To the Leader of the Free World

Dear Mr. President,

I am merely a lowly chaplain in Fort Wayne, Indiana. My work is small, it happens on the sly in the manor homes of the country club set, in the seedy nursing facilities trying to scrape enough medicaid dollars together to add another coat of institutional green to the walls, in the retiremement villas of the well-insured, and in the small government subsidized apartment of the veteran who still suffers from PTSD and finds that his Medicaid and Medicare checks aren't quite cutting it. My work happens when I enter the abode of the one dying, and listen to their life story, and hold my own hand in theirs, and offer their cracked lips a sip of water if they ask, and maybe share some stories of living water if their in the mood, or have the inclination. And if they don't, that's okay too. My work is small. It happens quietly.

I wonder, perhaps, if with all the big things you are called to do, running around with heads of state, jetting off to foreign countries at a moments notice, enjoying your status not only as head of the free world but as privileged son of a very wealthy family, if you might not forget about those of us who do the small things.

When was the last time you sat with someone who was taking their last breath and offered them comfort? When was the last time you tried to pull together enough money from different funds for a dying person so that they might have a CD player in their room to enjoy music? When was the last time you did a financial aid assessment for a disabled veteran and realized how little their funds stretch out over a month? When did you have to tell a mother whose ten day old infant was dying that there was nothing that could be done to keep her husband from being shipped off to fight your war in Iraq by the end of the month, leaving her with a dying baby and keeping her husband from having what little precious time he could have to cradle his son in his arms?

It seems, perhaps, that your "large view," your big picture thinking clouds your compassion. It probably would mine. I would like to believe it is simply an oversight, and not ignorance. But, Mr. President, I think you're missing the little things. You're missing a lot of those little things. And your presidency is the worse because of it.

So, let's talk about this SCHIP thing, shall we? Or, specifically, let's talk about your veto of it. I know that the 6.6 million children in the world who are helped by this insurance, indeed saved by it at times, may just seem like one big number that you can't fathom. I can't. I know that by adding 4 million chldren to the program over five years still seems like a whole lot when we don't have that many fingers to use for counting.

But, Mr. President, you can't afford to hide behind the big numbers now, because the lives of children are at stake. Children who have ten little fingers, and ten little toes upon which we play "This Little Piggy." Children who we stay awake at night with while the shower runs steaming the mirrors hoping against hope that their croup, and their tears, will subside. Children with dirty red-faced popsicle smiles who need immunizations, and children with band-aid covered knees who need to be seen if they fall off their scooters. These are the little people, the faces behind those big numbers, the small view.

Perhaps your strategy is all wrong and it's time to think small now, because your previous ways haven't been working for you...and, well, truth be told they aren't exactly in keeping with your Christian tradition are they? You know, the feed the sick, clothe the naked, turn the other cheek stuff?

I know you've already vetoed the SCHIP proposal and that hearing the words from a lowly chaplain like me doesn't help much. But, you know, it's never too late to change your mind. And I know I couldn't sleep very well at night knowing I didn't at least try.

Sincerely,
Contemplative Chaplain

Month Six

Dear Grayson,

Friday you turned six months old. A whole half year! We celebrated by going for a long walk in our neighborhood, crackling our way through the newly fallen leaves and watching the sunset maples begin their transformation into deep red.

It is hard for me to monitor the subtle changes in you. I find that I wake up one morning and it seems there was a monumental milestone that was passed in your sleep which I missed (which is amazing given how little sleep you continue to let your daddy and I get). Now it is the teeth. Two of them. Slowly making their way through your gums, and causing a bit of grumpiness on your part, not that I blame you.

This month has also heralded the introduction of the shriek. You love to babble, babble, babble, shriek (wash, rinse, repeat, ad nauseaum), especially at around 5:00 a.m. Daddy and I already find ourselves whispering, "Inside voice. Shhh... Inside voice," to which you give us one of your classic Dick Cheney grins, which roughly translated means, "I can understand you, but I'll still do it my way." Forcing me to lean over and whisper in your ear, "Barak Obama in 2008!" over and over again as I hide your elephant toy in the bottom of the toy basket.

Anothe big item on your daily agenda...toe sucking. You have found your toes, and lo, they are good. It's getting a little chillier at night and I valiantly try to put socks on your tiny feet, only to find that they are everywhere except your feet when I come back into the room. You, sadly, have inherited your mommy's cold hands and feet, and I already am obsessing about how to keep those feet warm this winter. That's your 'ole mom...a worrier to the bone.

Which brings up this little item...rolling over. You know, boy, you're six months now and I think it's about time. Your getting close to passing a normal range for this important "developmental milestone," as the baby books say. You have mastered the squirm, and can scoot yourself in a thousand different directions, but the actual rolling over, not so much. Your doctor doesn't seem that concerned as you're doing everything else pretty much on schedule, and as you were born three weeks early, but I must tell you that the word "lazy" has been bantered about in some circles, no pressure, I'm just sayin'... Your father, ever the calm one, keeps reminding me that you probably think lying on your stomach is overrated and you're simply making a conscious choice, perhaps a protest of "developmental milestones." Regardless, please work on this, as it'll make your mama feel better.

This afternoon I found you playing peek-a-boo with the animals on the Baby Noah DVD. You laughed yourself silly when the panda puppet smiled at you. You giggled wildly when the lion danced to the safari song. I could only marvel at the ways in which you already have figured out this simple game. You never tire of peek-a-boo, playing it whenever and wherever you can...cloth spit rag always poised at the ready to pull it up over your eyes and then coyly move it down, a light in your eyes.

I adore you. Happy half year!

Love,
Mama

And the Bride Wore Silver...

I used to be a wedding snob. I was an elitist. I would only marry couples who attended my congregation...or who indicated that they would attend (and did attend the requisite three times for me to marry them). I only married couples who took the official "Pre-Marital Inventory Test" and who then were counseled by me for at least three sessions (and often more). I looked down on "Rent-A-Pastors," as I called them. I believed that there were things one needed to do if one wanted a church wedding by a "professional."

But, my standards...they have changed. I'd like to believe it has more to do with grace than with lowered expectations. It started with some good friends who were marrying for the second time (one after being widowed). Good friends who were wise and insightful and who would learn nothing from aforementioned "Pre-Marital Inventory Test" that they didn't already know themselves. Good friends who didn't need me to counsel them, and who knew well enough to schedule their own appointments with a marriage therapist if needed.

Perhaps they were my gateway drug. From there it was a free for all, a slippery slope of wedding officiation madness...hell, I married a CNA from our office to her fiance of a year with only one pre-marital meeting. Talk about a walk on the wild side... I married a former student in a pagan ceremony in a garden at the college where the only attendants were the couples' parents and two of their favorite orchids. I'm not sure how popular I'd be in the CoB given the fact that the admonition for that wedding was "don't mention Jesus...we're not sure how we feel about him."

It used to be that I wouldn't officiate a wedding without proper church approval, without the requisite counseling standards. And then I decided I could forego with those needs, but would only officiate ceremonies of people who were friends, as a favor to them. And then...well, then, I walked into a new world.

Because... this weekend was my radical indoctrination into the wild world of "Rent-a-Pastoring," the world where one snaps on a collar and hands out a license.

You see, I couldn't say no to this request. I couldn't say no because I was asked by Shelby. Shelby, Dr. B.'s kindly nurse who did, after all, perform the insemination that did finally produce Grayson. And, well, I love Shelby. And due to all kinds of issues I didn't ultimately get to officiate Shelby's wedding, despite the fact that I would have loved to. And so, when Shelby's sister's best friend was getting married and called me, how could I say no? Despite the fact that I'd never met her or her fiancee. And despite the fact that I had always judged Rent-a-Pastors. And thought, maybe, that I was selling my soul.

The wedding was last weekend. The couple were wise enough and old enough to know what they were doing. It was the third marriage for the bride, and the first for the groom. They chose to wed in a tent in their backyard, in the company of about 200 of their closest friends. The groom rode his Harley Davidson right up to the tent gates (a modern day hero arriving on his steed if ever there were one). The bride's backless dress displayed her tattoo. The recessional was to the song of a heavy metal band with the lyrics, "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em..." But the love, the love in that sweet couple's eyes was widely apparent.

I was telling my colleague, Scott, about it on Monday morning. Wondering whether I had sold my soul by officiating ceremonies of people I'd never met before being contacted by them to marry them. And Scott said, "Don't you think everybody deserves to have a ceremony that reflects who they are? Don't you think that each of us is spiritual in his or her own way? Don't you think that a minister saying, 'Of course I'll welcome you by officiating at your wedding' says more than anything else? Don't you think it's an issue of grace?"

