. Maybe. I've never actually followed up on any scientific reading of the matter. My knowledge is assumption dressed up as confidence. It sounds good, though, right? </strike><br />
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<strike>More important is my actual experience. These baby-blues (er, north-sea-greys...) cannot stand to be without some protection. If I'm going anywhere, I'm taking my sunglasses, and in wintertime it becomes a fanatical obsession. Sure, the sun is further away from my northern hemispheric home, but the snow....the snow makes all things hyper-bright.</strike><br />
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<strike>Including graveside services. </strike><br />
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<strike>Except, when I was on my <em>way</em> to a graveside service last week, I hopped into my husband's truck which did not come equipped with Sarah's Necessary Eyewear. I didn't panic, and I certainly didn't turn around, what with Sarah's Perpetual Lateness being in full swing. I just kept my squinted eyes peeled for a boutique or</strike> <br />
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I started writing all of this and then got disgusted with myself for taking <em>so stinking long</em> to get to the point. It's exhausting being this melodramatic. Here's what actually happened:<br />
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"Oh! I keep forgetting I wanted to tell you this!" I lean against the counter as Justin pours half-and-half into his coffee. He looks at me sideways, ready to be amazed.<br />
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"When I went to that little boutique the other day and got those sunglasses? This place is really charming and fashionable, right? So the chick at the cash register is talking to me about the store, how long they've been open, their sales, all that junk...and I'm paying attention. I'm in a hurry, but I'm acting like I belong there, you know? Because I <em>so don't</em>."<br />
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Justin stares at me, eyebrow hitched to a say: <em>whatever</em>. Trying to give the impression that <em>Honey, you are as stylish and chic as any of those girls in that store.</em> He's sweet. <br />
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"Anyway, I'm trying to pay attention, only I can't because I keep looking down at the lady's chest --"<br />
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Justin's coffee suddenly becomes very boring. His head pivots toward me.<br />
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"-- because right at the top of her cleavage (which was overflowing, I might add) there's this <em>gemstone</em> thing. Like, pasted-on. Like boob jewelry --"<br />
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Justin utters his first word of the conversation: "<em>Oooohhh</em>..." He looks dreamy. Like he's about to float away to a land of jeweled cleavage. <br />
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"Wait...what? I was telling you this because I thought you would <em>laugh</em> with me. I mean, <em>boob jewelry?!</em> Seriously?"<br />
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He shakes his head, as if knocking a chunk of mud off his lusty boots. "Sorry. That came out wrong. I meant to say <em>Ughhhhhh!</em>"<br />
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I narrow my eyes. He stirs his coffee. <br />
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Boys are gross.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-36005791100918306422013-03-12T08:00:00.000-05:002013-04-02T10:02:43.874-05:00Tuesday Around The World: March<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The light of March is so distinguishable, suddenly, from the light of February. There's nothing thin or timid about it; March light <em>pounces</em> and now it's in our laps and making rainbows through our windows and begging for us to come play. We put our noses to the glass and soak up its warmth, transferring it directly into our lips for a smile like a sunrise: nothing and then everything; don't close your eyes or you'll miss the transition. <br />
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Also, the boy in the light = all the colors in the spectrum that make me soar with love. <br />
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God bless you, March. God bless you, light. We love you truly, madly, deeply, and with incredible enthusiasm.<br />
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<em><a href="http://communalglobal.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Tuesday Around the World is hosted at Communal Global</a>. What's your world look like today?</em></div>
This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-52109253119026393012013-03-11T10:38:00.002-05:002013-04-02T10:03:20.609-05:00Snapshot: ParadiseI knew Justin was planning on working late, so all my ducks were in a row. In the interest of <em>not </em>panicking that I couldn't possibly get everything bedtime-related done without help, I'd gotten my gears organized and oiled. The girls had cleaned up their bedrooms and helped me put the kitchen back in order from Landon's mess-making spree. Although that makes it sound like the spree was an isolated occurrence when in fact, his entire existence seems to be bent upon mess-making. Cupboards emptied, pretzels crushed, pans scattered, toys dumped, books toppled, toilet paper rolls unwound. <br />
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All children do this. But it's only <em>third</em> children whose parents have evolved enough to let the mess simmer all day long because it's too self-defeating to clean up each disaster as it happens. By the way, this is what you'd walk into at my house on any given day: the evolution of my mothering skills. <br />
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And on this night, my evolution was looking pretty advanced. Pajamas were laid out; we were approaching bath time. Three children, one mother, no waiting. Bedtime a dusky glow on the horizon. The finish line, where I'd undoubtedly claim my much-deserved cookie without the hindrance of little hungry-eyed, sweet-toothed beggars. Or maybe a glass of wine. <br />
