She posts.
But, it is awkward as all hell because she's dosed on Prednisone and while she is still sighing sighs too deep for words after learning that her elusive weirdo bizarre physical (hypochondriacal, as some have been known to say) symptoms are completely authentic but also benign and medication related, she is still a little unsure of how to start writing again.
Writing about feeling cosmically alone. And feeling as if death is just too present. And feeling as if life is just too damn short. And wondering if all this living in the midst of death doesn't mean she's becoming ineffective in the ways of life.
I don't doubt God's ways. I'm sure that if She is around she's a pretty smart cookie.
But, I doubt Her being around in general. I wonder, all too often, if this is all there is.
And yet, I see the faraway look in the eyes of patients as they reach their hands out to the loved ones who are calling them. I opened my eyes in awe-struck wonder as the 94-year-old woman last month who I sat next to in her hospital bed as she called pleadingly for her mommy. She grabbed my hand with urgency as she asked, "Don't you see her? She's right there? Shouldn't I go?" How could I say no?
"Yes, Cordelia, she's right there. She's waiting for you," I assured.
Believing. And doubting (was it Morphine?).
So, readers...are there readers here anymore when I've ignored you for so long? What do you believe? Where is God? What is heaven? Are we cosmically alone?
(John, you reading? Or does that break the Hippocratic/Therapeutic oath?)
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Accumulated Hurt
Occasionally it occurs to me that my job is a hard one.
Three times this week I've already had people comment on the work of Hospice professionals. "Your staff are all angels." "You have been my rock, how do you do it?" "I couldn't do your job." The man who changed the oil on my car after work last week saw my name badge and said, "Hospice? Yuck. That's a bummer. Better you than me." (True, that. I must concur in his case).
It seems that universally, people see those of us who care for the dying as those who are set apart. And perhaps in some ways, some of us are. Perhaps some of us felt called to work with the dying, felt comfortable with death, felt led to embrace their vocation. But I would venture a guess that while this may have called some of us into the work, those noble aspirations have also left some of us with mind-numbing apathy or burn-out, or with questions about suffering which remain unanswered and unanswerable. I would venture a guess that for many of us death is still a great gaping void which we will face with our own fears. I would venture a guess that sometimes we trust that we are immune to the life-threatening illnesses which plague our patients and that perhaps our work with the dying acts as an all-purpose vaccine or Cootie shot which keeps us away from the grim reaper's evil eye.
I want to tell you a little secret, gather in close, for I may only have the courage to say it once while my guard is down and my protective armor is wearing thin in places. We who work in end of life care think about death too much. We are, probably, no less comfortable with it, no less afraid of our own mortality, no less healthy than the general public. We just know its ways better. We know what chain stoke breathing sounds like. We recognize mottled skin. We know what it means when patients pick at the air with their thin fingers. We know when to whisper, and when to speak loudly. We don't hate death any less. We just know it more intimately. And we have to think about it all the time.
But because we think about death all the time, find it lurking in every corner, see it staring us down at every interval, we also may savor the sweetness of this life more. We might. Some of us.
St. Christopher's Hospice, the first Hospice created in England, had engraved over the doorway "The dying are our teachers." It is a phrase which has shaped me in this ministry, and in my own nearly inaudible call. It isn't Hospice professionals who are heroes, who are the angels, who are the steady rock. It is the dying themselves. The ones who can look death in the face and stare it down and allow themselves to breathe deeply of the strength of the life that is left. The ones who see their loved ones who have already passed, and hear their voices calling them and leave their bodies content that they will be embraced on another plane. The ones who writhe in pain and trust our medical team to dose them with mind-altering drugs. The ones who whisper their most intimate secrets and welcome we Hospice strangers into their lives at the end.
I am still learning from my teachers; and there are days when I don't listen well to their lessons. Which is, I realize, why I stay in this ministry. For I have miles to go.
Three times this week I've already had people comment on the work of Hospice professionals. "Your staff are all angels." "You have been my rock, how do you do it?" "I couldn't do your job." The man who changed the oil on my car after work last week saw my name badge and said, "Hospice? Yuck. That's a bummer. Better you than me." (True, that. I must concur in his case).
It seems that universally, people see those of us who care for the dying as those who are set apart. And perhaps in some ways, some of us are. Perhaps some of us felt called to work with the dying, felt comfortable with death, felt led to embrace their vocation. But I would venture a guess that while this may have called some of us into the work, those noble aspirations have also left some of us with mind-numbing apathy or burn-out, or with questions about suffering which remain unanswered and unanswerable. I would venture a guess that for many of us death is still a great gaping void which we will face with our own fears. I would venture a guess that sometimes we trust that we are immune to the life-threatening illnesses which plague our patients and that perhaps our work with the dying acts as an all-purpose vaccine or Cootie shot which keeps us away from the grim reaper's evil eye.
