Sit, Mom, Sit.

Hamilton High Parking Lot Instructions

2012-01-27T09:41:00.000-08:00

7:22 A.M. finds the Hamilton High Parking Lot swarming with hormonal, panicked and nearly late teenage drivers and/or a parent of some kind. Monday through Friday between 7:12 and 7:22 I drop off my two, panicked, nearly late, hormonal teenage daughters.

Instructions/thoughts/prayers/fervent hopes I have derived at 7:24 in order to survive the parking lot and where it leads:

Look both ways before you are in the middle of the traffic.

Please find more clothes that cover more of you. You aren’t prepared for the kind of attention you’re asking for.

Please don’t kiss anyone today. At least not someone I don’t know. Or like.

Stand up to Mrs. *&*!@%$%^*!

Do your best at something today.

Get an idea of who you want to be.

Be grateful you get to go to school. At some point in your four years, realize this is a privilege.

Please survive the day.

Please don’t be tempted beyond your values.

Come home when school is over and tell me something - out loud.

Please let me hug you the moment I see you…or at least before you go to bed - at midnight.

Note to self: I will, with super-human power, resist reacting to your ever changing attitude, so we will both live to see you graduate.

Please don’t let this be the next Columbine.

Pay attention to the very heavy moving vehicles in the parking lot! They are all driven by teenagers checking out the other “beautiful” teenagers walking blithely in front of them, or by parents devising instructions to save you from yourself and the rest of the world. On a side note: We can't afford the emergency room.

Please make it safely to the curb.

Be brave and step off the curb confidently. But look first.

I will miss this parking lot in three and a half years.

How to Accept a Gift

2012-01-25T08:55:00.000-08:00

He handed me a tiny blue bag. Every girl who has, well, been alive, recognizes this exact shade of Tiffany Blue.

My first ever…AND there was a tiny little

Tiffany Blue

box inside!! A little box!!! Little boxes contain the best things.
I didn’t want to open it. It was wrong. I didn’t want a gift. To receive a gift of any kind is always humbling, but in this instance, I really did not feel right about accepting a present. And I love presents. Especially presents that might be contained in a

Tiffany Blue

box.

He said “Santa left something under the tree for you.”

Oh, it was from Santa.
Still.

“How to accept a gift?” I managed somehow to say out loud.

“Really? You’re asking me this?” he replied as he clasped his hands to his head as if to press down any further emotion from potentially escaping.

I did nothing to deserve this. I only came along for the ride.

It’s the same with grace; doing nothing, coming along for the ride and then loveliness appearing almost out of nowhere to be taken just because it was offered.

Only grace doesn’t come all neatly wrapped in a trademark box. It’s harder to spot.

To accept seems to imply worthiness. I have pretty much spent my entire life trying to prove that I am unworthy. I’m very good at it. I have almost perfect proof that this is true and I’m not alone in this skill.

Has anyone ever felt they deserved to be forgiven?

Or that there was enough grace to cover a million mistakes?

Or to be healed?

Did the witnesses at Jesus crucifixion feel worthy to be saved?

Jesus whole point was that we are all worth dying for, even those of us humbled at the foot of the cross, in doubt. Yet Jesus opened up his hands for the nails - as if anyone was someone worth dying for. Even those of us trying to prove otherwise.

How to accept a gift like that? I don’t fully know. But, I did. I do. Accept it.

I opened the

Tiffany Blue

box because if I didn’t, I would hurt the giver. Oh, what I do every day that hurts the giver, just by stopping short of unwrapping all that is offered.

Inside the box was an Elsa Perretti necklace significantly called “The Origin of Life.” That’s the name of the necklace, “The Origin of Life” and it was given to me by the friend who accepted my husband’s kidney. This friend must have wondered at some point if he was worth dying for. But he heard “Yes, you are” and he had to accept that. His gift was wrapped up in a

Man.

Interesting wrapping. Almost as recognizable as

Tiffany Blue.

The necklace has what appears to be a kidney bean on a thin silver chain. It looks a little bit like a jelly bean. I haven’t taken it off. Daily it reminds me to open up what is offered, even if I don’t recognize the color of the box right off the bat.

Karen

Gift Ideas

2011-12-04T21:39:00.000-08:00

"Greater love has no man than this,

that he lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

“Will you help me give life to my Son?”

“Of course,” Mary replied. “It will be my honor.”

“You will give life to all of your children forever?” asked the Son of His Father.

“Of course” was the reply. “That was my plan and hope from the beginning.

“You will give my son your kidney?” asked Nelson of Keith.

“Of course” Keith replied. “It will be my honor.”