Well, yeah. Duh. How could I not see that before?

Grace abounds. Even for those of us who live beyond the margins. Whether that means we officiate at the wedding of the stranger, or ride our motorcycles to that wedding. Grace abounds all around us. How could I be so slow to learn?

Five Months

Dear Grayson,

I sit, holding you in my lap, as I try to type one-handedly, jostling you on my knee and cooing softly in your ear. You are a very patient boy to put up with this addiction Mommy has to her writing, no matter how lame it can be at times.

I took you to church this morning at Beacon Heights, at the church where you have been loved and nurtured in your short life, despite the negligence I have had in regularly attending. We attended what I like to call the "happy clappy" service, where the lyrics to the songs are projected on the wall more often than sung out of the hymnal, and where there are a plethora of swaying Brethren and Sistern. Your mother is a traditionalist, and prefers the more staid first service at 9:00, but I find that the 11:15 contemporary service, a time when I believe God intends worshop to begin, appeals to our sleep schedules, and so I can tolerate happy-clappiness for sleep's sake, and being a progressive CoB the theology is good at either service, so we can't ask for more. And you, you seem to enjoy the oh-so-very cheerful nature of it all in this second service, cooing and charming the pants off everyone you encountered, vocalizing loudly during the "Hallelujah" song (and the pastor's sermon). Grammy went with us, and you found that sitting between us you had the exquisite attention of two women, add to that the wonderful kindergarden teacher who sat in front of us and let you suck on her finger, and the church assistant who sat behind us and let you tease her with your toothless grin, and life was pretty sweet.

While I joke about the relentlessly cheery nature of a contemporary service, while I often make semi-derisive comments about our denomination, I also want you to know what it means to me that you have been welcomed into this body of like-minded folk who practice the teachings of Jesus and how utterly grateful I am that you have a community to embrace you and name you and affirm you and teach you. And, I do want you to grow up in this denomination. I want you to learn to follow Jesus, to practice justice and to embrace peace and to believe in the radical gentleness and strength of love. I would like to see you commit your life to some belief, to some Source of love, to practice some sort of discipleship, to make this world a better place.

But, I want you to be discerning as well. I want you to seek truth, but I want you to be suspicious of those who promise you easy answers, and those who don't speak of what it means for you to count the cost of faith, however you weill choose to define it. Ask questions, Grayson, even if you are afraid of some of the answers. And know that there are pilgrims on this journey who will sustain you, and in whom you can turn when you doubt. But mostly, know that God is all loving, and that life is all grace.

Okay, mama will step out of the pulpit now and tell you a little more of who I see you becoming this month...

First and foremost, I apologize for the squash incident. I got so excited at the introduction of baby foods of the vegetable variety that I, perhaps, encouraged the squash a little too vigorously and the look on your face when I continued to spoon it between your clenched lips, as you continued to spit tje orange ooze out, was a look of such utter betrayal, as if I were forcing you to attend your first day of high school with a pocket-protector in you breast pocket, or making you take up the tuba as a hobby. It was a look that said, "You are so clearly unhip and wrong, and you just don't understand." Just so you know, I have taken squash out of the cabinet and will donate it to the food pantry, because that's the kind of cool mom I am.

Your gurgling and cooing and zerberting have reached mammoth proportions and you sigh with a vigorous exhale when contented. You have recently learned the power of noise and become increasingly louder when we don't pay enough attention to you.

I don't have words to describe the emotion I feel when I look at the pictures of you with your grandpa at the top of this entry, just as I don't have words to describe the sweet cooing voice that your grammy makes in your ear. These tendernesses that you're sharing with them, which are wholly apart from my relationship with them, rekindle in me memories of their parenting of me, and remind me of what I want to pass on to you. You have no idea how incredibly blessed you are to have your grandparents--all five of them.

And now, my lamb, my sweet, you have fallen asleep in my lap, your head drooping over my arm, your breathing steady and regular. We'll go upstairs and have a bath, and put on our jammies, and I'll whisper in your ear the blessings we saw today, and we'll thank a good God for the gifts we've seen, and I'll whisper my customary goodnight, "I love you, I love you, I love you" as you fall asleep in your big boy crib, kisses freshly planted on your soft downy hair.

Mama

Newsy

While I haven't been writing, the posts in my head have been prolific, it's a shame I don't have some sort of machine which could magically suck the words out of my brain and put them onto a page, or type them onto a screen. It's just that time, time has been in relatively short supply since I popped this kid out of my belly (or rather, since he was forcibly evacuated by the kindly Dr. S.). Just when I get started with a good thought, get into the flow of a nice entry, I hear wailing, or grunting, or the worst, the huffing and puffing which indicate a certain mental break-down in only a few short moments. The boy, he isn't happy when Mama types instead of paying complete attention to him, even if I try to pause between sentences to tickle his chin or jostle his swing. And, I find I don't write so well without a bit of quiet to clear my mind. Multi-tasking I can do, but not easily.

So, one asks, why doesn't your husband watch him so you can write? Well, dear reader, when my husband watches him, which is often, I find myself needing to curl up in a little ball on our bed and hibernate for a blessed hour or two of sleep as I'm nursing a nasty cold.

Contemplative this post ain't, but I hope it passes by way of a newsy enough entry to get me by until the boy goes to bed and I can get some real writing done, if not tonight, than some night this week.

The Sisterhood

It surprises me that I have written so little about the sisterhood. So little of the women who support me and sustain me and soothe me. The women who have provided me with the skin and bones of the Divine Feminine for lo these past thirteen years since the summer after I graduated from Manchester College, a tiny hamlet in Northern Indiana.

We came together by chance one summer. One of us, the only one married at the time, was in the midst of a painful separation from her faux feminist new age husband. Some of the rest of us were hanging around town that summer getting ready for "meaningful work" which scared the hell out of us. We started a random "women's group," talking about issues like money, spirituality, body image, books. It was what you did when you were navel-gazing early twenty-somethings to pass the time.

The group solidified in the next several months as we sluffed off some of the not so active summer group members and continued to add new friends into our circle. We got together often--sometimes weekly--for discussion, and the ritual drinking of Boone's Farm Wine (the drink of choice for poor college students). And at the end of the day, or in the wee hours of the morning, we rocked one another to sleep if someone was bereft, or laughed so hard we choked milk out of our noses while we had breakfast if someone retold a remarkably funny moment, or nursed one another in illness if someone was sick (or hung-over), or sat silently holding the phone as someone wept long held-back tears.

The group added a member and grew.

We led different lives. We moved different directions at various times--Alaska, Colorado, Michigan, Maryland, Kentucky, California, Kansas, Texas, Washington D.C., Indiana. Some of us married, and some divorced. Some of us remarried. Some of us had children. Some of us had miscarriages. We've struggled with the illness of family, and the death of others who we've loved, and the painful closure of relationships which have left us reeling. But throughout the journey, we've held bonds to one another strong and deep and fierce and unending.

We've struggled together when we were angry with one another, or when we misunderstood one another, or when we felt alienated from one another. But we have not been afraid to name those realities, or if we were afraid we named them anyway.

I wear a gold wedding band on my right hand, right underneath my engagement ring. It is a ring which symbolizes my commitment to my sisters, to the women who will live across or down the hall from me at Timbercrest Retirement Home when we get to be about 86. In the summer of 2002 we had a blessing service for these rings, symbols to remind us of the women who will never abandon or forsake us, women who promise to be our sisters even on the other side of the veil.

Literary Baby Food

Grayson has a baby book that he got from his Grammy and Papa for Easter. It's a Golden Book about barnyard animals which was copyrighted in 1953 and has all sorts of deep comments like, "Baby Cow is called a calf. She says, 'Mooooo! It is time for lunch.'"

I love this book for several reasons, the first of which is it's 1950s optimism. On the farm all the animals are smiling. They are almost giddy with delight as they all sit in one happy meadow with big, sappy donkey and billy goat and guinea pig smiles on their happy animal faces. But, more importantly, I remember this as a Golden Book from my childhood, and simplistic as it is, I love that Grayson is learning the sweetness of the animals, the different things animals do (i.e. "Baby cats are called kittens...at night the farmer gives them cow's milk, and they curl up together in the big red barn..." or "Baby chickens are called chicks. They cannot swim. Mother says we must look for worms and stay out of the water,' they reply."). How much sweeter can life get? It's like one big animal commune (without the illicit drugs and sex).

