Tornado position

When I was in the first grade a tornado came dangerously close to our elementary school. I remember our teacher yelling in his "mad dad" voice about the need to stay covered, to hide our faces, to protect our heads. I remember the way the doors rattled, propped up with wooden doorstops which were valiantly trying to do their job. I remember the dust and scattered paper, the discarded practice spelling lists and milk carton straws skittering down the orange carpeted hallway. I crouched in that hallway, my hands pressed to the back of my neck, my nose buried in the smell of the fabric softener embedded deep into the fibers of my clothes as I crouched, knees to nose. And I was too stunned to even cry; too overwhelmed to even react. The community tornado siren was wailing, the wind was blowing, and I was a scared six-year-old.

Ever since then, I have been plagued by tornado dreams. Before college graduation, when I had no idea what my future held, I would wake my roommate up with eerie moans because the tornado was coming, and I couldn't make my way to a place of safety. In seminary, when I was completing a student pastorate with a supervisor who questioned my motivations and "gifts for ministry" I would often dream of that tornado on Saturday nights before driving to Indianapolis on Sunday mornings. And in one of my most telling dreams, right before leaving the congregation I had pastored with my whole being, and facing a ministry commission who questioned my commitments, I dreamt that a tornado was coming and R. and I were sheltering the Misses T. and B., seeking safe haven in the church as the sky grew darker. And the church leaders locked its doors and said we'd have to go elsewhere.

Tornado dreams have nested in my psyche; and whenever I am at my most fragile, Morpheus summons that familiar symbol to sprout in my dreams; to remind me that there are things which need to be tended to, upheavals which are on the horizon.

My work is hard now. In addition to the constant companion of burn-out which I have come well acquainted with in the past year, our small not-for-profit hospice is, like many not-for-profits in this economy, struggling some. In our own black Friday last week five people had positions eliminated ("right-sizing" they called it...apparently "down-sizing" is a little too much of a bummer). Thankfully, my job was spared, but tasks were "reassigned" and change is imminent. Our office is somber. There are whispered exchanges. There are tears. There are some recriminations.

There is a little nook between my colleague's desk and mine. We store boxes there, keep trash cans for medical shredding there, stow extra CD players there. All day today I found myself wanting to crawl into this hideaway, to huddle in tornado drill fashion, protecting my head and waiting for the wind to pass. My thirty-six-year-old self reverting back to her six-year-old safety mechanism.

It's windy right now friends, and the sky has sort of a greenish tint. I'm vigilant. And I'm edgy. And my burned-out, desperate soul doesn't know right now where to seek shelter.

Or, perhaps more importantly as a chaplain, how to offer that shelter to the ones I am called by God to serve. And this frightens me the most.

A New Look

Whaddya think? Yes? No?

Change sort of freaks me out.

A Belated Halloween Post

(EXHIBIT A)

(EXHIBIT B)
Grammy made Grayson an amazing costume. We think he kind of likes her for that (see Exhibit A).

Our little organ-grinder's monkey. Still a little unclear on the whole "trick or treat" concept (do I ring the doorbell and run away? Do I make the people beg for more? Do I prefer that they look at my tail rather than my face? See Exhibit B). Ultimately, it's just easier to pause and take a break to play the songs that make the whole world sing.

And yes, in time, he will curse his mother for picking out that costume that sort of accentuated and verified the fact that his head circumference is upwards of the 95th percentile.

Uncle Vayden

I've posted about my brother-in-law before. He is a mensch. A hospice medical director. A jazz enthusiast. A progressive liberal. A kind and gentle man. And he knows his scotch. These simple qualifiers alone make him "good people" in my book.

I love my brother-in-law (almost as much as I love my sister-in-law, feminist extraordinaire who inspires me with her intelligence, and keen insight and savvy. And, let me freely admit that I also believe that behind every good and sensitive man there is an equally good and sensitive woman).

But I'm not sure I love Vayden as much as Grayson does.

I'm constantly amazed at Grayson's memory. We were in Texas in August to see R.'s family and it was only minutes before Grayson had figured out who everyone was, and what they offered. Mamaw Amy had amazing steps which he could climb down. Aunt Lois would clap when he did something impressive (like climb down those steps) and marvel at how sweet he was. And Uncle Vayden, well, Uncle Vayden could talk like Donald Duck.