I want to tell you a little secret, gather in close, for I may only have the courage to say it once while my guard is down and my protective armor is wearing thin in places. We who work in end of life care think about death too much. We are, probably, no less comfortable with it, no less afraid of our own mortality, no less healthy than the general public. We just know its ways better. We know what chain stoke breathing sounds like. We recognize mottled skin. We know what it means when patients pick at the air with their thin fingers. We know when to whisper, and when to speak loudly. We don't hate death any less. We just know it more intimately. And we have to think about it all the time.
But because we think about death all the time, find it lurking in every corner, see it staring us down at every interval, we also may savor the sweetness of this life more. We might. Some of us.
St. Christopher's Hospice, the first Hospice created in England, had engraved over the doorway "The dying are our teachers." It is a phrase which has shaped me in this ministry, and in my own nearly inaudible call. It isn't Hospice professionals who are heroes, who are the angels, who are the steady rock. It is the dying themselves. The ones who can look death in the face and stare it down and allow themselves to breathe deeply of the strength of the life that is left. The ones who see their loved ones who have already passed, and hear their voices calling them and leave their bodies content that they will be embraced on another plane. The ones who writhe in pain and trust our medical team to dose them with mind-altering drugs. The ones who whisper their most intimate secrets and welcome we Hospice strangers into their lives at the end.
I am still learning from my teachers; and there are days when I don't listen well to their lessons. Which is, I realize, why I stay in this ministry. For I have miles to go.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Dreamer
I have slept with many people in my life.
(I'm just waiting for jaws to hit the floor on that one, as I'm not a very forthcoming person when it comes to certain intimate details).
But, before I start to get concerned emails, spam about Viagra, or propositions (am I too old to be propositioned?), I should note that I am referring to the act of literally sleeping with others. Whether that be crawling into bed between my parents when I was young and roused out of bed by a storm, or whether it was in sharing a bunkbed in a steamy Indiana night at church camp with fifteen other prepubescent girls. Whether it was sharing a dorm room and loft with my college roommate, or under the stars with my ex-husband after watching a meteor shower.
Whether I slept in the closest of embraces with the men I have loved, or slept curled on my side with an infant cradled near my breast and a cat tucked into the crook of my bended legs. I have shared my bed with many a soul.
But, sleeping with my sweet R. is a whole 'nother country (to coopt the words of his home state). R. sleeps soundly, for the most part, or appears to. Often, he lies serenely with both hands folded across his chest, his graying head resting perfectly centered on the down pillow. When we first began sharing a bed, I worried at times that he had actually stopped breathing, so quiet and serene was his pose (he was in fact teased in college, as he had a reading lamp poised over his bottom bunk and would fall asleep in the aformentioned position looking not unlike a prepared body in a coffin, causing roommates to pause). Having a first husband who was an avowed sleep-talker, sleep-walker, and occasional sleep-preacher, the quiet presence in bed next to me was a bit disconcerting.
But, what R. presents in his peaceful repose (his front-stage, if you Goffmanites prefer), is not congruent with what happens inside his mind. For in his dreaming life, he is an adventurer who hobnobs with the rich and powerful and who travels far and wide.
Consider the encounter we had a few mornings ago as R. walked out of the bathroom, his razor still in hand, to report his visions to his observant wife, still in bed.
R: You know what I dreamed last night?
C: About apologizing to Richard Nixon again for how mean you were in bad-mouthing him?
R: No, not last night.
C: About eating barbeque with Michelle Obama?
R: No, that was a few nights back, she was really nice, by the way.
C: Was it Bono again? Did he remind you, once again, to "Be the beat?"
R: No, that was last summer.
C: I don't know, sweets. What did you dream?
R: Barbara Bush and I were singing, harmonizing actually, in a stairwell. Sort of like the stairwell in the Ad. Building at Manchester. We sang "Climb Every Mountain."
C: Barbara the elder? Or Barbara the younger?
R: Barbara the elder, of course. And it was really beautiful, there were phenomenal accoustics. It was quite inspirational actually.
Reader, what can I do? I have married him.
I've heard stories about porta-potty workers who, after R. complimented them on their clean facilities, gathered around him and sang their theme song in four-part harmony. I've heard stories about the gang members who taught R. their gang signs (gang signs which meant, obviously, "Two biscuits, and three pieces of chicken").