There is no talk of what will ultimately happen to some of the aforementioned farm animals. There is no worry about hormone levels in meat, or mad cow disease. Instead, goats frolic and puppies chew harmless old generic shoes and no one ever says "Bad Dog!" It was a kinder, simpler time. 1953. Our boys were home from war. Our Rosie the Riveters had made their way back into their kitchens. Dick and Jane were happily playing on their bikes while Sally pedaled her tricycle. Safety and security were paramount in the nation's mind.

Of course we know differently now. The world still had it's anguish. All across the country there was rampant homophobia, sexism, racism. The myth of the 1950s works for those who had an upper-middle-class white background and that myth of the 1950s can in some ways still haunt us today as we realize all that was glossed over to paint a perfect picture of a decade.

But, I still confess to loving the illustrations by Garth Williams in Golden Books. There's something simple and comforting to me about this Golden Book mentality for a baby. It's like spoon-feeding them rice cereal. All is mild. All is mellow. All is simple. All is one-grained. All promises the familiar. It is as if we say to our infants, "This is all the pap you can take for now, and for now, it's all I want you to have."

The day will come soon enough when we talk with our boy about war and death and loss and evil. The day will come when we talk about the responsiblities Grayson has for changing the world and making it a more open and tolerant place for the next generation. The day will come when the mantle falls upon his shoulders. I know this. And I will preach this. And I will commit myself to being a parent who instills in her son the importance of public service and of being a disciple of the one who taught us radical love.

But for today, just for today, the main concern in his world is that the baby guinea pigs who live in the hutch have suspicions that the white rabbit has been up to mischief. And the only mischief that Grayson knows is that the white rabbit stole some carrots from the farmer's garden.

"And this is enough evil for today," I say, as I spoon another serving of Gerber's rice cereal into his baby-bird-like open mouth.

And he smiles fearlessly, trusting that I will give him only what he is ready to taste.

Shame, Shame, Shame

Some minister has some 'splainin to do if he makes it to the pearly gates.

Random Factoids from Sitemeter

Remember how I mentioned that I was sort of waiting for the writing fairy to come and give me some words? Well, despite the fact that I check every morning under my pillow, there are no words gathered there hoarded away under my goose-feathered nest. I've checked multiple times. I did, however, find a handkerchief and one long-missing earplug, so it wasn't a total loss, this not being creative.

However, I wouldn't want to fail you, interneties. And so, I thought I'd share with you what your internet cohorts are doing...what your fellow readers are looking for when they read me. You see, I have this wonderful tool at my hands (a tool you probably have too, if you click the sitemeter button at the bottom of this website, yes?). This tool, allows you to figure out how people got to your site.

Now, most of you come willingly. You come because you know me and like to take pity on a blogger. Or, you come because I'm linked to another website you like and you want to know what the fuss is, or isn't. Or, you come because I updated on blogger at just the right time and the "next blog" button was too enticing to not hit. Or you come because you remembered me from Ms. Longtine's English class at Paul Harding High School and you want to see if I still have bangs which I blow-dry into billowy, cloudy, puffs (I don't). Or you are a Brethren lurker who wonders about those sheep who have strayed from the denominational fold (it's actually nice out here in the fresh air...and we have wine at our parties...).

But, some of you come to this site not out of willingness, but out of necessity. You come because there are things you are desperate to know, and you hit the google search engine folks up for answers and somehow they direct you to me. You are the folks who want to know more about Ernest Ainsley. And I can tell you nothing, apart from the fact that I truly thought this was his name because I saw his home somewhere in Akron, Ohio once but, alas despite having seen his home and making fun of his lack of a neck and pronunciation of the word "Jeeezzus" I, obviously don't know near enough to be a google expert, as I cannot even spell his name properly.

You may come because you're searching for the answer to your query "Christian How to Handle Stalking." And for some reason my site flipped across your radar (and I know this because it's exactly what was typed into Google according to sitemeter and am still puzzling at how my site was one of the first to appear for this query). In response to this stalking question, though, I must weight in. I can simply say a few sentences, friend who asked, and the most important one is this: Jesus doesn't like stalking. He thinks it is very, very bad. Please stop doing it. When we ask WWJD? The answer is plain: Jesus doesn't stalk his friends. Does Jesus drink with his friends? Perhaps, given the water to wine story. Does Jesus go on road trips with his friends? Definitely, given his many sojourns with the funky fab twelve. But does Jesus stalk? Absolutely not. No evidence. The Bible says it, I believe it, that settles it. Stop doing it. You're making Jesus sad. You're making him cry. Really.

For the one who found me after googling, "pregnant hungry don't know what I want," I can only say, "Bless you my sister, may you find the perfect food in your moment of need...and if this is difficult, may I remind you that you cannot go wrong with strawberry poptarts." And if you are the partner of aforementioned pregnant woman may I say even more heartily, "God bless you, my brother or sister, for caring enough to google this ever elusive issue. And again, I remember that strawberry poptarts could scratch the appetite itch in the first trimester far better than any healthy option ever could. Now, go with God. And don't forget that footrubs will place stars in your crown before you make your way to St. Peter's gate."

I'm still waiting on that 'ole Word Fairy, pesky creature that she is.

And I'll let you know the moment she deposits erudite thoughts on this weary servant's head.

Four Months

Dear Sweet Boy of Mine,

On July 28, 2007 you turned 4-months-old and I continue to marvel at the wonder that is you.

Your "aaahs" and "ooohs" have turned into "mmmsss" and "bbbbssss" and "ddddssss." Your mouth continues to fascinate you endlessly and the fact that you can stuff objects into it (your hands, my hand, your spit-up rags, your blanket edges, your duck toy) causes you to pause in astonishment as if you had recently invented waffle irons or some such kitchen marvel.

While you're still not rolling over, you are a champ of what the pediatric experts refer to as a "stabilized neck." Your father and I think you're simply so serene, such a Buddha baby that you have no need to roll over for pleasure. Why contort your body, really, when there is so much amazing stuff that just comes naturally whilst you like on your back in your play gym? Monkeys dangle. Elephants jiggle. Birds perch over you. Giraffes stare at you with big googly eyes. What need is there to change the natural order of Grayson at the center of it all by twisting over? I mean really?

Of course, as your mother, I did lament this slight delay on your part; after all the rules-bound baby manuals say that you should and if you should than who I am, a lowly chaplain, to judge? But, your pediatrician reminded me this week that you're doing great, he said that rolling over was no big deal yet, and that I should, well, I should perhaps relax a little bit.

Grayson, we need to have a heart-to-heart here and now. Of the two parents you have, I am perhaps the, um, less relaxed. You might want to make a mental note of that. Your dad is pretty laid back. He takes things at face value, accepts things for what they are, watches things with a detached (and I mean that in the most mentally healthy way) perspective before jumping to scary conclusions. He's probably the first person to talk to after you have that first sip of beer when you're at a high school party, or the one who you run to when you crash your bicycle and think that there may be a chance you've fractured a wrist. He's your go-to man when it comes to creepy-crawly insects in your room, and the one who will be the most help if we ever had an alien abduction situation in our home (and not just because he's the calm one, but because he's watched so many damn documentaries about UFOs and the like before falling asleep at night). 'Cause your mom, well, she's sort of an obsessive sort, and she may, well, panic.

I'll give you an early example...when your dad and I play with your play gym with you we like to jiggle it with our foot or hand and make the dangling characters move, which makes you laugh. When your dad does this he laughs along with you and says, "Grayson, look, they're dancing!" Such a happy idea. But, um, when I do it, I realize that I shake them and say, "Uh-Oh! Earthquake!" or "Look! An Avalanche!" And I realize my face is already set in a grimace. Shit. I'm already hitting the panic button for you. Your poor jungle animals have already endured endless natural disasters thanks to your worry-wart of a mother. Again, just remember to go to Daddy with that first fender bender, and I'll work on that fear issue in my next therapy session.

This month you have mastered the art of rice cereal. Now, I never knew that there was such an incredible "art" to rice cereal until, in hindsight, I compared your first encounter with it on July 3rd to your present gifted skills. While you used to mouth it, pout, spit it out and cry (all the while inhaling the cereal only to exhale it out your nose in a post-cereal fit), you now open your mouth expectantly and snarf down the whole damn bowl as soon as it is offered. A Peter Rabbit bowl has never been scraped as cleanly as your dishes are. Your dad and I have big plans with you soon...big plans which involve oatmeal cereal and strained green beans. It doesn't take much to excite us.