86 years ago, an adorable man named Nelson came into this world.

64 years ago he welcomed his son, “Chip” along for the rest of his journey.

24 years ago Chip became friends with Keith.

On Tuesday, Keith gave Chip one of his kidneys.

It was a nice thing to do.

To us, it was a precious miracle orchestrated by gifted physicians.

To God, it was the plan and hope from the beginning.

Just because Keith replied “of course:”

Thousands of people, who had never met any of us in this story,

prayed for a wonderful transition,

47 people who had never met before this day,

held each other and cried at the selfless act of one man to offer another –

hope.

Keith was granted time-off from his work, gifts, grace and favor beyond comprehension.

Those that could help ease the transition of a purifying organ from one body to another

did everything within their power.

Just because one man was willing to open his body to save another.

One act of honor brings one hundred acts of kindness.

What will be your honor to give this Christmas?

Your one gift will inspire one hundred more.

And that was the plan and the hope from the beginning.

Time On

2011-11-09T22:38:00.000-08:00

I thought it would take less time to raise children as they grew into independent personages. It doesn't. It only becomes more intellectual. Intellectual pursuits are so time consuming.

While time in their younger years was spent bathing, feeding, teaching basic human decency, and just by being present, time together was the obvious display of love. This obvious display of love in the teen-age years is replaced by either: complete and total rejection on both sides, annoyance of everyone in a 3-mile radius, driving them to endless destinations, cooking some form of ignorable vegetable, trying to make fruit in its original package enticing (this does NOT change with time), reasoning with them about boys not providing the sole reason for existence, awkwardly presenting the truly, deeply, blessed part of their reasons to live - their God-their dreams-their families and friends-and the gift of school. (Each of these reasons to live are patiently waiting for their own time to be first rejected and then embraced.)

All of this only takes more time. I'm so glad I took the time to finish my college degree - which is in Communications (huh...). Otherwise, I would be even more ill-equipped for the level of intelligence and thoughtfulness required to raise two girls to be self-sufficient citizens of a male directed world.

I would like our Chandler, Arizona, Fox Crossing neighborhood to know that this is what I'm doing with my time instead of painting the house or mowing the lawn, or walking the dog....or moving on...

The Break is Over

2011-10-18T23:09:00.000-07:00

Modem and router were incompatible today. So no internet access. Having Qwest forcibly removed from Arizona, if not the planet. It was Qwest's idea in the first place to have a separate router, which today their "friendly" service rep told me was the problem...

Phone battery was dead – could not find the charger. Just found it. Underneath Talia’s bed. Why I didn’t think to look there…?

I could not communicate with the outside world.

Girls go back to school tomorrow after 2.5 weeks. More than a little guilty about the thoughts I’m having- I really don’t like year round school. I love my girls, but I want them in school, not: on the couch in front of “How I Met Your Mother” ignoring me and dust bunnies and stacks of wrinkled clothes, texting all known human life also on a 2.5 week fall break. Eating tortilla chips. With cheese.

Arizona has Qwest and 2.5 week breaks in fall, winter, spring and a 6 week summer break. Summer lasts for 6 months here...this is incongruous...or ironic...or a cosmic prank.

I love the outside world. Please God, don't take it away from me again.

Tomorrow, around midnight when I'm done: taking the girls to and from school, caring for a friends blind, deaf dog which requires 25 miles of driving; delivering meals for Meals on Wheels, working 8 hours (5 of which I'm paid for), saying hello appropriately (!) to my husband who has been in Catalina for a week with 60 eighth graders - I'm going to sit on the couch, watch Modern Family and eat tortilla chips. With Cheese. And ignore every complaint listed above.

If anyone deserves a 2.5 week break - it's my husband.

Still Relevant After All These Years

2011-09-28T23:26:00.000-07:00

Everything I need to know I learned from Simon and Garfunkel. My 15-year-old daughter loves Simon and Garfunkel. If ever someone taught me right from wrong, flighty from deep, it's Paul and Art. Mostly, I am a much better person and mother for their words and harmonies...maybe 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover I didn't need to take so much to heart...

If only all of my parenting could have come with perfect harmony and infinite wisdom. Oh well. I firmly believe Paul and Art have helped to raise Hannah into the gentle, loving human being she is becoming. Is this why she loves their music? Does she recognize the soulful genius that pierced her mother’s soul also at the age of 15? It’s possible, isn’t it? These two men have theoretically raised thousands of people.

And, here's to you, Hannah:

“And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Slow down, you move too fast.

You got to make the mornin' last.