My hermit of a husband, the man who has never been able to afford out of country travel, the man who would prefer to watch rather than to act, this consummate dreamer provides me with constant entertainment. And each day, every single morning I marvel at the interior world he inhabits.
And delight that he sleeps with me.
(I'm just waiting for jaws to hit the floor on that one, as I'm not a very forthcoming person when it comes to certain intimate details).
But, before I start to get concerned emails, spam about Viagra, or propositions (am I too old to be propositioned?), I should note that I am referring to the act of literally sleeping with others. Whether that be crawling into bed between my parents when I was young and roused out of bed by a storm, or whether it was in sharing a bunkbed in a steamy Indiana night at church camp with fifteen other prepubescent girls. Whether it was sharing a dorm room and loft with my college roommate, or under the stars with my ex-husband after watching a meteor shower.
Whether I slept in the closest of embraces with the men I have loved, or slept curled on my side with an infant cradled near my breast and a cat tucked into the crook of my bended legs. I have shared my bed with many a soul.
But, sleeping with my sweet R. is a whole 'nother country (to coopt the words of his home state). R. sleeps soundly, for the most part, or appears to. Often, he lies serenely with both hands folded across his chest, his graying head resting perfectly centered on the down pillow. When we first began sharing a bed, I worried at times that he had actually stopped breathing, so quiet and serene was his pose (he was in fact teased in college, as he had a reading lamp poised over his bottom bunk and would fall asleep in the aformentioned position looking not unlike a prepared body in a coffin, causing roommates to pause). Having a first husband who was an avowed sleep-talker, sleep-walker, and occasional sleep-preacher, the quiet presence in bed next to me was a bit disconcerting.
But, what R. presents in his peaceful repose (his front-stage, if you Goffmanites prefer), is not congruent with what happens inside his mind. For in his dreaming life, he is an adventurer who hobnobs with the rich and powerful and who travels far and wide.
Consider the encounter we had a few mornings ago as R. walked out of the bathroom, his razor still in hand, to report his visions to his observant wife, still in bed.
R: You know what I dreamed last night?
C: About apologizing to Richard Nixon again for how mean you were in bad-mouthing him?
R: No, not last night.
C: About eating barbeque with Michelle Obama?
R: No, that was a few nights back, she was really nice, by the way.
C: Was it Bono again? Did he remind you, once again, to "Be the beat?"
R: No, that was last summer.
C: I don't know, sweets. What did you dream?
R: Barbara Bush and I were singing, harmonizing actually, in a stairwell. Sort of like the stairwell in the Ad. Building at Manchester. We sang "Climb Every Mountain."
C: Barbara the elder? Or Barbara the younger?
R: Barbara the elder, of course. And it was really beautiful, there were phenomenal accoustics. It was quite inspirational actually.
Reader, what can I do? I have married him.
I've heard stories about porta-potty workers who, after R. complimented them on their clean facilities, gathered around him and sang their theme song in four-part harmony. I've heard stories about the gang members who taught R. their gang signs (gang signs which meant, obviously, "Two biscuits, and three pieces of chicken").
My hermit of a husband, the man who has never been able to afford out of country travel, the man who would prefer to watch rather than to act, this consummate dreamer provides me with constant entertainment. And each day, every single morning I marvel at the interior world he inhabits.
And delight that he sleeps with me.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Conversation with a Two-Year Old
The hypothetical situation involves a parent who comes in from a long day of work where she or he spends long hours holding the hands of dying people (completely hypothetical, of course as the Mommy, oops, I mean parent, may have been dancing on their stripper pole or filling tacos at Taco Bell or auditing IRS returns). The toddler in question, whose name is um, for the story, um...Mayson, yeah, Mayson. Runs to greet his mother in the colonial blue kitchen with the most adorable off-white wainscoting and crown molding, I mean, in the, um, neutral beige generic kitchen of some anonymous home somewhere in the United States.
This is the conversation that ensues.
Mother: Hey, Boy-Boy, how was your day?
Mayson: Hi Mommy. Garage door up, garage door down.
Mother: Did you have a good day today?
Mayson: (Wide eyed, nodding). Big garage door. Go up and down.
Mother: Did the garage door come up when Mommy got home?
Mayson: Yeah, Mom. Garage door. (Nods enthusiastically)
Mother: Did you have a yummy lunch today?
Mayson: Garage door. Garage door down. (Whispers conspiratorially) Garage door down, Mom.
Mother: And did you watch Mickey's Clubhouse today?
Mayson: Garage door go up!
Mother: What about global warming? Did you figure that out? Call Al Gore and discuss the situation?