The day we left Texas in August, Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden stood on their porch in the early morning and signed the word "more" as taught to them by their crawling nephew. They wanted more time with us; almost as much as we wanted more time with them. We, the occupants of the jam-packed Mercury Sable pulled out of their driveway, and lamented that we only got to see our Texas kin once a year. And were sad that our time away, once again, felt so ephemeral.

The misses T. and B. know and love their aunt and uncle. They understand that they are loved by family far away. They know the faces and names and characteristics of their Texas kin. But, the prince of the home, Grayson, only got to know them for the second time in this past summer's visit, and it is hard to know whether he can comprehend the importance of family, as much as we'd like him to.

However, as we've lately learned, apparently this summer's visit made an impression.

Multiple times a day now Grayson makes a trip to the refrigerator. He's not searching for juice, or for yogurt, but for the magnets which are plastered on the outside of the bottom of the ecru-tinted Amana within easy toddler reach. The boy sorts through the magnets carefully rejecting the Mickey Mouse, the Winnie the Pooh, the Obama/Biden, the Monet reproduction of water lilies. Instead, he carefully pulls off the magnetic photo of Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden and cradles it near his chest. He carries it throughout the house, showing it to those who ask (or those who don't, yesterday he tried to show it to the cat, who had no interest), and occasionally leaving it behind when some other passion beckons. I've come upon the photo in random places that Grayson haunts--by the backdoor as he gazes at his swingset, next to the bathtub where he had to leave it behind so it wouldn't get wet, next to his highchair when he was told he couldn't "play" and eat at the same time.

And if you ask him, "Who is in that picture?" He has no answer.

But if you ask him, "What does Uncle Vayden say?" He begins to quack and speak his own brand of Donald Duck jibberish. He remembers Uncle Vayden's play-talk.

I think that perhaps, Grayson believes Uncle Vayden is the authentic Donald Duck; a mystical force which surrounds him with sound but which he doesn't understand. Uncle Vayden's voice has simply become the mouthpiece for some sense of goodness in the world in a toddler's mind, and he cradles his picture as if it were a medieval icon.

Grayson will know the love of Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden as he grows; as he understands time and distance and extended family. But for now, he carries his magnetic photo of Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden near his heart and labels it with the voice of a cartoon character and recognizes that family come in all shapes and sounds and that they love him wherever they reside.

Goodbye Deferred, For Now

I hate goodbyes. I hate them with a passion. I avoid goodbyes at all costs, being the first one to duck out of a reunion without the customary adieus, avoiding that final glance by ducking out the back door with a friendly, "I'll see you before I leave..." Goodbyes are not easy for me.

Saturday was spent helping pack up my grandparents' home on Chapman Lake. Those who know me, or follow this blog, are aware that my grandfather died in July and for many reasons the decision was made to sell the lake cottage, reasons which I understand and appreciate, but understanding and appreciating don't soothe the ache in this granddaughter's heart just yet.

Saturday was spent sorting through and dividing the accumulated treasures and detritus of a lifetime. We sorted fine china and silver and then wondered what to do with Grandma's bridge of false teeth (seemed strange to throw it away, seemed strange to keep it). We divvied up family Bibles, and saved small pieces of paper with words written in Grandpa or Grandma's shaky handwriting. We claimed the things which were meaningful to each of us (a T shirt which smelled like Grandpa, the Fisher Price phone from the late 1960s which I hauled around the cottage when I could first walk) and reluctantly threw away old receipts, and old keychains, and old muffin mixes.

I wept all the way to the lake that day. The property "changes hands" in a few weeks and this will likely be my last time in the house, but in true Miller fashion, I focused on the task at hand. I worked, for by working one can avoid a heap of pain.

I was the only grandchild at the lake that day. Most of my cousins live too far away to come for the day, several of them have already done their part cleaning up the garage or assisting in Grandpa's care. I labored alongside my aunts and uncles and stood apart in my respect for their grief, a generation once removed who yields to its elders.