And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people, maybe more

People talking without speaking

People hearing without listening

People writing songs that voices never share

And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools", said I, "You do not know

Silence like a cancer grows

Hear my words that I might teach you

Take my arms that I might reach you

I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep.

Ba da da da da da da, feelin' groovy.

Just slip out the back, Jack, make a new plan, Stan

…and get yourself free

I wish I was,

Homeward bound,

Home where my thought's escaping,

Home where my music's playing,

Home where my love lies waiting

Silently for me.

All lies and jest

Still, a man hears what he wants to hear

And disregards the rest.

But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity

Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me.

Ba da da da da da da, feelin' groovy.

Jesus loves you more than you will know.

Time it was and what a time it was it was

A time of innocence a time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph

Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.”

Their words came back to them in shades of mediocrity? How could this be?

If Hannah disturbs the silence even once or listens for more than she wants to hear and on occasion sings
“Ba da da da da da da, feelin' groovy.” That will be all good.

Well, then there's Cat Steven's:

"Ooh Baby, baby it's a wild world. I'll always remember you like a child girl.

Exactly, Hannah. You and me both.

God's Rubber Duckie

2011-08-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

I died about 10 years ago. Not for long, but dead enough.

One night, about 3 days after sinus surgery, I began to hemorrhage. About midnight I let go of my efforts to control the bleeding and left my immediate location. As I lay my head down on the floor of my beautiful-brand-new-white-carpeted-bathroom (if this was a movie, angels would sing about the bathroom here) I was relieved to close my eyes and arrive in the presence of God. It's so quiet there. There's no pressure. He merely said: Come with me. Or stay. You can choose.

Clearly, I choose to stay and here's why: My daughters. They were sleeping in the next room and seemed, almost unbearingly, like they might still need me. They were toddlers. This was a clear and easy choice.

Except that it wasn't. (It's peaceful with God. It's not peaceful with toddlers.)

At this point, my husband sensing something wasn't right, angrily yelled "Karen! Don't close your eyes!" Eye closing scared him for some reason. Perhaps, because he'd just opened his eyes from passing out. In his defense, it was a mess in the bathroom. O.J. Simpson could have been there.

When I opened my eyes, a tiny yellow rubber duck virtually floated by on the "life" that was gushing out of me. Okay, so, that was clear. God can use a rubber duck to help a girl get some perspective.

I. Am. Staying.

The thing is, the whole year prior to this moment - I hadn't been all that interested in living. I didn't want to die exactly - I was just done with living. But seeing that duck made everything clear. My children play with that duck and with me. My husband needs his wife. This is my glimpse into what I would miss. "Please let me stay." To which my husband replied "You're not going to die." As I wasn't able to speak out loud then, this seemed absolutely divine. I was here for awhile.

In the time that follows such tumultuous events, life is profound. Every single moment of it. Every breath you take, every smile from a stranger, every dust bunny in your home, reveals God by your side. The certainty that you are alive for a definite purpose is clear every single second. Unfortunately, this does not last. The profound life fades to a distant memory no matter how hard to try to hang on.

To keep my faith in present tense is a flippin' struggle. I know I'm alive for a reason - I just think maybe I did the reason already and now...what? My girls are teen-agers and if there is a demographic that does not need mothers - it's teen-age girls. I know, I know. I'm being sarcastic. I know they need me. They just don't know it. There's probably something important looming on the horizon - a stranger to be smiled at, a child to be taught and dust bunnies don't just go away on their own.

I'm glad I stayed though. It was the right choice. Very grateful for the glimpse.

God, I hope I get another rubber duck, - maybe a less dramatic one though. Life is simpler with a clear sign in front of you.

Once a Rockette

2011-08-03T23:10:00.000-07:00

“To dance is to live.” Snoopy

I love to dance more than any other person on earth. I danced from the moment I could walk-all the way to Radio City Music Hall. For a moment, I was a Rockette, for all my life, I’ve been a dancer. But, after dancing long enough to wear out most body parts, I got married, had children and moved to the desert.

I never planned to be a wife. Never planned to be a mother. Was absolutely dead set against ever living in a suburb. I was under the misguided impression that I was special. I mean, dancers are…at least…pretty.

I thought I would make a gigantic difference in this world. Or at least be famous. I thought I would always have somewhere exciting to go.

Chandler, Arizona was not the place that first came to mind, but here I am. A wife. A mother. Living in a Chandler, Arizona suburb.

In church today the pastor asked “What are you doing in your life that you could not do without the help of the Lord?” I thought, “Getting up.”

When does who we thought we were coincide with who we are, who we’ve become? When do we let go of the dreams of youth and fully embrace our present? How old will I be when I finally see the dreams God had for me are being fulfilled, and then be at peace with that knowledge? 82? Ever?