Mayson: Ummm Hmmm. Garage door up down.
Mother: And Bin Laden? Figure out where he's hiding?
Mayson: Garage door goes up.
Mother: Think Neil Patrick Harris did a nice job with the Tonys last night?
Mayson: Down. Up. Garage door, MMMMM....(making garage door noise)
Mother: Should I continue to color my hair?
Mayson: Garage door. Big garage door go down.
Mother: Paper or plastic?
Mayson: OOooooh, Mom, garage door.
Mother: Wanna call Grandpa?
Mayson: Babaw, garage door too. Garage door go up.
Mother: What about Noni? Wanna call and see what she did today?
Mayson: Noni has big garage door, little garage door.
Mother: Do you know that I love you?
Mayson: Um hmm. I love doo, Mommy.
Mother: Garage door up down, Babe. Right back at ya.
If I were this child's mother, hypothetically of course, I might consider signing him up for some sort of early-intervention OCD program, or looking for the best ivy league garage door repair schools in the country, 'cause he's obviously gifted.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
"Well, Dang!" She says with Slack-Jawed Amazement
Where'd that baby go? He was just here a minute ago.
I turned around he became a little boy.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Heart to Heart
Interaction between Grayson and R. tonight.
G: Daddum...Daddum...Daddum...
R: (Laughing aloud [a rarity as R. isn't a big laugher]) Wow, look at you! I didn't know you could pull your pants down!
Apparently Grayson has the Miller sense of humor.
And finds mooning great fun.
Ah, that's my boy. Great-grandpa Herman would be proud.
G: Daddum...Daddum...Daddum...
R: (Laughing aloud [a rarity as R. isn't a big laugher]) Wow, look at you! I didn't know you could pull your pants down!
Apparently Grayson has the Miller sense of humor.
And finds mooning great fun.
Ah, that's my boy. Great-grandpa Herman would be proud.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Friday, February 06, 2009
The Post I Haven't Known How to Write
I'd hate to draw attention to it, in case you hadn't noticed...but, it's been, oh, a little over a month since my last post (which was a picture), and then a bit longer since my last real writing...
A few people have commented...one was my husband, of course...but one was also a very nice stranger who I never knew before who found my blog through the wonders of Google.
And I confess that there is a reason I haven't blogged, and the reason is that before I do any other writing there is a piece that needs to be written. Before I address any of the minutiae of life, or comment on some random bit of trivia, or even post a picture of the boy, there is something I need to write about and I haven't known how.
And so I'll try tonight. And it won't be polished, and it won't be perfect. But it is an entry I need to write, and perhaps you will understand.
Phil and Louise Baldwin Rieman were killed in a car accident on December 26, 2008.
There was ice on the road. Their old jalopy of a VW Rabbit, painted a festive yellow, collided with a truck and in an instant two lives were snuffed out.
I am still processing this news. I am still wondering how to respond to this news. It is more than five weeks later and I still find myself in tears in the car as I think of them.
Phil and Louise Baldwin Rieman were parents of a sort; and then they weren't my parents when I divorced their son. My grief is miniscule in the larger picture. It is tiny compared to the pain of their children, and siblings, and mother, and those who knew them for so many years. In some ways, I feel I have no right to grieve. There is a name for this. Disenfranchised grief.
And so I hold in one hand the very real pain of their loss. And I hold in the other hand the truth that this grief is a grief of which I should not speak. How dare I? The woman who divorced their beloved son. The woman who crept out of their lives softly, so as not to be noticed. How dare I?
And how dare I not? When the love they gave me was so pure, and the grace they bestowed was so, well, graceful? And the forgiveness they extended was so undeserved? How dare I not tell the stories of two of the most profound influences on my life.
I hold in my mind's eye so many images. The first time I met them, even before I met their children, at Manchester College's student orientation where Phil showed me his handmade "pacifist switchblade," and where Louie encouraged my work in Amnesty International and praised my efforts in becoming socially active in the conservative wasteland of Fort Wayne. Perhaps I fell in love with Ken's parents before I even fell in love with him...
More images. Phil refusing to wear a tuxedo at the wedding, and instead walking Ken down the aisle wearing a blue suit and his signature leather tie. Louie serving the most sublime chocolate pie to the masses at our rehearsal dinner. Phil wrestling on the floor with Ken, Tina and Cheri, burying them in affection. Louie measuring me for a dress with tender hands and that simple silver wedding ring which she preferred after losing her formal bands. Phil lying prone on the floor with a bowl of popcorn within arms-reach as he wrote a sermon, John Michael Talbott playing on the stereo. Louie cursing, "Blast!" when she remembered that she'd left the clothes in the dryer too long.