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After soaping the little ones in the tub and getting the big one settled into a shower, I wasn't just proud of myself for doing it all alone, which would have been enough, given how dependent I've become on the moment Justin walks through the door at night. It's my addiction, his key in the lock. But deep in my soul, down where accusations and doubt sometimes lie in coils waiting to strike, I was content with the way the evening had gone. With only myself to rely upon. There had been no cracking whips. I hadn't raised my voice or demanded or sighed in frustration. I'd ridden the flow instead, letting go of the strict roots dangling on the edges of the muddy bank. I had enjoyed the float, and therefore, my kids had as well. <br />
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All was well in all of our hearts. We had smiled all over the place.<br />
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I gathered Landon from the tub and left Lauren to play for a few minutes longer. This is my favorite moment of any day: warm and wet baby boy folds himself into my chest, snuggling for as long as I will hold him under the thickness of a towel. He cuddles, this one, and it is my great bubble-scented joy. He burrows, this one, and it is my heart fluttering a tattoo of forever-love. <br />
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I rocked him in the steam of the bathroom, parting it in misty curtains. Mia was dancing in the shower. Lauren was singing in the bathtub <em>(oh, I've never seen a unicorn, never seen a unicorn!).</em> Landon was swaying in my arms, locked tight to my chest. <br />
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I spun in three-hundred and sixty degrees. It was all around me, from the singing in the bathtub to my reflection in the mirror to the dancer in the shower. <br />
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It was life, and it was so near to being perfect that I wouldn't have been able to distinguish between this and paradise.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-57018434859841299942013-03-04T10:41:00.000-06:002013-03-04T10:41:13.635-06:00(Mostly) Scenes From My WeekendIt's curious. The more cleaning I do during the week, the messier my house is by the weekend. Then, I need a necessary shake-off of the weeklong cabin fever; I want to go play. I'm usually hustling us all out the door on Saturday mornings while Justin begs to do nothing. We are a boiling teakettle and a block of ice -- ruining each other's idea of relaxation. Or maybe just melting into one another. (That sounds much nicer.)<br />
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But this weekend we stayed mostly put. I wandered uselessly (because more cleaning would make the weekend into a copy of one, interminably regular week) and Landon rummaged in the pantry for hours on end.<br />
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Justin was recovering from a pinched nerve or a herniated disc or the end of the world, and the girls were making a jungle in the sunroom or tearing cushions off couches for acrobatic scenarios. <br />
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This was our weekend. In the shell of a dull (but surprisingly sweet) nut. Join us next time when we venture into the realms of actually having <em>done</em> something. Something exciting and adventurous, like, maybe, walking around the mall looking for the penny-funnel thing so the kids can experience true art and physics all in one. <br />
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<em><a href="http://biggerpictureblogs.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Bigger Picture Blogs is hosting Scenes from My Weekend</a> starting today -- what did YOU do this weekend?</em>This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-29366829575586829702013-02-27T13:20:00.003-06:002013-02-27T13:22:51.570-06:00A ContradictionI see it when she sits down at the table, shoulders back. She tosses her hair and crosses her ankles. And then I see it when she talks, throwing words like 'satisfaction' and 'mysterious' into her sentences like they're no big deal. A lesson on astronomy here, a discussion about biology there. There's a chapter book and a flashlight by her bed; the words are in her head now, no need to be said out loud. <br />
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She is seven years old. <br />
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We are not allowed to hug her in front of friends. Even a blown kiss would be disastrous. She wants to be an artist. Or a scientist. Independent dreams that prove it to me: Mia is growing up so fast.<br />
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"This girl is popular, mom. So, so popular."<br />
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"She is? I wonder why?"<br />
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"I don't know, she just is."<br />
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"Well...what does that mean, though? What does it mean to be popular?"<br />
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"<em>You</em> know, mom...she's <em>popular. </em>It means there are always people crowding around her and trying to talk to her."<br />
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I start to worry about this new-to-her concept that only ever leads to exclusion, wondering what happened to my baby, but I stop. I step back and watch Mia's scene unfold. She's not talking about the popularity of a girl at school or an actress on tv. She's holding a doll with shiny black hair and unbending limbs. She's dressed her in a denim skirt and button-up blouse, and is settling her into the world of her imagination. The doll is ready for lunch. Mia breaks off three pieces of bread and places them in front of the doll before lifting a crumb to the painted-on lips. She whispers something to the doll without looking up at me again. The doll giggles in Mia's voice, and the two of them are lost in play. <br />
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<em>It's okay,</em> I breathe. <br />
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She is still seven years old. This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-69120404486126508442013-02-25T08:00:00.000-06:002013-02-27T13:21:42.330-06:00To See a Darling"Lauren, you ate all the strawberries! Moooommmmm -- she ate the strawberries without saving any for me!" According to Mia's voice, this is an impossibly remedied offense. Lauren runs, bare feet slapping on the floor, to find me where I'm resting. She looks ready to defend or argue or just use the whiny voice of the irreproachably blameless. I cut her off at the pass. <br />