My husband wooed me by doing a pirouette in a parking lot on the night I met him. On the inside of my wedding ring is engraved “Always woo.” Although, he doesn’t pirouette or woo anymore, he does work endless hours in a job he loves and comes home to his family every night. He does love me-almost as much as he loves being married to someone who was once a Rockette.

I made an important decision to leave the comfort of my home town and become a dancer in New York City, to marry my husband, to become a mother. If I hadn’t first made the decision to follow the intense tugging in my soul to dance – I would be a terrible wife and mother and possibly more discontent in the life I now lead. If I had never taken a chance I would never have known…anything. I know very little, but I know I’m lucky or blessed to have heard the music and danced. To have lived a dream. To have searched beyond the dream with someone who loves me no matter who I am or who I will become.

No Promises

2011-07-14T00:41:00.000-07:00

I have commitment issues.

I can’t even spell commitment. Spell check has fixed it every time I’ve written it. Which is exactly 2 times as of this writing, Spell check fixes imperfect thoughts - doesn't it?

The mere confrontation by another person just to set a date with me (and I do view it as a confrontation) invokes an immediate back pedaling deep in my soul.

At first an invitation has promise and hope so I want to reply; “Yes, I’d love to meet for lunch or marry you or circle the globe.” But the inevitable fear induced answer is said instead. “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you… However, my schedule is not available at the moment.” Loosely translated this means, “I don’t know if I’ll feel like doing that then.”

If I agree to lunch, will I be able to make the 8 other places I’ve sort of committed to already? There are no small decisions. Each act must be weighed carefully so to avoid as much regret as possible.

Regarding marriage, I can answer for sure after we’ve been married and had two children who make it to their teens. I’ll know then. Maybe. But, a couple of questions first – IF I marry you, will your kisses still make my knees tremble? Will you still want me when the biggest choice of my day is to tuck my boobs into my pants or throw them over my shoulder? Will I want you sleeping right next to me every single night? Will there be no other men? Ever?

I’ve been married to a wonderful, strong, caring man for 17 years because some very wise friends told me he was the best man they knew. They were right - which I realized on the honeymoon and most, if not all of the days since.

As to circling the globe – no problem- I’ll be there. Escape is easy.

I go kicking and screaming into anything that’s good for me: marriage, child bearing, and roughage-although endlessly questioning the wisdom behind any of it. However, I will willingly and easily jump gleefully into anything that isn’t: wine and Fritos are the perfect dinner, dancing is better than dusting…flirting is more exciting than promises.

WHY? I'm a product of the sixties. I just want to be free - to go back to a world before commitments, before life, as I know it - back to before - when there were no promises to keep.

I do not have a full time job – I have 8 part-time jobs, 20 ex-boyfriends who I still allow to pursue, 1 husband, 2 daughters, 3 pets and I’m 52. I’ve committed somewhere – or at least should be...

At least I know I’m flaky and scared. I’m not alone. I have love. And spell check. I have promises I made and will eventually keep. Maybe even before the compelling deep in my soul to skip freely away – wins.

My knees still tremble at the promise and commitment in my husband’s voice-and in his kisses-maybe he’s my spell check.

Time to Say Something Else

2011-06-03T22:46:00.000-07:00

I'm a mother of two teenage girls. Life continually proves to be harder than I expected. Body/Image dysmorphia seems to be an inherited condition - in an attempt to break the chain - the first written words to undo misconceived perceptions.

Dear Hannah and Talia,

Lately it has become apparent that neither one of you know the extent to which you have been blessed. While I have dedicated our years together to assuring that you feel cherished and perfect, it seems that somehow - you have missed this. For the moment I have you here – please pay attention.

You are remarkably good people. Compassionate to all living creatures, even snakes.

Honest.

Hardworking.

Despite your perception - neither of you are untalented…or fat (!)…or less than wonderful in any way.

So stop thinking otherwise.

Ideally, you get to live a different life than I have lived. But you still have to live your life in the body you inherited mostly, from me. For that, you’re welcome.

You have only been around my body after it gave birth to you (and danced a little too joyfully, for a little too long). You don’t see what a great vehicle I had to begin with.

Please take better care of your vehicle. Repair dents before the fenders rust and fall off. Occasionally check your oil. Try to love the miraculous beauty of its creative design. (Something I was never able to do with the original one.)

You must (and this is a rule) “Dance in the body you have.”