And more. Phil and Louie, calling me to ministry. Encouraging me to seminary. Praising my first sermons. Buying me books on spirituality that they wanted me to know. Murmuring sympathetically at my frustration with the institutional church. Standing with their arms around me as we sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness," in the Manchester Church. Laying hands on me when I was ordained. Believing that the Spirit called me to ministry, even if I couldn't hear the voice of God. Being the voice of God, and the hands of God, and manifesting the love of God when I struggled with who that God was.
And then more. Standing in the kitchen with Louie as she packed some of Ken's belongings the day he moved out of the home we shared on Sycamore Street with tears streaming down her face and her moving toward me to embrace me, and cry with me, even though what I was doing was hurting one she loved. And Phil resting those bear paws of hands on my shoulder as he turned one last time to walk out the creaky back door with the last load of Ken's things in a box and giving me an empathetic smile.
And finally. The week before Robert and I married, seeing Phil and Louie at a wedding of mutual friends and avoiding them, ashamed. But Phil, chasing Robert and I out the door of the hotel, running quickly down the stairs to catch up before we got in the car and shaking Robert's hand and hugging me closely and saying, "Hey, congratulations. We want the best for you." And Louie, three years later, sitting with me at a women in ministry conference on tiny folding chairs in a dorm room, cupping hot styrofoam tea cups in our hands as I apologized to her for my inability to say goodbye, for my hurting her family, and having her say, "All I ever wanted was for you to follow your heart. All I need to know is that you're happy."
Grace upon grace. Love of which I did not deserve. Love I still cannot fully fathom. Love I cannot quite articulate.
I weep for them. But more, I weep for the world that doesn't have them now. I weep for orphaned children who want their Mama and Daddy in the flesh. I weep for the mother who said, "Their work here wasn't done."
This is the blog entry I've needed to write, and this is the grief which accompanies some of my days. And these were the people who showed me the face of God. And I will never be the same.
A few people have commented...one was my husband, of course...but one was also a very nice stranger who I never knew before who found my blog through the wonders of Google.
And I confess that there is a reason I haven't blogged, and the reason is that before I do any other writing there is a piece that needs to be written. Before I address any of the minutiae of life, or comment on some random bit of trivia, or even post a picture of the boy, there is something I need to write about and I haven't known how.
And so I'll try tonight. And it won't be polished, and it won't be perfect. But it is an entry I need to write, and perhaps you will understand.
Phil and Louise Baldwin Rieman were killed in a car accident on December 26, 2008.
There was ice on the road. Their old jalopy of a VW Rabbit, painted a festive yellow, collided with a truck and in an instant two lives were snuffed out.
I am still processing this news. I am still wondering how to respond to this news. It is more than five weeks later and I still find myself in tears in the car as I think of them.
Phil and Louise Baldwin Rieman were parents of a sort; and then they weren't my parents when I divorced their son. My grief is miniscule in the larger picture. It is tiny compared to the pain of their children, and siblings, and mother, and those who knew them for so many years. In some ways, I feel I have no right to grieve. There is a name for this. Disenfranchised grief.
And so I hold in one hand the very real pain of their loss. And I hold in the other hand the truth that this grief is a grief of which I should not speak. How dare I? The woman who divorced their beloved son. The woman who crept out of their lives softly, so as not to be noticed. How dare I?
And how dare I not? When the love they gave me was so pure, and the grace they bestowed was so, well, graceful? And the forgiveness they extended was so undeserved? How dare I not tell the stories of two of the most profound influences on my life.
I hold in my mind's eye so many images. The first time I met them, even before I met their children, at Manchester College's student orientation where Phil showed me his handmade "pacifist switchblade," and where Louie encouraged my work in Amnesty International and praised my efforts in becoming socially active in the conservative wasteland of Fort Wayne. Perhaps I fell in love with Ken's parents before I even fell in love with him...
More images. Phil refusing to wear a tuxedo at the wedding, and instead walking Ken down the aisle wearing a blue suit and his signature leather tie. Louie serving the most sublime chocolate pie to the masses at our rehearsal dinner. Phil wrestling on the floor with Ken, Tina and Cheri, burying them in affection. Louie measuring me for a dress with tender hands and that simple silver wedding ring which she preferred after losing her formal bands. Phil lying prone on the floor with a bowl of popcorn within arms-reach as he wrote a sermon, John Michael Talbott playing on the stereo. Louie cursing, "Blast!" when she remembered that she'd left the clothes in the dryer too long.