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"Sweetie, there are more berries on the kitchen counter. Just grab a couple and rinse them off."<br />
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More slapping feet. No whining voice. Mommy rests. <br />
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But the baby cries, so I jog down the hallway and up the stairs and into the darkened nursery and replace the pacifier and the baby quiets. On the retraced steps by the bathroom door, I pause at the sound of running water to peek through the cracked door. Lauren is perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, swirling her hands in the sink. She is singing softly, the water is running, and the drain is stoppered.<br />
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There is no way I can walk past this room, I think, as she turns to me with a smile on her face. I imagine her to be hiding something from me -- a filled sink means tomfoolery. A filled sink means buffoonery. A filled sink means a task of housecleanery, with mama as slave. <br />
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"Lauren, what...?" I smell sweet hibiscus, or the closest approximation possible by a soap dispenser, and the sink water is covered in foamy bubbles. Lauren's hand swishes through the suds, swirling figure-eights. The sink's built-in overflow hole is about to be overflown; I stop the water.<br />
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"Hey! Mama, I need that water!"<br />
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"I see that, but it was getting too high. What are you doing in here -- did you finish your movie?"<br />
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"No, I...but you said...and I'm just...I'm washing the berries, see?"<br />
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And yes, bobbing under the bubbles, I see them now. Soapy red berries are spinning in the sink, marinating in antibacterial iridescence. It's a shame, I think, because our strawberries are almost gone and we're in the middle of an ice-storm, and we can't just skate out to the grocery store for more. The bobbing berries are tainted and perfumed now. <br />
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But she twists her lips hopefully and I see the glint of the globe lights over the mirror reflecting in her wide blue eyes. She swirls the berries and I see it better, the scrim of residue swept away from my party-pooper eyes. Red berries swimming in a bath of foam, sweetness in a champagne eddy. <br />
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It's no good. I lose my will to correct -- the one that has seen me through so many dreary days. It slips down the drain as she rinses the berries in fresh water. She's pulled the green stems off one by one, pride apparent in each pluck. <br />
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She dries the strawberries on the bathroom towel, but it's impossible to remove their new soapy shine, and I think it's not necessary after all, because at that moment, Lauren is smiling and proud and so full of joy that neither the sweetness of the berries nor their new, floral scent can overcome her magnificence. <br />
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Lauren hasn't washed the fruit, she's annointed it. She's conferred her blessing upon the strawberries and made them instead into something glorious. It's possible only in childhood, and only for a few years at that; the magic dissipates as we get taller and more boring.<br />
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But I see it. <br />
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I want to tell her that I see it, but she wouldn't understand, and I'd just be a sobbing mother(deplorable) by the end of my speech. I swoop her down from the counter and kiss her forehead instead. It's an anointing of my own, and no less magnificently bestowed. <br />
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She runs again, feet slapping again, bringing a bowlful of berries to her sister. <br />
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And I see it all.This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-17729677061460131642013-02-19T09:39:00.005-06:002013-02-27T13:21:57.341-06:00Snapshot: February Morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Trapezoids of sunshine streak over the floorboards, heating our feet. The air is cold but the light is warm. A baby who is a toddler takes up all the space on my lap and a preschooler who is a little lady weaves imaginary tales at the kitchen table. <br />
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The microwave beeps an alarm: oatmeal approaching. I cross the room, bare feet finding the light and heat, shying from shadows. <br />
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The sky is so blue outside that it might be spring, but the trees are so grey that it might be death. I shake off last night's dream -- a failing baby boy -- and steam my face over the bowl of oats. Life is sweet and clingy this morning, and it's so, so soft. I wrap myself in its cashmere arms and burrow into its silken folds.<br />
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Lauren giggles and Landon finds a fallen grape. The calendar on the desk is empty today: fresh with nothing. <br />
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It is well.<br />
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This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2356238098880523445.post-20398591186122462842013-02-08T08:30:00.000-06:002013-02-08T08:30:04.106-06:007 Quick Takes in February<strong><span style="font-size: large;">1.</span></strong> I saw an adorable his/hers tattoo on Pinterest this week, with a bird on <em>her </em>ring finger and a tree on <em>his </em>ring finger. The tattoos were cool, but what I really loved was the quote at the bottom of the photo:<br />
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"If you were a bird, then I'd be a tree and you would come home, my darling, to me..."</div>
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So I did a little bit of spontaneous research (maybe I'm unschooling myself...) and found that the quote belongs to a song. A song I cannot stop humming around the house all day.</div>