You spent your first complete night away from us two nights ago. It was a sudden decision, as I was sick, sick with a nasty flu virus and Daddy was busy with hauling your sisters all over for ballet rehersals and had been caring for you nonstop for days. Grammy and Papaw agreed to host you for an overnight and you were a wonderful guest...sleeping through the night and snuggling with Grammy before bed and giving her one of your stellar Dick Cheney/Munchkin smiles right before drifting off.

You also got to meet the aunties this month. The aunties are the women who sustain your mommy, who have been part of your mommy's life for over 13 years and who remind her that she has a network of women who will always love her and nurture her, and you. You have two godmothers, both part of the women's group, and you have taken to them like white on rice (the picture is of you with your godmommy/auntie Cheri). I hope some day you'll understand the power of the village which raised you.

I love you, my sweet. I love you more than you know, and I keep watching and wondering as you unfold and unfurl who you will become.

Mommy

Top Ten Reasons I Haven't Posted Lately

10. Grayson has begun gurgling incessantly and that "mamamamamama" sound has melted me into a zombified mush of mommylove unable to do much more than stare lovingly at those bow lips as they repeat those consonants.

9. I've been madly looking for a new home for Cooper the Wondercat who is not weathering the transition to big brother very well. This requires super sleuthing skills and a fair amount of begging and wheedling. All, so far, to no avail. Anyone want a beautiful 21 lb. ball of furry love?

8. One word: Influenza.

7. Delighting last weekend in the love of my sisters as they all descended on the greater metropolitan area of Fort Wayne for our annual retreat. Drinking phenomenal wines. Eating sinfully delicious foods (in addition to cheetos, which are sinfully delicious in their own orange way). Laughing deep belly laughs. Remembering how much grounding they give me.

6. Practicing the proper way to say the word "grocery."

5. Washing, drying, folding, and putting away 4,392 lbs. of baby spit rags. Only to begin again after the next feeding.

4. Listening to my patients. And then listening some more. And then coming home so very tired from hard listening that I worry I'm not listening well to my family.

3. Obsessing over childcare options now that R. will be returning to work in the end of August.

2. Walking each evening (before encountering aforementioned deadly number 8) for an hour and a half while counting the number of wild rabbits I see (top number: 18).

And the Top Ten Reason I Haven't Posted Lately...

Writer's block. A big and bad case of it. Let's hope the writing fairy appears soon and grants me some words.

The Crazy Cat Lady

We all know a "crazy cat lady." The stereotype is ubiquitous. She is the "old maid" bachelorette. She is the saucy "old lady." She is the woman who just couldn't say no to "just one more." She is the myth that all women of a certain age want to avoid.

But, the reality is, she is within us. Within many of us. And while we may be happily married with children, she lives and reigns within and even with only two feline babies, I mean cats, she dwells happily in the realm of our home on S. drive.

And so, I can share with you my tale of cat mommy-woe, because you will have sympathy on a confessional cat woman, a story I have withheld for lo these many weeks because, well, it shamed me as a cat worshiper to have to tell this tale.

Cooper, that would be my 21 lb. plus (I mean who counts the ounces really...) tomcat and I had a little, well let's call it an "accident" recently. I was sitting on the couch, having just fed the real baby in this house (that would be Grayson, not the miniature dachshund), when Cooper happened to wander across my lap, and noticing his vast array of matted fur spots, I decided to do what I often do, which is to cut them out with my kitchen scissors (which I must mention I've done at least 437 times before). I pulled the hair on his back up to make the process easier, grabbed a hank of it and cut. Success. He changed position, I repeated the process, but Cooper turned and hissed. I shushed him, shamed him for hissing at Mommy, and he quickly walked back toward me to be groomed again. I lifted the hair on his back to finish my task and noticed a gash, oh, about half an inch deep. No, really. I had cut into his back quite deeply, and all he did was hiss.

And then return to the scene of the crime.

Did I mention Cooper was not, well, not so bright? He was, after all, hit by a moped in his early years, but that's another story.

But, let's remember that he did come back when called. What a good boy is he?!? Robert calls him less than good, more stupid, but I prefer to reflect that my cat simply follows directions well.

The bleeding was, surprisingly mild, and Miss B. came to the resuce with a towel immediately. R. stayed home with the baby boy and Cooper and I were off for the Emergency vet clinic, where Cooper ended up between the hours of 9:30 p.m. and midnight on a certain June night with seven staples and emergency surgery to the tune of approximately $200.00. I, of course, cried throughout the emergency vet visit, apologizing profusely while the sweet young thing of a vet reassured me that I was still a good a good cat mommy, but, I wanted to insist to her, "You didn't see how trustingly he walked back to me when I already had the shears of death in my hands...You don't understand how I suck, I truly suck."

Yesterday Cooper had his stitches removed by his regular vet who love, love, loves him and has been through multiple cat sagas with him (i.e. the broken hip of 2005, and the notorious cat-bite situation shortly thereafter where he mistakenly confused me with an evil predator out to deceive him and bit me viciously requiring an ER visit [by me, not him]). Dr. F. gently educated me about grooming tools, lest I ever decide to tear matted fur off my boy again, and she stroked and petted Cooper until he was hypnotized. The moment of ecstasy came for me when the veterinary assistant whispered that his staple removal and grooming was "on the house."

Today I came home with a new tool for Cooper...the "underbrush grooming rake," as recommended by Dr. F. As promised, big hunks of tangled fur came off my shedding boy, and Cooper purred in ecstasy.

So, my title as "Crazy Cat Lady" will be unchallenged for at least the next few months.

And we'll hope that Grayson's sneezing fit as I groomed the cat was completely unrelated to cat allergies. Because I simply can't go there yet.

Surprises

So, you've been married for four years. You're used to the little idoscyncracies of your spouse. You love that he has this quirky habit of having to load the dishwasher a certain way, and that the remote controls must always remain in the same place. He loves that you wear his T-shirts to bed and say "grocery" in a white-trashy, showin'-your-Appalachian-roots-kinda-way, making the "ce" sound like "sh."

In that four years you think you know each other pretty damn well.

And then one night, out of the blue you hear him read, "Is Your Mama a Llama?"to your 3-month-old son in a rap-style reminiscent of a young Rev. Run from the early years of Run DMC and you think, "My God, I never knew he had it in him..." And, alas, you fall in love all over.

Such are the joys of enduring love. Baby board books elicit passion. Who would have thunk?

Standing Outside the Gate

I keep having this dream. The same dream for the past week. In it, my college roommate, the one who I thought would be my sister until we we were at least 93 and dyed our hair blue and drove under the speed limit the three blocks to church, and I are back in college. But time has passed and we are the grown women we are now, and in the dream I keep looking for her as she was then, a girl of 20, and realize that she is purposely avoiding me, and when I find her she is standing with some of her family around her, and she is whispering at me, and pointing at me and tells me emphatically that she cannot be my friend anymore, for I am not right with God.

This is the recurring dream. Although sometimes we're in our college dorm's lobby, and sometimes we're in Kohl's Department Store, and sometimes we're on a beach, and sometimes we're in an airport. The location changes but the dream stays the same. The recognition and then the shunning.

This roommate of the dream has, indeed, for all intents and purposes shunned me from her life. When I divorced my first husband she was angry, and she had a right to be angry on his behalf. However, her anger led her to abandonment and the nail in the coffin came with a letter several months after R. and I were married in response to a letter I wrote her asking her whether we could ever be friends again, and telling her how angry I was at her for not listening to me. Her response was this, "You eloquently express your anger and I guess I can't blame you. But the only thing for which I apologize is a lack of clarity in my witness." Her 'witness' meant that I was the woman who was to be abandoned, and that our relationship, the one which sustained me for lo those many years meant nothing and was a big misunderstanding on my part. Her witness meant that she could not continue to associate with a woman who sought a divorce, a woman who sought to find her own path, a woman who, she believed, had failed to fulfill her marriage vows.

I have come to understand as I have grown and changed and analyzed more of life that in my dreams she represents not just that woman who abandoned me, but the conservative church which she has come to represent (and I believe would claim), a church which has seemed unwilling to allow me to change and grow with it, a church that, it seems is afraid of the questioning and questing I have needed to do, and which I believe it might need to do too.

I pastored a church for six years. I gave my heart to them. I was married more to the church than I was to my husband at the time. When I divorced it was greeted with some reluctance, but ultimately accepted. When I remarried, I was suspect. My sins were too transparent, questions were too rampant, not enough time had passed. These were valid concerns, and perhaps I deserved the disapproval which I received. Perhaps I didn't deserve to pastor a church anymore. Perhaps I am paying my penance now by being an outsider, merely staring in as I wonder if I will ever have a home in my denomination again. Perhaps, like Eve, I have been cast out of the garden of Eden.