There seems to be a fine line between raising strong, confident women and self-absorbed narcissists. Even though you must appreciate what you’ve been given, here is why I will not constantly point out what you’ve been given:

1 – You must grow to become all God created you to be. Part of growing involves self-doubt and searching – hearing only praise could make you sit back and become complacent. You are absolutely gold through and through, but gold is only beautiful once it has been refined in fire. I fervently pray that your fire is just a match, not the bonfire I got.

B – It is vitally important that you don’t think you are better than anyone else. All of us look around and see people who we think are prettier, smarter, thinner, stronger, happier, funnier, better. And there are many who are. And many who aren’t. However, God did not make us them. He made us - us– with good reason (although I’ve found that He keeps this a secret for a really long time).

Just try not to compare yourself with anyone else. Just…try.

Spending any time thinking that you are less than enough is a waste of time and energy. You are more than enough. Spend your energy on important things. Maybe…learning a way to make the world a place where comparison is never a viable use of energy and everyone dances happily in the body they have.

I love you dearly and hope you feel cherished and nearly perfect.

Mom
(the one usually standing at the sink or driving you back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, and annoying you within most moments)

P.S. Regarding perfection: it’s a mirage.

Press Next Before You Start

2010-11-22T23:32:00.000-08:00

Pointing to the touch screen in front of me, the pharmacist said "You have to press next before you start." Really? Next is before the beginning? This is what we have come to. Not - "Live in the moment." "Seize the day." But rather, "ignore the moment, because it has passed and there is a line forming behind you and good God, NEXT is the only thing highlighted on the screen...What is taking you so long????"

Well...I thought I had to do something first, before I could move on. But, I don't. We don't. We can always live in the 'next' and miss the analogy that we are rushed and pressured and missing out - and frantic.

While I was waiting for the Pharmacist to come over and fill my prescription, I overheard him telling his boss that his house was in foreclosure, he was filing for bankruptcy and he was hoping to last here another two weeks before he had to move to California.

It had taken 4 hours out of a Monday for me to even get to the doctor. Waiting for his heart-wrenching paragraph to end was at least 2 minutes. A heart-rending eternity. Where should I look? Should I walk away?

I pretended not to listen. I like my pharmacist. He never judges me. He said "You have to press next before you start" as kindly as any person could. Nicer even than a person losing his home and moving out of state to survive could say something he probably had said 200,000 times. He calmly listed instructions for me which included "avoid heavy metals." He chuckled when I asked if listening to AC/DC would compromise my recovery. He meant vitamins. I would never have been able to chuckle if it was me losing my home - and my job.

If I hadn't overheard his confession to his boss, I would never have known that the life he knew was running away. I might have missed the poignancy of "next, preceeds first." I'm frantic about his next. And mine. And our city's. And, and, and...

How to change the order of the world, so that now is before next...Does anyone know?

Stop. Pray. Hide. Okay, maybe not hide.

Thanksgiving approaches. And prior to rescuing the world from an unconscious loss of time - comes the realization that: I am not losing my home, I have a large family coming over for Thanksgiving, and my life will be warm and comfortable and full of abundance. For this next moment - on Thursday - I WILL NOTICE - this.

With every ounce of control, I will try to avoid thinking of the next thing to do. "Next" will come after noticing that now has to be lived in anyway, no matter the "next."

Really, really, hard. Yeah. That'll never happen.

And is there anyway to save the pharmacists: home, job, security, future, and hope, without losing my now?

Karen

Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Mathew 6:27

A Moment to Rain Dance

2010-11-05T13:34:00.000-07:00

How often do we take a moment to play? Not often enough, I think.

The Science of Laundry

2010-11-04T00:15:00.000-07:00

I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours. I love to keep it by me; the idea of getting rid of it nearly breaks my heart. Jerome K. Jerome

Laundry multiplies like rabbits when left alone. It can debilitatingly overwhelm and mesmerize even the most organized, strong-willed person.

I can wash and dry clothes. I just can't remove them from my dryer. Several days later, I may remove the clothes, but I can't fold them or locate a convenient drawer for them.

With two toddlers, our house looks like a laundromat for wrinkled dwarves.

Twelve loads of laundry fits perfectly on our couch. Underneath twelve loads of laundry is a nice, peaceful place for an afternoon nap.

Sitting and looking at laundry only makes it grow - into an overwhelming, depressing mockery of how perfect you - aren't.

I know that I am not alone. No one else who visits my house can do my laundry either.

Is there laundry in Heaven? No. Laundry came as a result of Eve and that blasted (*#@!) apple. I'll bet Adam just got a new fig leaf when his old one began to shrivel. Although, he probably did leave the old fig leaf on the floor next to the bed.

Heavy sigh. Our lives, like endless piles of laundry are paralleled in the silent resignation of a deep, heavy sigh. We must wash clothes, if we are ever to leave the laundry room. And at some point, we all want out of the house.

