This morning at the pool, I was reclining on the steps with #6 on my lap facing me. He kept smiling every time that he caught my eye. Finally, he placed one small hand on either side of my face, smiled hugely, sighed and said "love, love...love, love love" in the sweetest sing song voice.
He crooned his love song and I felt like the luckiest mom on the planet. I couldn't stop smiling. After a while of gazing deeply into my eyes, he puckered up and leaned forward, so I did too.
He leaned a little farther in.......and planted a big juicy one on the reflection of himself in my sunglasses. He then pointed a chubby finger at his smiling reflection on my sunglass lens and said "Me!" Then he leaned forward and kissed himself again.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Catnip for Crazy
I have recently come to the inevitable conclusion that I attract crazy. I send out a signal like a homing beacon and draw it to me.
A few weeks ago when I was couch shopping, this woman sat down next to me on the sofa I eventually purchased. I was just waiting for the saleslady to bring me the total bill including delivery when this voice next to me said "Do you see the guy I'm with? I know everybody thinks he's my first husband, but he's not. He's my second. He's the twin brother of my first husband which is what confuses people." She went on to regale me with the tale of how she's unsure which brother is the father of her 10 year old son, but could I please not tell her husband that? The new one or the old one, please....although she's not sure where the first one is as he went to Mexico 10 years ago and never came back.........and it got weirder and I just kept hoping for the saleslady to return so I could leave.
But they find me, the crazy people...we're weirdly drawn to each other. Like last week when the two little boys and I went to the preschool playgroup in our neighborhood. There were 15 moms there, and probably 12 of us had driven over (it's 100+ degrees out there, I'm driving everywhere). I was sharing my story of the furniture store when someone started beating on the front door. Not knocking y'all, beating. The hostess looked out her front window and exclaimed "How weird! That's my neighbor. I've been living here for 3 years and he's never even said hello to me." (That's because he's crazy.) She had barely opened the door when he started yelling "I'd like to know whose black SUV is parked in front of my house! You need to move it because I never said you could park in front of my house!" Clearly a lunatic. Also, clearly my car. 12 women parked on the street. What're the odds that I'll be the one in front of the crazy man's house? 100%
Everywhere I go, I get the waitress who decides to share the intimate secrets of that thing she did last week that she didn't even tell her best friend...in explicit detail, or the man who was abducted by aliens on Tuesday and shares the details with me as we're standing in the grocery checkout line (btw, eyeball probes do not sound fun). I encounter the person who drank poison and lived to tell the tale, and the woman who swore to me that she's a psychic and I'm the reincarnation of some French Jewish woman she knew in WWII and the birthmark on my head is exactly where her friend was shot. (fabulous.)
I'm not sure why the crazies come to me. I try to avoid eye contact with anyone even slightly strange lest I hear more about their one night stand with the ghost of Elvis than I ever wanted to know. It doesn't matter. They tap my shoulder to get my attention and then launch right into it, and my mama raised me with too many manners to just rudely walk away no matter how bizarre it gets.
My husband read some post apocalyptic novel a few months back and mused out loud how unsafe the world would be with unchecked craziness on the loose. He can worry all he wants, but I know we'll be just fine. The crazies love me. I draw them in like bugs to a porch light and they adore me. Other people can fret over what ifs, but if that ever happens the loonies will come to me and I will be their queen.
A few weeks ago when I was couch shopping, this woman sat down next to me on the sofa I eventually purchased. I was just waiting for the saleslady to bring me the total bill including delivery when this voice next to me said "Do you see the guy I'm with? I know everybody thinks he's my first husband, but he's not. He's my second. He's the twin brother of my first husband which is what confuses people." She went on to regale me with the tale of how she's unsure which brother is the father of her 10 year old son, but could I please not tell her husband that? The new one or the old one, please....although she's not sure where the first one is as he went to Mexico 10 years ago and never came back.........and it got weirder and I just kept hoping for the saleslady to return so I could leave.