The dreams, they continue to plague me. The insommnia lately leads me down the hall away from my sleeping husband to read, to write, to fill the dark hours with my crossword puzzles. Perhaps I will always stare longingly through the gate's bars at those who are welcomed into the bosom of my denomination, or perhaps I am a better prophet outside its walls where I am allowed to speak freely, and ask questions honestly, and voice my anger appropriately without fear of what others will say, without fear of the promotion that may or may not come, the church that may or may not call me to pastor, the questions about my intergrity for what I write, or the irreverence with which I face life, or the intoxicating beverages I choose to drink.

I long to be a faithful servant. I struggle to be a disciple of the radical teacher who preached love at all costs. I am learning to internalize the grace that God so abundantly offers, even if it has been denied by those who I thought loved me without question.

I read somewhere that each voice in our dreams is part of our subconscious mind speaking its own truth, and so there may be buried within me a voice, critical of my path, condemning of the pain I've caused others, aware of my weaknesses and my sins and my inadequacies.

I still stand at the gate, and wonder what it would be like to feel like an insider, to have been born and bred Brethren, to have turned away from the fruit that was offered and to be content in the garden of Eden forever. But perhaps my truth is clearer on the outside, and perhaps there is the model of a prophet who could not be heard in his own town to whom I must attend. And perhaps I do more good outside the garden, with others like me who have survived the pains of exclusion and still found grace.

I still don't know. And the voices in my dreams at night still haunt me. And while I know God offers abundant grace, I know that in the fiber of my being, I obviously have not allowed myself to accept it just yet. Because the condemnation, it still echoes too loudly in my skull.

My college roommate ended our correspondence by telling me she would pray for me. I hope those weren't just empty words.

Moses's Wardrobe

Today, on my day off, I finally got around to catching up on details that had been lagging for months...thank-you notes for baby gifts (if any of you gift givers are reading--I'm sorry, sorry, sorry for being so late in responding...it's just that there's been a baby and all...), leftover Texas trip laundry, scooping cat litter boxes, making a trip to the credit union, drinking my weight in chai tea, you know...the same old, same old.

But, there was this little niggling thing that has been hanging over my head since about January...the issue of the fundamentalist Christian resale store and the state of my maternity clothes. You see, in mid-January I dropped off a whole shit-load of maternity clothes I had grown out of and which had been worn about, oh, once before I grew out of them. I dropped them off that day when it was snowing and now, you see, it's near 90 degrees. So, it's time to do something. For lo, it is now summer.

In my defense, the official little form they gave me when I dropped the clothes off to be considered for resale said (and I'm quoting directly here...) "Once we have evaluated your items, we will then call you with two purchase offers, consignment or store credit. At that time you may choose the offer that best fits your needs. If we do not reach you, we will leave a message or continue calling until one or the other has been achieved. Therefore, it is not necessary to call regarding your items. We happily take this responsibility in an effort to make the process less complicated for you and your family."

So, you know, I got fatter. And then I had a kid. And then I took good care of that kid. And winter turned to spring and spring turned to summer and, lo and behold, I never heard from fundamentalist Christian resale shop (where all the proceeds seem to go to wacky Christian sectarian groups). And, they did say they would "happily take on this responsibility." I imagined the little fundie ladies with their hair in tight buns, wearing modest clothing and whistling as they sorted and tagged and labeled my merchandise and then anticipated a chatty, friendly phone call in due time. So, today...today on this 6th of July I placed a little call to the business which I shall refer to as Moses's Wardrobe, the happy place which had, sadly, never taken their appointed responsibility as promised.

Mr. Moses himself answered his phone and when I explained my dilemma, the not hearing from them, and the wondering what happened with all my shit, I mean stuff (cause I care about not hurting a fundamentalist Christian's ears), Mr. Moses said, "I have no record of it." When I explained that I had the little "Buying Policy" receipt thing and that, certainly, they must have SOME record, after all I did fill out that little 3x5 card with my name and address, I was told quite unhappily, "I have no record." I took a deep breath and asked Mr. Moses to please look through his records. And I was put on hold. For a long time. A long time.

And...Mr. Moses, he did come back on the line and ask if I, was "Christian." I figured, being a fundy establishment it wouldn't hurt to answer to that misnomer. He said, "Well, I talked to you and you said we could sell the following items..." and he named about a third of what I dropped off. I politely told him that he never spoke with me. And he said, "Oh yes I did." And I said, "Ah, no, we never spoke." And he said, "Yes, I did" with an oh-so-certain tone. And I said, "I would have remembered, and would have picked up the items you did not want to sell." This led into a firm and emphatic, "No, I spoke with you." I paused, thinking, "What the hell happened to 'the customer is always right?'" There was silence on the line. "Ma'am," Moses said, "I talked to you." And the way he said it insisted that he, Mr. Moses, who has never given birth but who owns a maternity store was right. Finally, in exasperation I said, "I am not crazy!"

We were getting nowhere. Grayson was crying loudly for a bottle. The dog was whining in her cage. I had to pee. Universes were colliding. I couldn't fight the patriarchy anymore. "Fine," I said. And that was that.

R., overhearing our little exchange, overhearing my voice rising higher and higher (and I swear, I am by no means a hysterical person) said, "You want me to call?" I think R. knew by then that when dealing with conservative men who think that they can win in a verbal argument by simply speaking louder and with more emphasis, having a penis might have its advantages in the patriarchal world.

R., having aforementioned necessary penis and deep voice, phoned and said three important words. Better Business Bureau. And mean Christian man seemed to perk up a little bit. We'll see what unfolds.

It was only later that I realized my problem. I didn't remind Mr. Moses of how much Jesus was crying about the way he was treating a fellow Christian. Or perhaps I didn't walk into the shop in a prairie skirt with my hair in a Nazarene french braid. Or maybe he just whiffed the scent of the secular humanist within me and knew I voted for John Kerry in the last election. Maybe he saw my "Peace is Patriotic" bumper sticker, or had an inkling that I once volunteered for NARAL and decided it was easy to write me off since I would certainly burn in hell in due time.

Moral of the story: Moses's Wardrobe sucks.

And Jesus doesn't like liars, Mr. Moses. And he may even have voted for John Kerry. So there.

And now, Mr. Moses, I need to go to bed so I can ask forgiveness for my mean thoughts about you. And compliment myself on not using your store's real name in this post, 'cause even those of us without penises do have some integrity.

Letter to Grayson at 3 Months-Old

Dear Grayson,

I should have written this letter to you on June 28th, but as your mommy spent her vacation lugging you around from hill to valley, and indulging in the tenderest steaks ever devoured and the smoothest scotch every to slide across ice-cubes (when aforementioned mommy was absolutely not driving, just so we have that clear ahead of time), this letter got delayed. But, I'm glad because something happened today which I wanted to make sure was recorded for posterity.

Today, your Grandpa and GramBee and I drove to Warsaw to visit Great-Grandpa Miller. We took him from his assisted living facility and drove him out to Chapman Lake, to the home which he loves and to the lake where both Mommy and Grandpa swam as children. We sat on the porch and looked at the water and I asked Great-Grandpa how many hours he'd spent just watching the lake and he smiled and told me he reckoned it was a whole lot. While Great-Grandpa napped, Grandpa and I walked you down to the swimming hole and dipped your tiny toes into the water in what Great-Grandpa named, appropriately, "The Miller Baptism." You screeched at first, because the water was cold on this 4th of July, but you quickly calmed and seemed hypnotized by the waves as they broke near the shore. I whispered in your ear the mysteries of this lake which has cradled me all these years, this lake which calms your great-grandpa now in his ninth decade. I promised you that I would teach you to swim in this swimming hole and that we would watch minnows and collect clam shells, and huddle near one another in towels on the pier.

You smile so much now. Your daddy and I call one of your smiles your "Dick Cheney" look, it's a half-smile where you don't seem to be entirely committed to the idea of smiling. The difference between you and our illustrious VP, however, is that your smile lacks all sense of guile.

Grammy wonders if you might be a leftie...as in your hand-coordination (we are already convinced that your politics will lean that way, and if they don't, well...we'll let your big sisters apply appropriate pressure where need be). You seem to be favoring your left hand as you bat for objects and shake your rattle and rub your ears. We'll see what unfolds, as with so much in life.