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Good luck to you; the song is precious and catchy.</div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">2.</span></strong> I wanna know which genius decreed that all kids' dishes -- you know? the cutesy, cartoonish, decorated frippery that encourages our little rebels to consume food each day? -- should be NOT dishwasher-safe. Why? Why did he decide that? What parent has time to wash <em>extra</em> dishes each day? <br />
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I'm not bitter. But I totally think that frippery-designing guy is in cahoots with liquid dish soap manufacturers. Palmolive and Dawn? I'm on to you. And in the meantime I'm secretly running our Disney Princess plates through the dishwasher in hopes that they'll crack and become obsolete.<br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">3.</span></strong> What's your favorite board book? Even if this weren't the book Landon always chooses, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Big-Barn-Margaret-Wise-Brown/dp/0694006246/ref=pd_sim_sbs_b_1" target="_blank"><em>Big Red Barn</em> by Margaret Wise Brown</a> would take my cake. I love every last bit of it. Every time. You?<br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">4.</span></strong> I'm planning a Valentine's Day play-date for the girls and a few of their friends. A <em>very </em>few, I mean. I don't want it to be a party, technically, because I'm positive they'll come home from school with a month's worth of sugar coursing through their veins, but I also want it to be fun. So I'm thinking 4 or 6 sweet little screamers will be plenty, and I'm also thinking about cupcake decorating. (Because glutton for punishment = me.) But what else? Just let them run wild? Have an art project? A game? Help!</div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">5.</span></strong> The older I get, the more I realize how much of my Grandma I have hidden away in my soul. (Only the best parts of her; the smudgy, shameful bits are all me.) I remember going grocery shopping with her when I was little, and she'd go to the IGA for meat. <em>Just</em> meat. It had the best butcher, she said, and so she'd load me into the old-school shopping carts they had -- those carts that seemed a mile high, with a huge empty shelf on the bottom? -- and we'd tool around the entire store, but only buy meat. And she went to a separate store for toilet paper and paper towels and laundry detergent. Then finally to a favorite place for all the rest: produce and dairy and Multi-grain Cheerios. </div>
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Yesterday, I went to three separate grocery stores. One for produce. One for dairy and eggs. And one for everything else: bread and frozen pizza and Oreos. </div>
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Oh, but don't worry: I'm keeping her old ways while integrating my own touches of modernism: I've begun buying my toilet paper and paper towels <em>in bulk</em> from Amazon. I got 48 rolls of a GOOD brand of toilet paper for less than $19. My grandma is congratulating me from paradise. </div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">6.</span></strong> So here's a doozy. </div>
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I was reading the other day at naptime, and happened to doze off. This also happens to be my favorite thing about reading at naptime. And it so happens that I plan my day around this eventuality. So I was dozing, and on the edge of sleep where thoughts become so unrecognizably ridiculous that you <em>know</em> they're ridiculous, but when you try to latch on to one, it slips away like smoke. I was on that edge. I like it there. Semi-consciousness pleases me. But while balancing on the edge, I heard, very distinctly, my mom's voice.</div>
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<em>"Sarah! Sarah! Oh, Sarah!"</em></div>
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So then I fell back from the edge and lost my sleepiness, because it was kind of freaky, right? It was <em>her </em>voice, so clear and much louder than all the rest of my semi-conscious babble. It was like she was shaking me awake. I couldn't fall back asleep. I kind of worried that some disaster had suddenly befallen her, but then I blew off the sensation in favor of reason: I don't live inside a novel; it was just brain waves skipping tracks, that's all.</div>
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Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw something shifty outside the window. (Settle down, it's nothing scary -- ) White, dusty-looking flakes were flying all about. It was just snow, but it took me so by surprise, not having been in the forecast and completely unexpected, that I couldn't understand what I was seeing. Huge, fat flakes blew on gusty wind, swirling in our back yard like hot ashes above a kicked-over campfire. </div>
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I talked to my mom a little bit later, and she told me that at the exact moment she noticed it was snowing, she'd had the urge to call me and tell me to watch. We both adore snowfall. But she couldn't get away from busyness at work to make the phone call.</div>
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I'm pretty much convinced now that I'm a telepath of some sort. No biggie. </div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">7.</span></strong> Mia's weekend news included such gems as:</div>
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"I went to gymnastics."</div>
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And, "We went to the super bowl." </div>
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(A Super Bowl party is pretty much the same thing as the <em>actual</em> Super Bowl, yeah?)</div>
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But the best one: </div>
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"I was so tired I droowled on my hand." </div>
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She's wonderful, right?</div>
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<em>Quick Takes are at <a href="http://www.conversiondiary.com/" target="_blank">Conversion Diary</a>. Stop over to join the party!</em></div>
This Heavenly Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14586469381231517883noreply@blogger.com5