But they find me, the crazy people...we're weirdly drawn to each other. Like last week when the two little boys and I went to the preschool playgroup in our neighborhood. There were 15 moms there, and probably 12 of us had driven over (it's 100+ degrees out there, I'm driving everywhere). I was sharing my story of the furniture store when someone started beating on the front door. Not knocking y'all, beating. The hostess looked out her front window and exclaimed "How weird! That's my neighbor. I've been living here for 3 years and he's never even said hello to me." (That's because he's crazy.) She had barely opened the door when he started yelling "I'd like to know whose black SUV is parked in front of my house! You need to move it because I never said you could park in front of my house!" Clearly a lunatic. Also, clearly my car. 12 women parked on the street. What're the odds that I'll be the one in front of the crazy man's house? 100%
Everywhere I go, I get the waitress who decides to share the intimate secrets of that thing she did last week that she didn't even tell her best friend...in explicit detail, or the man who was abducted by aliens on Tuesday and shares the details with me as we're standing in the grocery checkout line (btw, eyeball probes do not sound fun). I encounter the person who drank poison and lived to tell the tale, and the woman who swore to me that she's a psychic and I'm the reincarnation of some French Jewish woman she knew in WWII and the birthmark on my head is exactly where her friend was shot. (fabulous.)
I'm not sure why the crazies come to me. I try to avoid eye contact with anyone even slightly strange lest I hear more about their one night stand with the ghost of Elvis than I ever wanted to know. It doesn't matter. They tap my shoulder to get my attention and then launch right into it, and my mama raised me with too many manners to just rudely walk away no matter how bizarre it gets.
My husband read some post apocalyptic novel a few months back and mused out loud how unsafe the world would be with unchecked craziness on the loose. He can worry all he wants, but I know we'll be just fine. The crazies love me. I draw them in like bugs to a porch light and they adore me. Other people can fret over what ifs, but if that ever happens the loonies will come to me and I will be their queen.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Knowing When to Walk Away
**Stream of consciousness writing from a person with ADD who's off her meds. It meanders a bit all over the place. But I needed it out of my head and on "paper". If you can't follow my thought process, it isn't you, it really is me. **
For years now, I have hoped and prayed for my family of origin to be re-united. I never wished for my parents to be remarried, my father has a new wife and has moved on, but I wished with everything in me that I could walk away from my position as the family's black sheep and once again have a relationship with my father.
I used to be angry at him for abandoning his family. I was furious that he had replaced me as his daughter. I was incensed that he allowed members of his new family to attack me. Most of all, I ached that he no longer wanted to be my daddy, that the Prince Charming of my childhood could forget his princess.
I reacted as the child I still was in that relationship. I begged, cried and pleaded. I lashed out in anger. I roared at the world in my pain. It made no difference. He was as gone from my life as if he no longer existed anywhere on earth. He was gone.
I recently had the opportunity to see him for the first time in 10 years. I opted not to go.
The family tongue-waggers discussed my "reasons" and came up with all kinds of selfish and dramatic reasons why I would have chosen not to attend a family wedding. They were all wrong. It wasn't anger or spite that kept me away. It was grief. The pain and agony of my loss bubbled up inside of me and I wailed over it anew.
I thought of the poor bride whose wedding was sure to be upstaged by my outpouring of pain. If I couldn't control it in the safety of my own home, what would I do when my pain stood before me face-to-face? I didn't want to be that girl at the wedding. The bride deserved to have people talk about how she glowed, how lovely she was, how in love they both seemed. She didn't deserve to be outshone by the gulping grief of her new husband's family in the 3rd row.
With every part of my heart, I wanted to see that new family created. I wanted to see the glow of their joy. I wanted to see that little boy get the mommy he's been praying for and dreaming about for as long as I've had the privilege to know him.
I didn't go. I couldn't be the chaos and drama on what should be a joyous day, and I know us, the drama was inevitable if I was there. If it wasn't me sobbing, it would be someone else yelling. We're an Irish family complete with the hot temper that comes with that.
The irony is that the drama and pain I wanted only to avoid found me anyway. They chased me with it and thrust it upon me. It was done in a way whose only point was to hurt me. There was no reconciliation sought or offered. There was nothing there but the desire to beat me for my "offenses."
I am done with it all. For 10 years I have shouldered the guilt of it all. I played the "what if" game. It is time to stop. It is time to stop pining for the family of my birth and focus my gaze only upon the family I have. I removed the letter to my dad from my sidebar. I no longer care if he reads it.
I let go of the anger and the fury years ago because I realized that such anger will burn you up from the inside. I also came to recognize that you can't hate a stranger, you don't know them well enough. Love and hate of an individual require knowledge of that person. It's been 10 years since we last spoke. I no longer know the people they have become. I no longer know the person he is. I have been crying for a shadow for all this time.
Just the same, they don't know me. Their anger and hurt is aimed at a person who doesn't exist. She is a creation of their memories and imaginations. They can no more hate the person I am than they can love me. For years, it has all been a giant game of make-believe played out in our respective imaginations. The true people no longer matter as we have all become caricatures in each others' minds. The only way it ends if for one of us to stop playing the game. So I have.