The day wore on, my uncles occupied themselves in the garage and shed; took the boat out of the water and removed the engine. My aunts and step-mother and I sorted clothes, dishes, household goods. I knew the time was coming when I would need to leave; I had to attend the ballet that evening where Miss T. was dancing. I worked until the moment that I had to go. And when it was time to leave I disciplined myself to truly say goodbye, at least to the people. I looked around and realized both my uncles had already gone. In true Miller fashion. Without a goodbye.

I understood.

I could not say goodbye to the lake. I did not cry on the way home. I focused my eyes on the road and fixed my thoughts on the evening to come and mentally rearranged certain places in my home that I wanted to incorporate memorabilia from Chapman Lake which was carefully placed in boxes in the back seat.

I have not said my goodbyes yet. I believe they will come quietly when the last of my grandparents ashes are scattered at the swimming hole, or late in the night as I cradle a mussel shell rescued from the beach and use it as a centering tool, as a polestar of sorts.

Goodbye will come. But I have to digest it in small pieces. And I have to believe my grandparents, the two who built each of their original homes bit by bit, adding only what they could afford at the time so that they were often living in a perpetual state of incompleteness, would have recognized this bit-by-bit grief, this grief which still lives in a home with no doorknobs even after twenty years.

This is all I know to do now. And I trust that they would have understood.

Months 17/18

My Sweet Boo,

Again, Mama has gotten behind in her postings. Summer fell gently into fall and I was preoccupied with our family, and with my patients, and with the swirl of activity around us.

Today you were sick with a runny nose and lots of congestion. You had a temperature and were just generally ill at ease. I took the day off to care for you. Not only have your walking skills led you from room to room with ease and able to grab small objects off high shelves, I realized today how very good you are at understanding what I ask. For a long time I assumed you were merely mimicking me when you said, "Dep" or "Nooooo" to my questions, aping what you heard or saw me do, but today it was clear to me how much you grasp the English language, even though you can't speak it yet. You pointed out the bus in the pictures in your book. You hugged your doll "Red" and offered him cuddles and kisses when I suggested it. You brought me a ball when requested. You wandered over to your highchair when I hinted that I was making you some noodle soup to help with that cold of yours.

I love this new discovery in you. And...I'm learning that not unlike your Mama you have your own independent and distinct views on things.

This past week I've learned from you that...

• You'd rather NOT eat noodles from the spoon, but would prefer them placed on your tray to be picked up with your fingers.
  
• You'd rather NOT be fed applesauce, but would like to eat it on your own with a spoon, which you have not quite mastered, ergo plastering applesauce all down the front of your onesie.
• You'd rather NOT get your pajamas on after bed, preferring the au natural approach to evening feedings and nighttime romps.
• You'd rather NOT have help walking at certain times of the day, but WOULD rather have help at other times.
• You'd rather NOT dance to Indigo Girls or Tracy Chapman or Jerry Garcia, but be-bop yourself crazy to the YouTube video of SonSeed singing "Jesus is My Friend."
• You'd rather NOT have the dog anywhere near you, saying "NOOOO" in a definitive tone but would love to bathe in her waterbowl, and have even been known to lick her food bowl for extra "let-me-really-gross-Mama-out" emphasis.
• You'd rather open and close every cabinet in the house for as many hours as you are awake, but would rather NOT open the doors on the quasi-expensive puzzle we got you with various doors and locks.

In short, you're becoming a toddler.

Last night as we put you to bed you smiled at me from your daddy's arms and said, "Nigh, nigh, Mama." Today as I gave you a block you wanted you said in your own faltering English, "Dank you, Mama." Do you know how you make me melt? I'm quite confident that at nearly eighteen-months you have no idea. I simply melt into the carpet at my feet for you to crawl all over me. And I rejoice in the fact that you are ours.

I adore you, my love. More than words can say.
Mama

Bloggage

And these are the random thoughts of the Contemplative Chaplain on this rainy night.

• I'm overdue for a note to Gray on his 17 month birthday. Yep. Gotcha. And I forgot to make childcare plans for Saturday when R. and I are at a workshop at R.'s church and forgot to transfer money from the savings to checking account today and forgot that I'd purchased those 24-month Carter's sleepers last January in anticipation of this fall. Gotcha. Working on it.
  