November, 2010

The toddlers are now teenagers! I thought I had laundry 10 years ago. Now, they do their own laundry, mostly, sort of. Interestingly, they too, cannot get past the obstacle of removing the clothes from the drier in a timely manner. The (!*@#**!) apple does not fall far from the tree. I hope the apples land in soft piles of clean laundry though, and very far away from any fig leaves.

Karen

One Lovely Blog Award

2010-11-02T23:43:00.000-07:00


One-lovely-blog-award

Look what I got from http://unmotherlyinsights.com/ by way of: http://sometimesmeaningfulramblings.wordpress.com/ and I am more than happy to “pay it forward.”
Here are my recipients in "forward-ness."

My adored DeeDee and http://www.fiddledeedee.net/

Bring the Rain http://audreycaroline.blogspot.com/

Modern Mommy Moments http://modernmommymoments.blogspot.com/

And right back at my newly adored Debra: http://unmotherlyinsights.com/

Now for the rules for accepting this award…

1. Accept the award. Post it on your blog with the name of the person who has granted the award and his or her blog link.
2. Pay it forward to 15 other bloggers that you have newly discovered.

3. Contact those blog owners and let them know they’ve been chosen.

Also, please don’t feel obligated to accept the award. I like your blogs and wanted to share.

I NEED MORE BLOGS TO FOLLOW! ANY SUGGESTIONS??

Blood Shed

2010-04-15T00:53:00.000-07:00

despite appearances we are all masterpieces in grace

everyone

despite appearances we are all someone's child

the person tailgating us at 70 mph

through the grocery store parking lot

calling at 6:30 pm to sell us anything we don't want

in extremes

murdering someone else's child

in cold blood

or by the slow beating down of their souls

through criticism

or constant neglect

We are all

a masterpiece broken

a masterpiece undiscovered

a masterpiece unworthy

a person impossible to forgive

yet still alive

with

grace

for us

for them

forever

forgiven

for our children

for someone else's

for blood

already shed

the only master

of peace

who despite appearances

is always

there

here

around

us.

11 years since the Columbine horror...complacency is more prevalent than sorrow for lives taken so suddenly back then. I'm sending Hannah off to the public school on the corner really, really soon. I hope. and pray. she'll come out.

Karen

As It Is

2009-10-27T22:15:00.000-07:00

I hear my daughter say "Where did my Mommy go?

She never sings anymore."

If I could reach out to you,

I would.

If it was possible to see beyond the lid that presses down my heart,

I would look to you.

But as it is, I stay a petulant, spoiled child who refuses comfort in the arms of the most cherished.

As it is...

Are you here anyway?

Can you see into my barren soul, if I don't ask you to look?

Will you continue to see the me you first loved

if I stay in this pit without you?

Will you still hold my mind in the palm of your hand even though every thought is being held captive by someone else?

How long will you love me?

Beyond my shame,

is there room for the purveyor of grace?

Is your grace boundless enough to release the tentacles of my demons?

No, so it seems.

You are silent.

I don't reach my hand out to you because I can't.

I don't have to seek you.

I stay here in my hell, because you love me anyway and always and as it is,

I'm relying on that.

As it is, you already know the way - out.

As it is and always will be - the only way out is, regrettably,

through.

Please, get me through.

I want to sing.

Please, lead me back to your voice.

Eleven years later. I reached out my hand and the barren soul is mostly healed... But, now my daughters actually ask me not to sing quite so loud, or quite so often, or in the middle of "What Not to Wear." Which by the way, they keep submitting me for. I guess there's no middle ground. You are either silent - or singing at the top of your lungs. In or out. Stuck or through. As of today…I got through!

Who Am I First?

2009-10-20T23:33:00.003-07:00

A mother's identity lost in the first cry of her child.

A mother's identity found in the first smile of her child.

But years later when the novelty has worn off,

who does Mom become above all?

Someone's wife?

ONLY A MOTHER!!!!!

A Maid.

A Musician.

A Dancer.

A Storyteller.

An Actress.

A Puppeteer.

Arms.

Tears.

All Smiles.

A stand-up commedian.

A human baby-wipe.

Asleep.

~~Chef?~~

No...microwave operator.

A grateful observer.

A joyful recipient.

Sad.

A miss being alone.

Lonely.

Impatient.

Patient.

Endlessly patient.

Loved.

By husband.

By children.

By friends I never see.

But mostly by the cat.

I was someone else before I had all this laundry to do.

I just don't remember who that was.

Who am I first?

I don't know.

It changes everyday.