I have reached the point in my life where I'm too old for drama and I just want to be left in peace and that's all I'm asking for anymore.
**I'm leaving comments open for now. My family has a history of personal attacks in the comments of my blog. All such posts will be immediately deleted.
For years now, I have hoped and prayed for my family of origin to be re-united. I never wished for my parents to be remarried, my father has a new wife and has moved on, but I wished with everything in me that I could walk away from my position as the family's black sheep and once again have a relationship with my father.
I used to be angry at him for abandoning his family. I was furious that he had replaced me as his daughter. I was incensed that he allowed members of his new family to attack me. Most of all, I ached that he no longer wanted to be my daddy, that the Prince Charming of my childhood could forget his princess.
I reacted as the child I still was in that relationship. I begged, cried and pleaded. I lashed out in anger. I roared at the world in my pain. It made no difference. He was as gone from my life as if he no longer existed anywhere on earth. He was gone.
I recently had the opportunity to see him for the first time in 10 years. I opted not to go.
The family tongue-waggers discussed my "reasons" and came up with all kinds of selfish and dramatic reasons why I would have chosen not to attend a family wedding. They were all wrong. It wasn't anger or spite that kept me away. It was grief. The pain and agony of my loss bubbled up inside of me and I wailed over it anew.
I thought of the poor bride whose wedding was sure to be upstaged by my outpouring of pain. If I couldn't control it in the safety of my own home, what would I do when my pain stood before me face-to-face? I didn't want to be that girl at the wedding. The bride deserved to have people talk about how she glowed, how lovely she was, how in love they both seemed. She didn't deserve to be outshone by the gulping grief of her new husband's family in the 3rd row.
With every part of my heart, I wanted to see that new family created. I wanted to see the glow of their joy. I wanted to see that little boy get the mommy he's been praying for and dreaming about for as long as I've had the privilege to know him.
I didn't go. I couldn't be the chaos and drama on what should be a joyous day, and I know us, the drama was inevitable if I was there. If it wasn't me sobbing, it would be someone else yelling. We're an Irish family complete with the hot temper that comes with that.
The irony is that the drama and pain I wanted only to avoid found me anyway. They chased me with it and thrust it upon me. It was done in a way whose only point was to hurt me. There was no reconciliation sought or offered. There was nothing there but the desire to beat me for my "offenses."
I am done with it all. For 10 years I have shouldered the guilt of it all. I played the "what if" game. It is time to stop. It is time to stop pining for the family of my birth and focus my gaze only upon the family I have. I removed the letter to my dad from my sidebar. I no longer care if he reads it.
I let go of the anger and the fury years ago because I realized that such anger will burn you up from the inside. I also came to recognize that you can't hate a stranger, you don't know them well enough. Love and hate of an individual require knowledge of that person. It's been 10 years since we last spoke. I no longer know the people they have become. I no longer know the person he is. I have been crying for a shadow for all this time.
Just the same, they don't know me. Their anger and hurt is aimed at a person who doesn't exist. She is a creation of their memories and imaginations. They can no more hate the person I am than they can love me. For years, it has all been a giant game of make-believe played out in our respective imaginations. The true people no longer matter as we have all become caricatures in each others' minds. The only way it ends if for one of us to stop playing the game. So I have.
I have reached the point in my life where I'm too old for drama and I just want to be left in peace and that's all I'm asking for anymore.
**I'm leaving comments open for now. My family has a history of personal attacks in the comments of my blog. All such posts will be immediately deleted.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Counting My Blessings
It's been a rough 48 hours. The kind that make you want to go and rethink your life, so I am rethinking it....I'm trying to find the good in all of it. It's not always so easy.
Yesterday morning, we awoke to find that the dog had gotten out of her crate in the laundry room and must have eaten something that didn't agree with her. The floor looked as if it had been painted with poop. It was all over the sorted laundry, had run under the appliances, was splattered on the walls. **But as I scrubbed the floor, I forced myself to remember a time when we didn't have a laundry room, we didn't have a surplus of clothes that could sit on the floor in piles, we didn't have new appliances that move easily, and I sent up a prayer of gratitude for all that we have. I also paused a moment to thank God for my husband who remembered to close the laundry room door so that I wasn't scrubbing the entire house.