• It is a humbling thing when someone you love tells you that when you're arguing you are "formidable." That's something which would have filled me with pride at the age of 17, and shames me at the age of 36. I need to work on that temper of mine.
• Grayson is going to be a monkey for Halloween, and not just any old monkey but one of the organ grinder monkeys which wore vests and little hats with tassles. Grammy's making his costume. I should save that for his 17 month post, but had such a delightful day with my madre and the boy that I couldn't keep the secret hidden for long.
  
• Burnout in my job comes not from the work with patients, but from the seemingly trivial details which keep being forced upon the staff (gee, thanks, Medicare for continuing to freeze funding and making us not-for-profits panic).
• I have deliberately not posted about Senator McCain's vice-presidential nomination because of how nasty and unproductive it would be. And, every time I talk about Governor Sarah Palin I get heartburn. Really. Perhaps McCain's election would be good for the antacid industry?
• And as much as I loathe what Sarah Palin stands for, I loathe more the yahoos who talk about her status as VPILF.
• I now have a new computer. Its ways are foreign to me. Vista Schmista. I'm a stranger in a strange land. Strange, and yet very fast.

These are this evening's random musings.

Over and out...

History

Grayson, my sweet,

You won't remember this night. The night you danced in your brown and white jungle print glow-in-the-dark jammies to Melissa Etheridge on YouTube singing "Give Peace a Chance," (Mommy missed C-Span's early evening coverage of the Democratic convention last night while she was driving home from work and had to catch up this evening).

In many ways, it is like so many other nights in your life. You had your bath. You ate some green beans and applesauce. You whined about the teeth which are poking their way through your bottom gum (for which we gave you ibuprofen), or the intestinal distress from eating too much cantelope (for which we gave you baby simethicone). You will have your bottle later. You will fall asleep clutching your cloth diaper. You will listen to one of your many lullaby CDs, which you will turn on by yourself because all hell breaks loose if you don't.

And, yet, the world is turning all around us and tonight will be a night, I suspect, that we will one day tell you about. Tonight Barack Obama will accept the Democratic presidential election on the night so many years ago when Martin Luther King gave an historic speech at the March on Washington. Tonight an African-American man will be nominated as president of the United States, a man with hope and vision and courage. Tonight our nation makes its own brilliant history, and while you don't know it, while you won't remember it, while the most important part of your universe consists of sisters who hang on your every syllable, two fat cats and a long skinny dog, this nation will be celebrating a milestone.

I hope that you live in a world where this simply doesn't matter, in a world where, as MLK said, "people aren't judged by the color of their skin," or where it simply is not noticed. I hope that you are racially color-blind as you grow and that the sweet toddler across the street with an African-American daddy and a white mommy is not seen as anyone different than you. I hope that one day people will be horrified that a world existed in which certain people had to sit in the back seats of buses, and certain people drank out of different water fountains. I hope that you will experience life as a minority at times, so you know that there is absolutely nothing which separates us from one another and it is hard to be seen as "the other." Mostly, I hope we are creating a new world for your generation.

Your mommy truly believes that a symbol of this new world rising happens tonight in Denver, Colorado.

I love you, and I want the world for you...and for your comrades as you grow to become the next hope for America.

Mama

Months 15/16

Dearest Boy-Boy,

Time has gotten away with your Mama. It's been a busy summer. There was your great-grandpa's death, and subsequent memorial service/family reunion time. There was the trip to visit Mamaw Amy and Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden in Texas and subsequent long-ass car ride home. And then there were the in-between days in which you continued to morph from babyhood to boyhood right in front of our eyes.

Last night you took your first steps. Your very first solo steps. You walked, with hesitancy at first and then with triumph between Grandpa and me as we sat on the floor of the parlor. You started with two steps, and moved to three, and then four, and then five, and by the time Daddy and Brynn got home from Brynn's ballet lesson, you were confident enough to venture six and seven steps on your own, grinning and laughing all the while.

I delight in this new skill. And confess that I wept a few tears in the bathtub last night after putting you to bed. It's hard for me to say goodbye to my baby. And yet, I can't wait to see who you become. I suppose this is the eternal paradox of parenting. If we do our job right, you separate from us.

No offense, Gray, but sometimes cats are easier to parent.