This month you met your Mamaw Amy and your Texas kin for the first time. Grandpa and GramBee flew with us and you sat quietly in the baby carrier, resting near Grandpa's heart, your face nuzzled into his chest where he worried you were suffocating as you snuffled and snorted contentedly. You were an impressive traveler, even more impressive than Mommy who needs Xanax to be lured onto an airplane. 92-year-old Mamaw Amy remarked that she never thought she'd live to see the day that after four granddaughters she finally had her grandson. She had reason to wonder, as your oldest cousin is in her 40s and expecting her own child to arrive from China sometime soon. You cooed contentedly at your Mamaw and were ultra-fascinated with her glasses and sparkly eyes.

So many people love you. I am honored to be one of them--honored to be your mommy and can't wait to continue to watch you unfold, my sweet, sweet boy.

Mommy

Where the Armadillo Roam Free

I know, I know, I know. I'm late in posting. It's Grayson's three-month-birthday and the least I could do was write my letter to him, but we've been on vacation in San Angelo visiting R.'s family and its downright anti-social to hide one's nose in a computer when kinfolk are admiring your babies, and your brother-in-law is refilling your glass with Johnny Walker Red.

So, posts will come. I promise. I lie in bed at night awaiting the screech of a newborn insisting I feed him and write post after post in my head. But alas, my trusty laptop is at home, awaiting my return.

Big news tonight, though. We chased down an armadillo and heard his click-click-clicking feet on the driveway. Armadillos, in my opinion, are proof that God has a sense of humor.

More soon. I promise.

And remember, don't mess with Texas.

Things I Learned This Week

So, I've been back at work for two whole weeks now. The first week was infinitely worse than the second, but I'm getting more accustomed to kissing my baby boy goodbye in the morning and I love, love, love watching the relationship which is developing with the G. man and his daddy, who acts as primary caregiver right now.

This week, though, was one of those weeks where one's learning curve seems to expand exponentially.

Examples? Why sure...

When a nudist dies, it is entirely appropriate to ask the funeral home to dress him in his finest, which is, um, nothing. Furthermore, they will talk with you seriously about this and no one will smile or laugh because you both are professionals. And this is as it should be, but it does add new meaning to the term "blue balls." I'm just sayin'... And I'm not saying how I know this. Just that I do.

That one can walk through the office for an entire day with spit-up stains on their shoulder and one will say nary a word. Whether this is because one's officemates are not highly observant, or because they feel sorry for a ten-pounds overweight post-partum woman in tight clothes, is still open for discussion.

That taking a dump can elicit more positive responses from a patient than a pastoral care visit anyday. I asked one of my patients with dementia yesterday, "How are your spirits today?" And Martha paused, in deep and faraway thought as if she was communing with her Creator and finally said, "It is well. I finally went. It made all the difference. It was probably two inches long. Bowel movements help a lot." And how do I respond? In the only way I could think of in the moment, "Amen, and amen." To which she added, "Hallelujah."

That seeing one's blue-eyed boy at the end of the day smiling and cooing happily when he drifts into his mama's arms is a reminder of why I value life and why I believe in what I do, which is helping people live to the fullest. And to that I add, a hearty "Amen and Amen."

One Hand

I'm holding a baby boy. I'm typing one-handed. It's a fussy kind of night. The spirit is willing for blogging. The flesh is preoccupied. A baby who must have tired himself doing important Amnesty International work (see impressive onesie, thank you Susan) wiggles in my arms and sends his own baby love out into the blogosphere.

Will a baby picture do until I have two hands?

Back

I've been back at work for three days now. I had always heard women who had babies talk about how hard it was to return to their professions and I confess that I thought, "What?!? I love my job. I am called to my job. What?!?" And then, I kissed my 2 month old baby boy goodbye on the forehead this morning and cried on the way to a job that, for the most part, I love.

It isn't as hard now. R. is home with the G. boy throughout the summer and I love, love, love watching the relationship that they continue to develop. I love watching Grayson coo and ahh at his daddy. I love that he coos and ahhs when I get home too. I love that R. brings Grayson for Tuesday lunches with his mommy at Hospice. And the staff love that they get their Tuesday baby fix. I love that on Wednesdays he hangs with Grandma K. and I can call her at a moment's notice and she'll give me the intimate details of every moment in our baby's existence.

But, autumn will be hard. Because I know that I will wonder in those two days a week when he's with a caregiver, "Who can care for him as well as his family can?"

I worked in daycare while I was in college. I was the woman,the college senior, you left your precious baby with as you went for work each day. I lied to you when your baby walked at daycare, because I didn't want you to have to accept that you missed her first steps. I was ashamed when your child reached for me in the morning, rather than preferring to stay with his parents. I worried about you when you wanted to take more sick leave time when she had a fever, but knew you had to be at work. I wondered what life was like for him when you worked twelve hours a day for five days a week because you had to show your boss you were a "team player." I loved your child. I cradled your child. I still feel partially responsible for your child. And we haven't met for nearly ten years. And now I understand you.

I've been on both sides. I believe children grow when they have relationships with adults other than their parents. Studies show that children who attend daycare are just as emotionally healthy as their "home-grown" peers. I know this. And yet, I miss my baby when I say goodbye in the morning.

Perhaps this will change when toddlerhood and the watching of Pinky-Winky are paramount in his mind.

We'll see...

Bad Day

Sometimes there are bad days.

Today was one of those.

It was hot. Hot as hell. And dry, too, which meant there were lots of cottony things swishing through the air and making this allergy-sufferer sneeze and wheeze and snort and have watery eyes.

And Grayson had gas. Bad gas. Which meant that he was alternately crying or farting. And I'm not sure which was worse. Except in the moments when it happened simultaneously, which sort of made him pause and look perplexingly around as if to say, "What, mother, was that strange noise?" And this, sort of made me laugh, which just pissed him off more.

And I have a rash. A bad rash. Which spreads over both of my legs and which the doctor called today "unspecified," which means we don't know what caused it, just that it itches. It itches badly. And after she prescribed the cortisone cream she said, "But, we should probably determine what the cause is, or it might come back." And I have wracked my brain and I simply don't know. I don't know at all. And the detective in me, the former president of the Garfield Spy Club, hates not knowing.

And I got some bad news. And it irritated me. And made me sad. And there it is. And it may have been caused by this here blog. And so be it.

But...in a not at all Pollyanna-ish way, I also am thankful for the poignant blessings of the day--family who love me, who love me enough to take me out for a Mexican fiesta supper (and then to a Babies R Us rendezvous to buy more waterproof crib pads--Ole!), family who send me consoling emails, family who stomp their feet in righteous indignation when I am hurt, a baby who smiles and coos and brightens when I am in his eyesight and friends who console and heal and hold out olive branches when they aren't even necessary.

And so, on this bad day, on this June 7th. I pout and protest and then I pour myself a glass of chardonay wine and think about what's next.

And I know that because God created peanut M&M's thereby prooving Her love for us, it will all be okay.

And Your Mama Dresses You Funny Too

Dear Grayson,

When you are eleven years old and everyone at school is making fun of the fact that part of the back of your head is flat, don't come crying to me. For it should be duly noted that I have consistently rearranged your sleeping arrangements to accomodate for this flat spot. Whenever I see you asleep, I move your head to the other side. I have added to the opposite side of the crib an amazing black and white images of dogs which seem to hypnotize you and send you into a rhapsody of joy cooing and kicking the likes of which you never do for us. This hypnotizing and rhapsodizing has come, however, only when the picture has been viwed by you while lying on the flat head side...when I, in an amazing feat of parental genius switch it so you'll be lying on your perfectly rounded side, you get pissed as hell and tell me about it. Loudly. 'And with a scrunched face and occasional shrieks for emphasis. I can only take it for so long...and thus, you can explain the flat-headedness to your peers. For the record, it is not my fault. Your pediatrician, and your father, seem relatively unconcerned...so I assume I'm simply being a neurotic mommy, for the 239,483th time.

However, the fact that you are dressed in outfits that disguise you as various Caribbean fruit and barnyard animals can be blamed on me, and might be something worth discussing with your therapist someday.

With abiding love and concern and absolutely no blame whatsoever,
Your Adoring Mother

Holy Mary Mother of God--Three (Albeit Skimpy) Posts in One Day

Dear Nasal Aspirator,

I simply felt the need to thank you for the amazing work you do on my newborn's nose. Since he contracted this nasty head cold from his sister, he spends a lot of time sniffling and snorting and hacking and grunting. You, my dear man, have been a God-send.