And everyday brings something else to be.

And everyday brings someone into my arms,

no matter who I am first.

Or what I end up to be at last.

Coffee Break

2009-10-05T22:32:00.002-07:00

"Mommy, why do you drink so much coffee?"

"In a word...you."

Only in Innocence

2009-10-05T22:32:00.000-07:00

Only in childhood can we don a fuzzy yellow Tweedy Bird snow cap in July...in L.A. and walk into a Hallmark store to do a little browsing. Only in innocence can we wear what peaks our fancy and be thrilled with only our perception of how we look.

Tea parties and princess dreams. Rhinestones and mom's shoes. It doesn't matter that nothing fits, only that we know we are beautiful and special. Only in innocence is the mirror our friend, a magical insight into who we think we are and who we will become.

Now my life is with daughters who are "becoming." Clearly, innocence had its place. A place we are leaving behind. To survive, innocence must go. You can't be a grown woman in a Tweedy Bird hat. Although, I'm pretty sure Hannah would still walk into a Hallmark store in that hat, just because she would know that it's funny and, thankfully, she can trust her perception of how she looks. The mirror is still her friend. I wonder when that changes?

Little Mirrors

2009-09-29T23:24:00.000-07:00

Where do you find the reflection of God?

Looking down: Baggy sweats, stained t-shirt, if I could see my waist it would disappoint me.

Looking in the mirror: Dark circles, pale skin, wrinkles multiplying as I watch. The price of staying at home to raise children is paid in the physical deterioration of a once lovely human being. I should just cover up all the mirrors.

Looking in my children: My hopes, my past, my failings, my humor, my joy, constantly in front of me. But what I see most is more grace than I deserve. More than the mistakes I've made, I see the reflection of God in their hearts.

Looking up: Where do I find the reflection of God? Not in my mirror. In two small hands reaching toward each other to clasp in prayer. In gentle expressions of concern for another. In a heart that can hurt over someone else's injustice and pain. In the peaceful sleeping of a litle girl, arms and legs outstretched to each side, mouth open, trust complete.

Looking back: Children are a better mirror than reflective glass. When I was young and unscarred by time, my appearance was the sum total of my worth. Now that I have lived, that sum total has become the grace God is giving to my children. His worth reflects off my tarnished and wrinkled armor and shows up in the gifts I have to offer now. Trust, faith, humor, peace, laughter, love, time, and me. As I am. As all I have become from years of lessons from God.

The heart of a mother's work is revealed each moment in the lives of our children. No wonder I look like a refugee.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll brush my hair. Maybe then I can walk by a mirror without seeing everything ugly and everything unimportant. Today, I'll go see what my children are up to and look for the reflection of God there.

Now: 11 or so years later and I still can't pass a mirror without harsh judgement on the person reflected. When does this end? Whatever. My girls are in junior high and dealing with braces, boys, friends/clothes, changing bodies and yet, they still see a mother who loves them. They are good people, believe in God and tell me all about, braces, boys, friends/clothes and their changing bodies. That seems like grace to me. Amazing.

Karen

The Next, Best Waltz (or I Keep Stepping on Cheerio's)

2009-09-21T22:57:00.000-07:00

I played Chopin's "Waltz in C Sharp Minor" on our stereo today. When I was younger I could play that piece on the piano, if not flawlessly, at least quite remarkably. There have been times when playing the piano was vital to me. I recall working fairly hard at it.

I've had a tough couple of days (okay, three years). Both of my children and husband are sick. So...they've been home. I have picked up every single toy (numbering close to three thousand) three times each. I have yet to walk across a room without the crunch of Cheerio's beneath my feet. It's like some kind of magnet between the floor and Cheerio's. I landed sideways into a pile of dirty laundry because rounding a corner at 60 m.p.h. I tripped over a plastic blue Barbie convertible. I have wiped runny noses exactly one thousand times (my husband handles his own Kleenex, however) (and thankfully). I have said "NO!" more than any other word in my vocabulary.

Today, as so many other days, I have not liked being a mother. My lofty aspirations of raising, well, someone close to the second coming seem lost in endless days of practicality. Seemingly gone are all the positive, encouraging words that I want my children to hear. And definitely gone are the days when playing a waltz was the struggle of my day.

At times, mothering two toddlers has meant cavorting through meadows blissfully seeing the beauty of this earth through their eyes and peaking through windows calling out for Peter Pan. On the best days, it has even meant praying with and for them to become everything God intended. (Concert pianist? Olympic gymnast? At least walking upright?). That just hasn't been today, or very often.

Generally, I can only concentrate on creating a walkway through the toys and keeping everyone relatively unharmed...including myself.