Later in the morning, my two eldest boys came and found me. They were wearing guilty expressions as they confessed to "breaking that thing on the banister on the stairs." I heaved a sigh and followed them to discover that they had staged an epic light sabre battle and crashed through one of the spindles on the staircase. **I looked at the worried expressions on the faces of my boys and was so grateful for the honesty that brought them straight to me with the truth of what had happened. We've worked on telling the truth even when it might get them in trouble and it seems to be bearing fruit. I'm so pleased that they trust me enough to tell me the things they know I won't like. I'm also profoundly grateful to live in a house that's big enough to accommodate our large family, the stairs are a part of that. That night, I thanked God for rambunctious boys with healthy bodies and active imaginations. We could be dealing with so much worse than a broken spindle.
That afternoon, my 2 year old woke up, pulled off his diaper and painted the walls of his bedrooms with the contents of it. I was pretty tired of looking for gratitude by this point, but found it pretty easily in my kind neighbor who loaned me her carpet shampooer and was nice enough to let me walk away before she started laughing.
Today was more of the same kind of chaos, all following a poop theme. It's been pretty disgusting lately, but I find that I have more patience for it all. A month or so ago, I decided to always look for the good and thank God for it. Some days I have to ask him to point the good out to me, but I'm getting pretty adept at finding it. It's also a kind of intellectual honesty as a parent. I expect my children to obey me with a happy heart even when I tell them to do things they don't particularly want to do. How can I ask of them what I don't do myself?
I find that my attitude toward life and those around me has begun to slowly change and that my focus has started to shift from the bad to the wonderful things God has put in my life.
Yesterday morning, we awoke to find that the dog had gotten out of her crate in the laundry room and must have eaten something that didn't agree with her. The floor looked as if it had been painted with poop. It was all over the sorted laundry, had run under the appliances, was splattered on the walls. **But as I scrubbed the floor, I forced myself to remember a time when we didn't have a laundry room, we didn't have a surplus of clothes that could sit on the floor in piles, we didn't have new appliances that move easily, and I sent up a prayer of gratitude for all that we have. I also paused a moment to thank God for my husband who remembered to close the laundry room door so that I wasn't scrubbing the entire house.
Later in the morning, my two eldest boys came and found me. They were wearing guilty expressions as they confessed to "breaking that thing on the banister on the stairs." I heaved a sigh and followed them to discover that they had staged an epic light sabre battle and crashed through one of the spindles on the staircase. **I looked at the worried expressions on the faces of my boys and was so grateful for the honesty that brought them straight to me with the truth of what had happened. We've worked on telling the truth even when it might get them in trouble and it seems to be bearing fruit. I'm so pleased that they trust me enough to tell me the things they know I won't like. I'm also profoundly grateful to live in a house that's big enough to accommodate our large family, the stairs are a part of that. That night, I thanked God for rambunctious boys with healthy bodies and active imaginations. We could be dealing with so much worse than a broken spindle.
That afternoon, my 2 year old woke up, pulled off his diaper and painted the walls of his bedrooms with the contents of it. I was pretty tired of looking for gratitude by this point, but found it pretty easily in my kind neighbor who loaned me her carpet shampooer and was nice enough to let me walk away before she started laughing.
Today was more of the same kind of chaos, all following a poop theme. It's been pretty disgusting lately, but I find that I have more patience for it all. A month or so ago, I decided to always look for the good and thank God for it. Some days I have to ask him to point the good out to me, but I'm getting pretty adept at finding it. It's also a kind of intellectual honesty as a parent. I expect my children to obey me with a happy heart even when I tell them to do things they don't particularly want to do. How can I ask of them what I don't do myself?
I find that my attitude toward life and those around me has begun to slowly change and that my focus has started to shift from the bad to the wonderful things God has put in my life.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Live and Let Live
We've now been in Texas for close to two months. It isn't as lonely as I feared it would be, and I haven't found my people yet.* (It's the one thing I miss about Oklahoma....my people.) What I have discovered is a wonderfully non-judgmental attitude from the people we meet.
In Oklahoma City, I got used to the little comments on our family's size. Some of the comments were innocuous, "You've got your hands full there", while others were shockingly unkind, "It's because of your irresponsible breeding habits that the world is overpopulated." Nobody in Wylie, Texas seems to give a good gosh darn how many people live in our house or how they all got here.
Everyone we've met, from the checkout girl at the grocery to the single woman who lives across the street, seems to think that it's our business and that if we're happy then why should they mind?