I apologize for calling you so many names--"Booger Burglar," "Nose Picker," "Nasal Negotiator," "Ass of an Aspirator," "Snot Sucker," among a few of them. You deserve a title, perhaps I should start calling you "Sir Nasal Aspirator," or "King Lord God Aspirator." Does that help?

I never knew before having an infant that you existed, and confess that when I saw you whilst in the hospital lying ever so innocently in the bassinet next to my son that I perceived you as some foreign invader and vowed that I would dominate you at all costs, and avoid your evil thief-like ways because, of course, my child would never be exposed to the evil germs that you were meant to dispel, for I would be the perfect mother.

But now, my friend, now I know better.

Please forgive me for boiling you in hot water today to sanitize you. I'm sure it wasn't a pleasant sensation. However, I'm sure you recognize it was for a greater good and were willing to sacrifice your rubber goodness for us.

Thank you, and Godspeed.

Your servant,
The Contemplative Chaplain

Mother and Son Conversation

Grayson: Gee, thanks Mom, for dressing me in this jaunty gingham onesie. I hear all the boys are wearing them this season.
Mommy: Oh sweetie, just wait until winter when you can wear the red velvet Santa suit I have stashed in the closet.
Grayson: I would prefer it if you allowed my father or sisters to dress me.
Mommy: Look, it was either you or the cat, and Cooper wouldn't have room for his tail in the Santa suit.
Grayson: Bloody hell. It's going to be a long couple years until I can undress myself without help.
Mommy: You gotcha, sweet cheeks. I'm counting on it.

Further Signs that I Have Become a Mother

Today I accidentally pulled a plastic container full of sliced watermelon soaking in sticky watermelon juice out of the refrigerator and dropped it on the floor where it splattered onto recently washed tile. This wasn't the sign of motherhood.

A split second after it hit the ground I yelled, "Oh Fudge!"

Those of you who know me well realize that this would not have been my F-word of choice just a few short weeks ago.

This concerns me.

Tenderness

Kosmas is getting older. His forgetfulness has increased in the last few weeks. Helen worries about him. She feels alone and frightened. They have been married for over 56 years. In this English speaking world which is far from the Greek village in which they grew up, Kosmas has always been the translator. Helen tells me, "I come here when I was 28 years old. I no learn English. Kosmas, he talk for me." I assure her that she is more fluent than she knows.

Kosmas and Helen are our neighbors, but more than that, they are our family. They have adopted us and claimed us as their own. They bless our children with traditional Greek ritual. They call themselves our Greek parents and grandparents. They keep us stocked in Greek pastry and Easter bread. They love us unconditionally. When Kosmas had a stroke several years ago, Helen called in the wee of the morning, speaking Greek frantically and R. was the one who called 911 for them. When R. and I were married, Helen called early in the morning saying, "R., today is your happy, happy. I bring you gifts." The gifts were the largest pan of baklava in the tri-state area for our wedding reception, and a crockpot to feed 20+.

Today I took Helen and Kosmas to the cardiologist where Kosmas was having an EKG done after being diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat. In the car during the fifteen minute car ride he asked three our four times, "Where we going? What we doing?" And Helen patiently spoke to him in Greek, reminding him of his doctor appointment. Each time he thanked her for telling him and then asked me what I thought the weather would do tomorrow. I repeated to him the weather report and he thanked me. It was 90 degrees today, and Kosmas wore a sweater. He thinks it's winter, and worries that I'm taking the baby out in the cold. He was relieved today that the baby was staying home with R.

When the nurse called Kosmas to come into the examination room I asked Helen if she wanted me to go too. She said, "Oh yes, Christy [her name for me], you understand what they say, you explain it to me." I sat in the corner and watched as the electrodes were attached to a smiling Kosmas. He charmed the nurse. He was such a cooperative patient, willing to do whatever they asked of him. He thanked the nurse for her help. He thanked her "very much."

When the examination was finally over, Kosmas sat on the edge of the table, feet dangling. "You can get dressed now, Mr. K" the nurse said. Kosmas smiled obligingly at her, thanked her once again and then looked at Helen. She quietly picked up his undershirt and held the neck open for him as he slipped his head through, and then she draped his white dress shirt over his shoulders while he shrugged his arms into it, and starting from the bottom of the shirt, she tenderly buttoned each button until she got to the neck, when she gently patted his cheek. "Thank you, Helen" said Kosmas, his customary phrase.

I almost had to turn away when I saw the intimacy shared in this simple act. I felt as if I were privy to a private encounter. I was ushered into the holy communion of true love. My eyes filled with tears, which I quickly brushed away. We got in the car to go home and Helen said to me, "Christy, Kosmas, you know, Kosmas is my baby. You have your baby. I have my baby. He needs me."

Helen doesn't need to learn better English. She is fluent in the universal language of love. And this is more than enough. And it is an intimacy which I am only beginning to learn.

Month 2

Dear Grayson,

You have been on this planet now for two months. I wonder how different the world seems to you than it did just four weeks ago. I am amazed at how much you have grown and changed. Already some of your clothes don't fit, which has sent your mother into a fit of nostalgia. I fold those too small sleepers and box them up and feel as if my heart is breaking. I suppose this is what all of parenting is--a saying goodbye, while marveling at who their little one is becoming.

Your biggest accomplishment in my eyes has been your endearing smile. God help me I absolutely melt when you give me that half-grin and look at me sideways with those sometimes crossed eyes (focusing is still a skill you haven't seemed to master). When you look at me that way, I could almost forgive you telling me you'd like to become a Republican someday. Or that you'd like to become a televangelist. Almost.

Don't try it, though, okay? Don't test me.

You had your first shots last week, and as is often reported, they were miserable for all of us. Your daddy held you, while Mommy choked back tears and the nurse was mercifully quick. Two shots on each thigh, with two Elmo band-aids to mark the spot. We tried to comfort you, but it was only when your big sister picked you up and carried you out of the pediatrician's office that you calmed. You've already learned that the little people must band together (the socialist in me is thrilled that you've figured out this political lesson so early). I am humbled by the fierce bond the two of you have formed already and as an only child am forever grateful that R. and his former wife have offered you the gift of two older sisters.

It is hard for me to fathom going back to work in a few weeks. I know your father will take exquisite care of you. I am grateful that one of your parents will be home to nurture you. I also know that I will be a better mommy to you if I continue the work I love and feel called to do. But, I know how much I miss you in even a short trip to the grocery store. Eight hours is a long time.

We're still trying to teach you what it means to sleep through the whole night. At this point I would bribe you with almost anything to get you to close your eyes at 11:00 p.m. and remain asleep until around 8:00 a.m. I'd even settle for a 12:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. slot. What kind of deal can we strike? You want a pony? Your tongue pierced at age 16? A summer abroad in Croatia at the age of 22? Some play-doh to smear into the carpet? I'm willing to wheel and deal here.

There is something so tender in watching your parents relate to your children. Your father and I are the bridge that connects you to each of your grandparents. I love watching Grandpa Jim taking you on elaborate airplane rides through the living room, watching Grandma Bernie nuzzle your soft neck, watching Grandma Karen cooing to you as she rocks you to sleep, watching Grandpa Dick whisper to you about his plans to take you to Disney World and telling you what attractions you'll share together.

In another month we'll get in a plane with Grandpa Jim and Grandma Bernie and fly to San Angelo, Texas to meet your almost 92-year-old Mamaw Amy and your Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden. I can't wait to watch their faces when they are introduced to 3-month-old you. I can't wait to watch you forge relationships with your daddy's side of the family. We will take your umblical cord stump and bury it on the land where your daddy wandered as a little boy on the fish hatchery, in the same place where your older sisters have their umblical cord stumps buried, in the same place where your daddy will someday in the far distant future have his ashes scattered. This way, you'll always have roots in Texas.

You are my delight and my joy. And I love you beyond words, my sweet Lamb.

Mommy

Shots

Another boring mommy post...

Grayson got four (count them FOUR) shots on Friday morning. It probably hurt R. and me more than it hurt him. He sniffed his discontent quickly and then wailed, wailed, wailed until his big sister offered comfort (his parents, as you may recall collaborated with the mean nurse in holding him as the shots were administered).

He's had a rough two days. As had sweet Daddy who stayed awake with him all night last night. Mommy gets her turn tonight. I have a new realization. I Love Infant Acetaminophin. I mean, Love (with a capital "L"). I'm wondering if they market Infant Xanax, as we could use some in this house tonight at say, around 11:00 p.m...