And speaking of cats...(notice that nice transition? I was an English major, after all...) you have become the master of all things gentle in the cat world. You are a pro at petting gently, and walking gently toward Cooper and Moses, and gently and softly saying "Caaaa" as you head in their direction. I'm hoping that you'll become one of those little old men who wear their pants pulled up beyond their navels and collect cats in their old age always naming them after Old Testament prophets.

You delight me. Even as I say goodbye to my baby, I delight in the new chapter of Grayson the boy.

I love you more than the stars.
Mama

Space Filler

This blog has not been forsaken. The blogger has just been mind-numbingly busy. And antsy. And grieving. And sort of strange overall.

But will be back here within a few days.

And didn't get attacked by wild armadillos in a whole 'nother country.

Blowin' this Popstand

...I originally thought I'd title this one, "Blowin' this Jo*int" (notice what I've learned about "coding" search words...I'm getting pretty computer savvy) but couldn't imagine all the intriguing ways that would be misconstrued in a search engine as people were trying to learn how to smoke marij*uana (see that added asterick thing again, pretty impressive, huh?). Hell, people still find my blog because of the creative way I spelled Ernest Ainsley (it's Angeley, friends, sorry for the screw up...).

Anyway...

We're getting out of Dodge, friends. Flying the coop. Running for the border. Vamoosing. Folding up shop.

The posse is headed down to Tex-ASS for a big 'ole family lovefest (as opposed to a love feast where we'd all wash one another's feet and grow Brethren beards). It's the annual Texas trip...the interminably long car trip whereby we remark on the different states on license plates which pass us on the road, and rate public restrooms with a ten point scale, and I assume my best Snooty-Titian-Colored-Haired-Sleuth voice for dramatic reading (that would be the annual Nancy Drew book we finish on the way there and back), followed by our arrival and welcome by the kindest, most generous kin-folk west of the Mississippi.

Look for possible remote postings...or not. Depends on how much time I spend chasing a toddler, or swimming in the pool, or having good scotch offered to me in liberal amounts, or delighting in the laughter of my step-daughters, or gazing at my beloved.

I desperately need this time. I'm worn out.

So, lest you feel bereft...I attached the latest pictures of the wee ones (one of whom is taller than me, now). Grayson is celebrating his upcoming getaway with chocolate...as the picture may demonstrate.

Don't leave the light on for us...

Gratuitous Child Photos

...Because, damn, I'm a sucker for the hat. And when he asks in years to come why no one clued his parents in to the socially backward nerdiness of aforementioned blue hat, please remind him that his father picked it out. But it was his mother who grabbed it from the lake after Grayson threw it overboard.

The hat, the nerdy hat, yeah...it was a joint parental effort in eternal geekiness.

Benedictus

In your leaving
we say peace.
With the last light of you dying
we say peace.
And where there is no peace
we say peace
in the hope it will rest in our bones.

In your going
we say joy.
With the last breath of you leaving
we say joy.
And where there is no joy
we say joy
in the hope it will dwell in our flesh.

In your departing
we say love.
With the earth taking you in
we say love.
And where there is no love
we say love
in the hope it will come to our souls.

--Jan Richardson, In Wisdom's Path

Tribe

One of the hardest things about grief has to be the monumental leap you make from the bosom of your family as you return to the "real world" of work, daily routine, stopped up drains, and unweeded gardens. As our family moved through the rituals of grief, the memorial service for the family at my uncle's home, the public visitation at the funeral home, the family dinner afterward, there was a sense that we were all moving together, on some sort of boat asea in our emotions. Wholly apart from the shoreline of the real world. Our tribe was questing on their own adventure, a journey very different from the civilized world.

And so, returning home after this sort of mountain-top experience (damn if I'm not just mixing metaphors all over the place), was a bit lonely. Where were the other two babies crawling or toddling around on the floor with Grayson for the past few days? Where did I see blue eyes similar to my own sparkling at me without looking in a mirror? Who else understood the gentleness and simplicity of my grandfather? Who else could understand his prejudices and faults as products of his upbringing, and recognize the man who he became in spite of, or even because of them? Who else laughed at memories of cherry-pit spitting contests and believed in a family which was taught to be "poor but respectable?" Who else learned that "pulling Grandpa's finger" was a recipe for disaster of the most odiferous kind?