Today I put Chopin's waltz in to see if it might have a calming effect on toddlers. It doesn't seem to. It's so disappointing that I can no longer play that waltz, or for that matter, that I no longer even dust the piano.

As I stood momentarily enjoying the magnificence of Chopin, marveling at how talented I must be somewhere inside, I overheard Hannah, my two-year-old, encouraging her stuffed monkey, Monkey McMoooo, to climb up a tower of blocks, "You can do it. Good girl." And thankfully, I realize that she must have gotten that from me! At least, I dearly hope it was from me. And maybe, rather than just playing the piano, or merely picking up toys, my days are actually spent raising a legacy of people who will encourage others. Those positive words I managed to fit in-between "no" and "You need a Kleenex, Keith, I mean Hannah" have been heard. Hannah will encourage her stuffed monkeys, her little sister, her friends, her children, and on and on.

I am so grateful to realize that this is better than playing a waltz, and will last longer than the five minutes I was able to play it. God willing, this legacy will last longer than runny noses and will override the first 2.3 million "NO'S!"

If I sat down at the piano today to attempt that waltz, I wonder if Hannah would say, "You can do it. Good girl."

Even though I long for the thrill of playing something beautiful on the piano, I'm deeply satisfied knowing that something even more beautiful and lasting is being expressed in my children. My children; my next, best, Cheerio-distributing, runny-nosed, magnificent waltz.

11 years later...
Hannah, my 13-year-old magnificent waltz continues to love Monkey McMoooo, even though Monkey McMoooo mostly sits upside down in the corner of her room. The "waltz's" little sister, Talia, who is 12, just asked me to put our pet fish in a safe place so the cat, Sherman, couldn't eat them. Talia and I rescued Sherman, who is also 12, from the cat shelter where we volunteer. So far, so good, on the legacy. We are rescuing, saving and nurturing all forms of life here in our home. Be it stuffed or living.

I sat down and played the piano yesterday. After which Hannah said "That was pretty Mommy. You should practice that more. Oh, your bangs look good today."

Close enough.

Karen

(She didn't need a Kleenex. But I did.)

How to Sit

2009-09-16T23:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'll sit in this chair and hold you while you nuzzle my neck and suck your thumb.

Even though it's 5:30 in the afternoon and I really should do the breakfast dishes before I start making dinner.

Even though I just made you the greatest fort beneath the kitchen table.

Okay, I'll sit here and hold you until you're awake enough to venture forth into the unknown kingdom under table.

If you do climb off my lap to go inside the fort, I will: do the dishes, make dinner, mop the floor, organize all your toys and clothes, paint your dresser, read a book, play solitaire on the computer, call my mother, transfer all my phone numbers into my new phone book I got two Christmases ago, complete all photo albums with captions, take a shower and feel guilty that I'm not with you in the fort.

If you don't go inside, I'll sit here and hold you.

I should be able to stay here in this chair without everything I haven't done screaming in my head.

I should be able to love this.

Someday, I'll be in this chair alone.

When my arms are no longer your comfort, I can: do the breakfast dishes, make dinner, convert your bedroom into a gym, read all my books, call all my friends listed in my old phone book while I'm clean and ironed and made-up and glancing through my perfectly organized photo albums.

Knowing that I only get to hold you for a brief moment doesn't make it any easier to stay here. I am all to aware that chaos reigns in my own fort, in fact, in my entire kingdom.

Dear God, help me never choose to let go of this precious little body
so that I might hold a dirty dish.

Oh, you're little hand, stroking my cheek.

Please stop smiling at me.

When you smile...my choice is made.

Here is where I am.

Here is where I stay.

This is how to sit.

I wrote this 11 years ago. I tried to build my 13 year old daughter a fort today and she wouldn't go in! I guess I should have let her off my lap...Really don't know how or when she got so tall. She is still precious, even at 13. I did let go of her 11 years ago to do the dishes and I still regret it. On the plus side, I have taught her how to do the dishes, so I can now sit-even though, it's almost always alone, and everything I haven't done is still there to taunt me.

Karen

Something new.

2009-09-16T23:36:00.001-07:00

It must be possible to do everything you ever wanted to do. I'm sure of it. I don't know how yet, but I know there's a slim chance it's possible. This blog is an effort to sit down and write, to sit down long enough to notice my children, and to see if it's possible to not feel quilty for either - for any of the time that wasn't spent working. Well, and sleeping, cleaning, planning for tomorrow, driving, picking up dirty socks...you get the picture. Right now, this is all I want. Tomorrow could be another story. But, this is about today. And stopping. For a moment.