Surreal World

I live in a realtively safe neighborhood in the Midwest. There are occasional burglaries. There are occasional domestic disputes. There are occasional fires. But, I feel safe where I live. I feel safe raising children in our area. There is a reputation that echoes in any racially diverse neighborhood that crime rates must be higher, or that safety must be a concern. Every time we've accidentally left our garage door open at night, our kind African American neighbors have called to remind us to close it. Every time we've hungered for a sweet treat, our Greek neighbors have supplied us with baklava. I feel safe calling my neighborhood home.

And yet, yesterday I stumbled into Surreal World.

I was out running (or walkunning as I should call it, that half running/half walking twilight that I have entered post-Grayson whereby my body doesn't know how to complete a good three mile run, and I end up half-staggering, half-limping the last mile). I was out running when I entered a strange world which involved hammers and pepper spray. In the midst of my exercise, while wearing headphones, I entered a battleground of sorts and I cannot shake this from my mind.

I have a habit on especially hard runs (as the last several have been for me) of focusing my attention on the pavement about three feet in front of me, of concentrating my effort on the ground only a few steps ahead, as a way of continuing each step. And with the headphones on, I was merely conscious of the 95.1 FM traffic report and the hot sun giving me even more premature age spots on my nose when I looked up and was about ten feet away from another reality.

There were forty or so youth, each of those I saw being African American. There was yelling. There was confrontation. There were girls wrestling on the yard of a suburban home. There was a boy being chased by a hammer-wielding man-child. There was a young woman crying out, "Help me, help me, I've been maced!" Traffic in the street was at a standstill. I had stumbled into a wonderland of sorts. This was not my home.

And even as I pulled the earphones out of my ears, and stopped to see what was happening, even as I noticed the maced girl being assisted by a neighbor, and another burly man yelling, "Break it up! Break it up!" even as I saw the stopped mini-van driver whipping out a cell-phone in what I can assume was a 911 call, I was aware that I was just an observer. My skin color set me apart. My status as 30+ year-old-woman made me different. While I was worried about these fighting youth, I was not afraid for my own safety.

How does a Christian walk into these places? What could I, a midwestern white woman do to stop the violence? Would the hammers be turned on me if I did more than slink by? Could I be an instrument of peace?

I don't know. I simply don't know.

I hurried home. I wanted to do what I could, which was to call the police. But before my route was finished I saw four or five police cars circling our neighborhood, and so I knew that part had been accomplished.

I am a middle-class white woman whose color protects her. Where am I called when violence erupts? And how do I follow the teachings of a peace-filled Christ? How do I heed the immortal words of St. Francis and sow love where there is hatred?

The answers to these questions both challenge and scare me.

I pray for those holding the hammers. I pray for those who see the violence in their eyes. God help us all.

Cheeky Goodness

I really try to sit down and type something. But this little face cajoles me into cooing and laughing instead. How am I ever going to get any writing done?

It will come.

Reflections and Resolutions

I've been rereading old posts on this here blog. Rereading with a more critical eye. Recognizing that, just as the newest public service announcement on TV suggests, one should be "careful of what you post," lest others...well, lest others...do what? Judge me? Find me? Resonate with me?

It's humbling to reread your blog. You find entries that you'd just as soon erase (geez, why'd I write that comment about my cat's bowel function?), and you find entries that remind you of why you started this blog in the first place (see most any blog about one of my Hospice patients).

I've been doing a lot of contemplating about where this blog is going (as I am the contemplative chaplain). And while the last nine months or more have been spent in more reflective writings on pregnancy and parenting, I realize that there is more than that within me. More than that which needs to be said. And so my resolution has become this: while I am on maternity leave it's fine to be Contemplative Mommy, but that is not the only label I want affiliated with my name. And so, this blog will represent all of that...the parenting, the partnering, the chaplaincy, the feminism, the Christen who is and the Christen who will become.

I continue to commit myself to being myself. Which means, not being, in this space, who my agency or my denomination want me to be, but simply being me. Irreverent, confused, hopeful, agitating, empathetic, exhausted and exhausting me.

So there. There it is. Let's begin again, shall we?

Ch-ch-ch Changes

I'm taking a break from the birth stories, because...well, it was getting a little boring...I will update, but I realized it was getting a little laborious to type (ha, pregnancy joke...laborious...I have not lost my sense of English major humor, even despite my sleep deprived brain). Which reminds me, that when the doctor told me we'd do a C-section he said, "So, ultimately I'll do the work rather than you?" I love Dr. S. so I didn't remind him that recovery from major abdominal surgery is not a fun endeavor and is indeed work, and besides, at that point I was so, so in love with Dr. S. for allowing a C-section that I had no words to condemn him.

Life changes when you have a baby. People told me this when I was pregnant. I truly believed them. I did. But, I didn't realize HOW MUCH, how very much, life changes. For instance, even if I have the opportunity to sleep (i.e. weekends when R. is not teaching the next day) I always have "mom ears." I worry about every little thing (okay, this isn't all that different than before, but the worries have gotten more particular, instead of global warming and the future onset of leprosy I now worry about the baby getting too cold [and thus catching pneumonia or some other rare Northern Indiana disease named after an obscure physician who discovered it], and the baby not pooping in 24 hours [and thus having a bowel obstruction or chronic non-pooping disease], and the baby smiling at R. and my father before smiling at me or my mother [and thus responding to deep voices rather than higher pitched ones and, logically, having a hearing problem, or a psychological disorder whereby they hate, hate, hate women], and the baby sleeping at night for more than five hours [because, of course, the baby might have some unknown sleep disorder]. Seems my hypochondriacal nature has transposed itself into hypochondriasis of the infant (there's probably another term for that).

But there are those other sentimental changes. There is this being who I adore heart and soul. And he needs me. There is this baby who trusts me and relies on me. And I better not screw it up. There is this person whose future rests, in part, in what we do now as parents. And while I am not a hard-core Baby Einstein pusher or organic baby-food promoter, I better do my best by him. There is this child who carries my heart on his sleeve, for it has moved from my own body. And I better be open to who he becomes, and how I respond.

And...it must be said, that temporarily, it is as if all of the rest of life has stopped. And this has begun, this parenting gig. So, bear with me dear readers, for it will be more balanced in time. But for now, I post as Grayson's mommy.

Ah Yes, Where Were We...Birth Story Part Deux

Now, children, gather around the fire and don't burn your little fingers or toes as I regale you with the second half of the birth story.

When we last left our heroine she was heading to the doctor's office with her hospital bag packed, remember that? The hospital bag with James Taylor CDs, peanut M&M's, Constant Comment tea bags, and all the other important doo-hickeys and whatnot that one needs when giving birth. But remember, that I don't think I'll be giving birth, mostly just being told to take it easy.

When I arrived at my sweet Dr. S.'s office (really, he is sweet, sweet and I will recommend him to each and every person who asks and he plays no fundy rock music in his office. In fact, I'm planning on giving him a nice bottle of chardonay when I see him next week to thank him for his kindness, and for pulling that baby out of my belly so nicely), my mother was there and we patiently bided our time until Dr. S. was ready to see us. I waddled into the waiting room, the nice nurse said, "I heard you're having some swelling," and then weighed me and said, "You've gained six pounds in four days. Hmmmm..." She had me sit on the table and said, "Let's see your feet..." and when she had my chubby heels in her hands she said, "Hmmm..." She took my blood pressure and said, "Hmmm...it's a little high...lie down on your right side immediately." So I did. And only then did the jungle drums beat in my head and make me a little nervous, and I started sniffling, but couldn't turn my head to my mother for comfort so mumbled toward the wall, "I'm scared." And my sweet mother rubbed my back and said, "It's just fine...relax..." and other comforting motherly things.

And then Dr. S. came in the room, and said, "I hear your swelling?" And he made a few attempts at humor to relax me and then said, "Well, Christen, here's the deal, you're blood pressure is high, and that means that you've got some preeclampsia going here." And I said, "How high?" And, knowing that I am a hypochondriacal nutjob he said simply, "Pretty high. So, here's the plan. We're going to admit you to the hospital." And I didn't know whether to be relieved or scared out of my ever-lovin' mind. "Do you have any other questions?" he asked gently. And I said, "Just this...am I leaving this hospital with a baby in my arms? Or are you just going to hook me up to some machines and tell me to relax?" And he smiled and said, "I think you'll be leaving as two rather than one." And with that, the nice nurse came and walked me over the skywalk to the adjoining hospital and I only sniffled a little bit and then became obsessed with whether or not R. would be able to arrive soon...

And, once again, dear readers, a baby calls...installment Part III soon...