There are things I do not share with this tribe. There are ways in which they do not know me. I would imagine that my political beliefs might be deemed suspect, and that my ideas about religion might be deemed heresy by some of my Miller kin. My cousins could probably not tell you my favorite books, nor could they know exactly how to comfort me in the midst of chaos, but somehow the fierce ties of family offer sacred haven to me which continue to undergird my fragile sense of reality as I grieve.

And I know, I know in my bones, that this sense of family will take root in Grayson and his sisters and will, as trite as it sounds, nurture the soil of their being. And this is the legacy which my grandparents offer, far greater than mutual funds or property. An inheritance of shelter, and safety and home.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince

May flights of angels serenade you with an off-key rendering of "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" as they sing you right smack dab into the arms of the woman whose been waiting to welcome you for over two years now.

Herman Anthony Miller
February 8, 1920-July 12, 2008

Grandpa

As I type this my grandfather lies in a hospital bed in Northern Indiana holding on to life by only the most thin thread. His heart keeps beating, his blood keeps flowing, his eyes shift and seem to rest on something beyond us.

I am a hospice chaplain. But I am a granddaughter first. And while death is no longer unfamiliar, I am still startled by its piercing impartiality when it comes to those we love.

The solace I find today is that if there is another world, if our souls do carry on, then his weary spirit is preparing for one phenomenal reunion with my Grandmother, whose death he never got over. I hope she's hovering in the other side of this thin thread, beckoning him with those blue eyes. And I hope the bluegill are plentiful there, 'cause undoubtedly Herman will be carrying a rod and reel as he crosses over to meet another fisherman.

I Mean, Really, Can There Ever Be Too Many Mothers in Your Life?!?

...Or "Sharks Ready to Gobble Up the Cuteness of the Boy Gray and his Floppy Tie-Dyed Beach Hat." Or "Fashion Mavens Searching out the Newest Look in Straw Hats as Modeled by Jim the Father."

You choose.

Or, let's play a game, shall we?

Pick what YOU think this caption should be.

Go on, internet. It'll be fun. Maybe I'll even give door prizes...

Month Fifteen

Dear Grayson,

We will, perhaps, remember this month as the month you learned to point. Pointing is in fashion here at Chez P-M, sort of the "new black" if you will. You point at everything. Lights. Cats. Windows. Air fresheners plugged into outlets. Dog. Bit of toilet paper on the floor. Residual lint left from vacuum cleaner. Dead spider. Dust mite. Who knows, really? You point and we name whatever seems to be in line with your pointer finger.

You still don't speak coherent words much of them time, but you do converse a great deal. You yammer and jabber and we all agree with you and second whatever motion you've put on the table. However, for as much as I'm not sure you're taking in, there are many more details that are connecting in your tiny brain. Today we were out for a walk in a different neighborhood where we normally wander. We turned an unfamiliar corner and you stared quacking like a duck. I corrected you, as there was no water and no pond or lake nearby, saying, "Graysie, I don't see a duck. We'll see ducks another day." You proceeded with your quacking, and lo an behold, there was one of those cheesy yard-art white ducks sitting on a porch dressed in country-western apparel. You are either the most perceptive child, or the most keen to white-trash yard-art. I'm not sure which would make me prouder.

Saturday we spent the day with your Grandpa and Great-Grandpa in the front yard of our cottage on Chapman Lake. Your Grandpa and I weren't sure it was a warm enough day for a dip in the water, but the sun shone and the gentle waves beckoned and we dipped your toes only to find that you'd prefer a full-body immersion. Grandpa and I took turns reinstilling your proper Miller Baptism in the water while your Great-Grandpa sat in his wheelchair mere feet away offering you his blessing saying to me, "He'll do just fine, Chris."

You have been given a legacy, my boy. You have great-grandparents who wanted you to grow to love the lake, to learn to catch blue gills which you might eat pan-fried in butter, and to capture tiny painted turtles to keep as pets for a few hours and then release into the channel. Your great-grandparents left this cottage, for as long as we can keep it in the family, so that you might know what it means to both rest and work, both labor and play. And your great-grandmother would have been so very proud of you, which your great-grandfather reminded me of again on Saturday. You are blessed, my sweet boy. I hope lake water runs through your blood for the rest of your life.