For the first time in years, I take all my children to the grocery store at the same time and don't worry about the response we'll get. Folks just smile at my crowd of followers and a couple elderly gentlemen have come over to shake my hand. The first time I brought them all with me to pick up milk, I prepped them in the car "We're just getting milk. It's in and out. You'd better all behave." (I don't really know what would have happened if they hadn't behaved, but I felt like they might need a warning.) Yesterday, I caught myself at the end of the food run and realized that I had 6 children with me (including #7 in that count) and I'd been completely relaxed the entire time.
Texas isn't the place of my birth, but I grew up here. Somehow in the years up north I'd forgotten that Texans mind their own business and take folks at face value. It is the way I was raised, and I've missed it. There is something welcoming and downright friendly about people who don't even think to presume to tell you how to live. Are you happy? That's all that counts, and that's exactly as it should be.
The bad news is that it's not home yet. The good news is that it will be.
*Except for my neighbor C. who reads my blog and needs to come over so we can go get chai lattes and shop for frog bracelets.
In Oklahoma City, I got used to the little comments on our family's size. Some of the comments were innocuous, "You've got your hands full there", while others were shockingly unkind, "It's because of your irresponsible breeding habits that the world is overpopulated." Nobody in Wylie, Texas seems to give a good gosh darn how many people live in our house or how they all got here.
Everyone we've met, from the checkout girl at the grocery to the single woman who lives across the street, seems to think that it's our business and that if we're happy then why should they mind?
For the first time in years, I take all my children to the grocery store at the same time and don't worry about the response we'll get. Folks just smile at my crowd of followers and a couple elderly gentlemen have come over to shake my hand. The first time I brought them all with me to pick up milk, I prepped them in the car "We're just getting milk. It's in and out. You'd better all behave." (I don't really know what would have happened if they hadn't behaved, but I felt like they might need a warning.) Yesterday, I caught myself at the end of the food run and realized that I had 6 children with me (including #7 in that count) and I'd been completely relaxed the entire time.
Texas isn't the place of my birth, but I grew up here. Somehow in the years up north I'd forgotten that Texans mind their own business and take folks at face value. It is the way I was raised, and I've missed it. There is something welcoming and downright friendly about people who don't even think to presume to tell you how to live. Are you happy? That's all that counts, and that's exactly as it should be.
The bad news is that it's not home yet. The good news is that it will be.
*Except for my neighbor C. who reads my blog and needs to come over so we can go get chai lattes and shop for frog bracelets.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Peace, Kindness and Generosity
This past weekend, my sweet husband and I took our brood down to the peace and quiet that is my in-laws' house. They are preparing to move in a few weeks and we jumped at the opportunity to spend a weekend in the aura of my mother in law's calm. We also realized that it might be our last chance to spend time in the house we both have come to think of as home.
There is so much history for us in that comfortable house in Corpus Christi. It's where the love of my life brought me to meet his family and they wondered at the wild child he had dragged home. It's where he told them that he was actually planning to marry me and was met by stunned disbelief and objections which have changed to joyous affection over the years. It is the only place of permanence in my wandering life. But it's just a house and ever more precious are the people who live there.
My mother in law is the kind and gentle voice to her children that I hope someday to be. She worries and frets and they tease her about being paranoid, but they have never doubted the love that she has for them for even a moment. My father in law is the silent bedrock of his family. Stoic and stern on the surface, his gaze softens and the corners of his mouth twitch with affection when one of my small ones goes tearing through the room. They are, for my children, the definition of unwavering and unconditional love.
We also went, I admit it, to go to the beach.
I love the beach. The smells and sound of it wash the tension from my shoulders and the worries from my mind. I can leave my burdens in the car and just be a carefree girl running and playing on the sand, dancing in the waves. My husband, who lately has been too busy to play, taught the little kids to jump through the waves and the older kids to body surf. It was the perfect antidote to the stresses of the last week and the rest we hadn't even realized we needed.
It was also a weekend full of the kindness of strangers. From the guy at the tire store who bought my father in law a coke (because he had no change on him) and refused to be repaid to the guys who dug our car out of the sand at the beach when we got stuck, the unlikeliest looking help and kindness showed up and smiled at us and offered whatever we needed and accepted no thanks. For a couple of adults in sore need of reassurance about the basic kindness of humanity, it was exactly what we didn't even know we were looking for.
There is so much history for us in that comfortable house in Corpus Christi. It's where the love of my life brought me to meet his family and they wondered at the wild child he had dragged home. It's where he told them that he was actually planning to marry me and was met by stunned disbelief and objections which have changed to joyous affection over the years. It is the only place of permanence in my wandering life. But it's just a house and ever more precious are the people who live there.