And more. Phil and Louie, calling me to ministry. Encouraging me to seminary. Praising my first sermons. Buying me books on spirituality that they wanted me to know. Murmuring sympathetically at my frustration with the institutional church. Standing with their arms around me as we sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness," in the Manchester Church. Laying hands on me when I was ordained. Believing that the Spirit called me to ministry, even if I couldn't hear the voice of God. Being the voice of God, and the hands of God, and manifesting the love of God when I struggled with who that God was.
And then more. Standing in the kitchen with Louie as she packed some of Ken's belongings the day he moved out of the home we shared on Sycamore Street with tears streaming down her face and her moving toward me to embrace me, and cry with me, even though what I was doing was hurting one she loved. And Phil resting those bear paws of hands on my shoulder as he turned one last time to walk out the creaky back door with the last load of Ken's things in a box and giving me an empathetic smile.
And finally. The week before Robert and I married, seeing Phil and Louie at a wedding of mutual friends and avoiding them, ashamed. But Phil, chasing Robert and I out the door of the hotel, running quickly down the stairs to catch up before we got in the car and shaking Robert's hand and hugging me closely and saying, "Hey, congratulations. We want the best for you." And Louie, three years later, sitting with me at a women in ministry conference on tiny folding chairs in a dorm room, cupping hot styrofoam tea cups in our hands as I apologized to her for my inability to say goodbye, for my hurting her family, and having her say, "All I ever wanted was for you to follow your heart. All I need to know is that you're happy."
Grace upon grace. Love of which I did not deserve. Love I still cannot fully fathom. Love I cannot quite articulate.
I weep for them. But more, I weep for the world that doesn't have them now. I weep for orphaned children who want their Mama and Daddy in the flesh. I weep for the mother who said, "Their work here wasn't done."
This is the blog entry I've needed to write, and this is the grief which accompanies some of my days. And these were the people who showed me the face of God. And I will never be the same.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Grateful...
Because it's not just anyone who can pull off the pop-bead-plastic tiara and Beatles onesie.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Blogworthy
Knowing that an ice storm was headed our direction and that we will soon have treacherous travel conditions, I had a flashback to Miss Opal, our Good News after-school program teacher. Miss Opal was a wizened blue-haired wonder who smelled of a combination of Ben-Gay and Jean Nate. Miss Opal, who could command the felt board Eve to eat the apple with an especially sinister snarl. Miss Opal, who always reminded us to be good samaritans.
I heard Miss Opal's voice in my head as I dialed our elderly Greek neighbors, Helen and Kosmas to see if they needed anything from the grocery.
Helen always says hello suspiciously. Telemarketers seem to prey on the elderly, and add to that the elderly who speak English as a second language, and she's learned to be cautious. When I tell her it's me there is a barrage of joy, "Oh, Christy, Christy [her name for me], why you not at work? Baby sick? You still sick? You don't sound so good. Christy, I'm glad you called me." It's hard to get a word in edgewise. I explained that we had a storm coming. "Oh, no, Christy. It's gonna be a bad storm, huh? It's gonna be ice, huh? This weather. What you gonna do, huh?"
"What you gonna do?" is the philosophy by which Helen and Kosmas live. Their own form of spiritual wisdom. Their own response that, yes, at times, shit happens. Their own acceptance of all that comes in. Their own Tao. What you gonna do, huh?
I explained to Helen, carefully and slowly, that we were going to the grocery to stock up on things. I explained that we were worried about them and wondered if they needed us to pick them up anything. I explained that we didn't know how long the storm would last, but just in case, it might help to have everything we needed for a few days.
Helen listened carefully and said, "Oh, Christy, you're right. I mean, what you gonna do, right? And you, you gonna do something to help. So, yes, I need something from the grocery before the storm comes blowing. You wanna write this down?" I sat, poised with pen in hand to get Helen's list.
"I need one unsalted hairspray. In the can that spray."
I waited.
Helen was quiet. "You get it, Christy? One unsalted hairspray."
"Okay, Helen. One unscented can of hairspray. Anything else?"
"No. That's good."
We each have our own needs in emergencies. Me? I went to the library yesterday and got a big pile of memoirs to read. And I want to make sure R. picks up some peanut M&M's on the grocery run.
Helen, she's got her hairspray. What you gonna do, really?
I heard Miss Opal's voice in my head as I dialed our elderly Greek neighbors, Helen and Kosmas to see if they needed anything from the grocery.