I just put you down to sleep, clinging to your cloth diaper. As many times as I try to thrust a sweet stuffed bear, or a soft downy lamb into your sleep-hungry arms, you continue to push the object d' amour away, content with the simple pleasure of a cloth diaper stained with milk spit-up and smelling of laundry detergent, the baby equivalent of Honda rather than Cadillac I suppose.

I'm so awed that I get to spend my life being your mama.

And, I love you.

Mama

Month Fourteen (and a half)

My boy, boy...

Mama's been delayed in her posting. Delayed with crazy work productivity schedules and the planning of management encouraged "mandatory" retreats. Delayed because Mama is quite near exhausted and grumpy as hell. Delayed because when Mama gets home mostly she wants to crawl around on all fours chasing you in a wild game of "I'm Gonna Get You" or curl up watching your daddy give you your evening bottle in a place where she can watch the faces of both her two boys.

You're not walking much yet, although I've come to believe that it's not the strength or muscle coordination as much as it is that you're a cautious guy, afraid that a fall will mean failure. You're so very careful, sometimes standing propped against the couch or your daddy's leather chair waiting for someone to help you sit down again, whining if we don't pay attention and rescue you. Lately you've started making a triangle of your tiny body with your feet on the floor and your hands a foot or so in front of them, your own interpretive dance statement, certainly, representing the tepee and in honor of the Native Americans whose land we Hoosiers invaded. You're like that, the underdog. Or perhaps you're just practicing "Downward Dog" in yoga.

You laugh crazily at the cats, your bunny book, the rooster at the farm near your baby-sitter's home, baths, and when tickle monsters come to town. You eat most everything and when introduced to coconut cream pie signed the word "More" throughout the whole experience, just in case I wasn't spooning the creamy goodness into your mouth fast enough.

You continue to enjoy yourself by busting into the recycled diaper wipes container and pulling out a plethora of baby food lids, which you then scatter haphazardly throughout the living room only to be stepped on by unsuspecting parents in the middle of the night, or to be shoved down the back of your onesie and discovered while your parents are cleaning up a poppy diaper only to find the imprint of a Gerber's chicken noodle dinner lid on your bum. You don't need much to keep you happy.

Your spiritual life develops at a rapid fire pace as you press again and again and again and again the buttons of the Precious Moments hymn audio book which somehow surfaced in our home, perhaps a remnant from some crazy fundamentalist relative who wanted to bring you to Jesus after your heathen parents have failed you. Either that or George Bush had Homeland Security send it anonymously to the homes of democratic voters in an effort to raise God-fearing children.
Occasionally the book gets "hidden" under a chair or in the bottom of your toy-basket, but the heavenly angels seem to find it again and allow you to entertain us with your index finger as the Precious Moments figurine type people with scary, big, haunted eyes serenade us once again.

You and Daddy have been luxuriating in father-son bonding this summer while Daddy watches you throughout the days when he's home for the summer. So far you've spent your manly summer fishing for blue gill and trout in the pond near our house in your father's bass boat, taken an infant kick-boxing father-son course, purchased matching camouflaged onesie/speedo sets and learned to spit. It's been quite a summer.

In reality, your adoration for your "Dada" only grows. You cling to him like ivy on a tree and say his name with almost poetic reverence, which seems only appropriate as Father's Day approaches.

Know how much you're loved, my sweet. Loved beyond your mama's poor feeble words. Loved beyond reason.

Mama

The Yelp Heard Round the World

This morning, a leisurely Saturday morning I woke early. I lay quietly next to my sleeping husband, a cat curled around my feet. I listened to the cooing of morning doves. I reveled in the quiet of the house. I reached my arms up over my head for a nice slow stretch and, YOW!

Shooting pain down my right arm. Shooting pain down my back. Shooting pain through my shoulder. Shooting pain in my neck.

Mother f*@#$ er (or "Mother Trucker" as I'm learning to say as I realize soon the truth of the little pitchers saying). Pinched nerve. Gosh Darn Mother Truck it to Bell.

Poor R. has had an absentee wife today thanks to the outpatient clinic's beloved Dr. Skinny-Man's magic muscle relaxants.

Bloggage coming when I can sit comfortably at the computer for a little while.