Helen always says hello suspiciously. Telemarketers seem to prey on the elderly, and add to that the elderly who speak English as a second language, and she's learned to be cautious. When I tell her it's me there is a barrage of joy, "Oh, Christy, Christy [her name for me], why you not at work? Baby sick? You still sick? You don't sound so good. Christy, I'm glad you called me." It's hard to get a word in edgewise. I explained that we had a storm coming. "Oh, no, Christy. It's gonna be a bad storm, huh? It's gonna be ice, huh? This weather. What you gonna do, huh?"
"What you gonna do?" is the philosophy by which Helen and Kosmas live. Their own form of spiritual wisdom. Their own response that, yes, at times, shit happens. Their own acceptance of all that comes in. Their own Tao. What you gonna do, huh?
I explained to Helen, carefully and slowly, that we were going to the grocery to stock up on things. I explained that we were worried about them and wondered if they needed us to pick them up anything. I explained that we didn't know how long the storm would last, but just in case, it might help to have everything we needed for a few days.
Helen listened carefully and said, "Oh, Christy, you're right. I mean, what you gonna do, right? And you, you gonna do something to help. So, yes, I need something from the grocery before the storm comes blowing. You wanna write this down?" I sat, poised with pen in hand to get Helen's list.
"I need one unsalted hairspray. In the can that spray."
I waited.
Helen was quiet. "You get it, Christy? One unsalted hairspray."
"Okay, Helen. One unscented can of hairspray. Anything else?"
"No. That's good."
We each have our own needs in emergencies. Me? I went to the library yesterday and got a big pile of memoirs to read. And I want to make sure R. picks up some peanut M&M's on the grocery run.
Helen, she's got her hairspray. What you gonna do, really?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
A Memo
To: Sinuses
From: Contemplative Chaplain
Date: December 16, 2008
RE: Your recent failure
***
It has come to my attention that you have been failing miserably in your job as you maintain superior nasal clarity, the highest standards of health and the promise of wellness.
While your productivity remains high (it seems that was 3/4 of a box of Kleenex used today, sinuses, well done!), your performance falters. And the product has been a bit, well, green.
It is frustrating as your supervisor (or is it servant?), to have you fail in job performance during this crucial holiday period. Perhaps you are unaware that when you are unhealthy, your performance effects not only my sense of smell, but also my sense of taste. This is an unsatisfactory experience as today I could not taste the egg nog or chocolate almond cupcakes with little tiny green and red sprinkles atop them at the annual holiday party. As this is a seasonal event, which only happens once a year, you can imagine the horror.
I appreciate your attempts at helping me to lose weight. Thus far, I have dropped two pounds thanks to your extreme taste deprivation. However, time is of the essence here, as I don't want to miss the once-a-year chance of eating melting moments cookies which were my grandmother's recipe.
I anticipate more effective sinus maintenance in the future or else drastic measures will need to be taken. Jalapenos maybe. Or the dreaded neti pot. I trust you will respond to the antibiotic that I introduced you to a few days ago, and allow yourself to learn from her superior work habits.
Consider this a warning. Step it up, sinuses. 'Cause there's no "I" in "Team."
From: Contemplative Chaplain
Date: December 16, 2008
RE: Your recent failure
***
It has come to my attention that you have been failing miserably in your job as you maintain superior nasal clarity, the highest standards of health and the promise of wellness.
While your productivity remains high (it seems that was 3/4 of a box of Kleenex used today, sinuses, well done!), your performance falters. And the product has been a bit, well, green.
It is frustrating as your supervisor (or is it servant?), to have you fail in job performance during this crucial holiday period. Perhaps you are unaware that when you are unhealthy, your performance effects not only my sense of smell, but also my sense of taste. This is an unsatisfactory experience as today I could not taste the egg nog or chocolate almond cupcakes with little tiny green and red sprinkles atop them at the annual holiday party. As this is a seasonal event, which only happens once a year, you can imagine the horror.
I appreciate your attempts at helping me to lose weight. Thus far, I have dropped two pounds thanks to your extreme taste deprivation. However, time is of the essence here, as I don't want to miss the once-a-year chance of eating melting moments cookies which were my grandmother's recipe.
I anticipate more effective sinus maintenance in the future or else drastic measures will need to be taken. Jalapenos maybe. Or the dreaded neti pot. I trust you will respond to the antibiotic that I introduced you to a few days ago, and allow yourself to learn from her superior work habits.
Consider this a warning. Step it up, sinuses. 'Cause there's no "I" in "Team."
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Now With 34% More Protein
I read on a blog recently that no one likes to hear blog writers apologize and make excuses for not posting. And how they'd rather not hear the lament of writer's block, or busy schedules. Instead, they'd just rather the writer write when the could and stop wasting their readers precious time with long-winded explanations.
I also read on my favorite brand of granola bars that they have updated themselves and now have more protein.
The long and the short of it is. I'm back to trying to post more routinely. And with more protein.
I'm letting myself off the hook and not planning on writing monthly letters to the boy. It was feeling burdensome, as if I had to remember every single detail and I found deadlines looming over me. And so, I'll write some here and there, and you'll undoubtedly have your fill of Grayson stories to keep you begging me to just pipe down about the boy. I also figured that each entry didn't have to be a well prepared entry, pondered at length. Instead, I could, perhaps, just try to write more often and include the trivial. I'm sure, for instance, that you all would like to know what color toenail polish I'm planning on painting my nails, and then we could swap techniques for cleaning mini-blinds. Or not. I suppose I don't want the blog to dissolve into trifling nonsense. We'll see what comes...
So, there's that. Business and updates out of the way.
Recently Grayson and I have been hit with the one-two wallop of head cold which has rallied the bad bacterial forces and become sinus and ear infections. That's sinus and ear infections for both of us. I'm not sure who is the bigger wuss here. I sleep more. He whines more. Or maybe it's the other way around. We're both taking antibiotics and wiping snot all over one another. It's been one of the more exhausting health adventures we've had for awhile at Casa P-M and I'm amazed at R., with his immune system of steel, and trusty Zicam for remaining all-powerful in the face of these wee monsters (the germs, not me and Grayson...or maybe us too).
The tornado watches I alluded to, the cryptic mysterious post of which few seemed to notice (Have I lost all my readers? I suppose it would serve me right for being a lazy slacker...whoops, no apologies, I need to heed the lessons of Love Story here), has come to pass and our small not-for-profit community-based Hospice had to lay off ten workers. All of them good folk who now face a difficult job market and dismal holiday without income. I am thankful to be spared, and yet remember that "there but for the grace of God..." These figurative tornadoes have whipped through Fort Wayne, but I seem to have escaped with only wind-blown hair, some changes in job responsibilities (which have allowed me to become the chaplain of our in-patient 14-bed-unit, an assignment which I wasn't relishing but have found absolutely delightful--or as delightful as being surrounded by death can be) and a few more stories to tell.
You'll hear them soon...
I also read on my favorite brand of granola bars that they have updated themselves and now have more protein.
The long and the short of it is. I'm back to trying to post more routinely. And with more protein.
I'm letting myself off the hook and not planning on writing monthly letters to the boy. It was feeling burdensome, as if I had to remember every single detail and I found deadlines looming over me. And so, I'll write some here and there, and you'll undoubtedly have your fill of Grayson stories to keep you begging me to just pipe down about the boy. I also figured that each entry didn't have to be a well prepared entry, pondered at length. Instead, I could, perhaps, just try to write more often and include the trivial. I'm sure, for instance, that you all would like to know what color toenail polish I'm planning on painting my nails, and then we could swap techniques for cleaning mini-blinds. Or not. I suppose I don't want the blog to dissolve into trifling nonsense. We'll see what comes...
So, there's that. Business and updates out of the way.
Recently Grayson and I have been hit with the one-two wallop of head cold which has rallied the bad bacterial forces and become sinus and ear infections. That's sinus and ear infections for both of us. I'm not sure who is the bigger wuss here. I sleep more. He whines more. Or maybe it's the other way around. We're both taking antibiotics and wiping snot all over one another. It's been one of the more exhausting health adventures we've had for awhile at Casa P-M and I'm amazed at R., with his immune system of steel, and trusty Zicam for remaining all-powerful in the face of these wee monsters (the germs, not me and Grayson...or maybe us too).
The tornado watches I alluded to, the cryptic mysterious post of which few seemed to notice (Have I lost all my readers? I suppose it would serve me right for being a lazy slacker...whoops, no apologies, I need to heed the lessons of Love Story here), has come to pass and our small not-for-profit community-based Hospice had to lay off ten workers. All of them good folk who now face a difficult job market and dismal holiday without income. I am thankful to be spared, and yet remember that "there but for the grace of God..." These figurative tornadoes have whipped through Fort Wayne, but I seem to have escaped with only wind-blown hair, some changes in job responsibilities (which have allowed me to become the chaplain of our in-patient 14-bed-unit, an assignment which I wasn't relishing but have found absolutely delightful--or as delightful as being surrounded by death can be) and a few more stories to tell.
You'll hear them soon...
Monday, November 10, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
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.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
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.
Monday, October 06, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
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.
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
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