My mother in law is the kind and gentle voice to her children that I hope someday to be. She worries and frets and they tease her about being paranoid, but they have never doubted the love that she has for them for even a moment. My father in law is the silent bedrock of his family. Stoic and stern on the surface, his gaze softens and the corners of his mouth twitch with affection when one of my small ones goes tearing through the room. They are, for my children, the definition of unwavering and unconditional love.
We also went, I admit it, to go to the beach.
I love the beach. The smells and sound of it wash the tension from my shoulders and the worries from my mind. I can leave my burdens in the car and just be a carefree girl running and playing on the sand, dancing in the waves. My husband, who lately has been too busy to play, taught the little kids to jump through the waves and the older kids to body surf. It was the perfect antidote to the stresses of the last week and the rest we hadn't even realized we needed.
It was also a weekend full of the kindness of strangers. From the guy at the tire store who bought my father in law a coke (because he had no change on him) and refused to be repaid to the guys who dug our car out of the sand at the beach when we got stuck, the unlikeliest looking help and kindness showed up and smiled at us and offered whatever we needed and accepted no thanks. For a couple of adults in sore need of reassurance about the basic kindness of humanity, it was exactly what we didn't even know we were looking for.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Drama, Drama, Unnecessary Drama
What is it about weddings that they seem to breed drama? Is it the pageantry? The emotions involved? Something more? Do weddings manufacture their own turmoil?
We have spent the last week trying to stay afloat in the rising tide of chaos that is a family wedding. There have been tears, recriminations, hurt feelings, and anger. It just seems so unnecessary.
Marriage is an institution created by God for the good of mankind. Weddings are an institution created mostly by women which, I fear, will be the death of us all.
Beautiful weddings create lovely photographs, but they don't necessarily produce happy unions. In addition, the lovely pictures in the books never tell the whole story. They don't show the emotional bridezilla, the controlling mother, the in laws who wail in the pews, the anger and hurt which seem to have become such a part of what should be a holy and peaceful day.
A wedding should be about love and joy. It should be more about the blessings of Almighty God on the joining of two lives and less about the flowers, the photographer, the unattainable perfection of just one day. It instead becomes about control, power, and pageantry. It becomes a spectacle and then the point of it all is lost.
I find that the older I get, the less interest I have in the weddings themselves. They can be fun parties, but more often they are tiresome social obligations. I am much more intrigued to watch the marriage. I find joy in watching people grow together. I like to catch the little looks between people who no longer have to say a word to each other to convey whole sentences. I like to see the bride who is still glowing years after her wedding day. I like to see the groom whose wife of 50 years turns him again into a smitten young man.
Weddings have a place in our society for celebrating the continuation and coming together of family. They are an acknowledgement of the importance of that central union in a family. Somehow, we seem to lose sight of the purpose when we start arguing over the shade of pink in a flower girl's dress, the kind of jewelry attendants are "allowed" to wear, whether or not we have been seated at as nice a table as that nasty cousin we've never liked, and whether or not Emily Post's rules have been followed to the letter.
Please don't misunderstand, I do like the idea of weddings just not the angst that surrounds them. They just don't interest me as much as the story that will follow after them. I'd just rather hear about the "Happily Ever After" than the "Once Upon A Time."
We have spent the last week trying to stay afloat in the rising tide of chaos that is a family wedding. There have been tears, recriminations, hurt feelings, and anger. It just seems so unnecessary.
Marriage is an institution created by God for the good of mankind. Weddings are an institution created mostly by women which, I fear, will be the death of us all.
Beautiful weddings create lovely photographs, but they don't necessarily produce happy unions. In addition, the lovely pictures in the books never tell the whole story. They don't show the emotional bridezilla, the controlling mother, the in laws who wail in the pews, the anger and hurt which seem to have become such a part of what should be a holy and peaceful day.
A wedding should be about love and joy. It should be more about the blessings of Almighty God on the joining of two lives and less about the flowers, the photographer, the unattainable perfection of just one day. It instead becomes about control, power, and pageantry. It becomes a spectacle and then the point of it all is lost.
I find that the older I get, the less interest I have in the weddings themselves. They can be fun parties, but more often they are tiresome social obligations. I am much more intrigued to watch the marriage. I find joy in watching people grow together. I like to catch the little looks between people who no longer have to say a word to each other to convey whole sentences. I like to see the bride who is still glowing years after her wedding day. I like to see the groom whose wife of 50 years turns him again into a smitten young man.
Weddings have a place in our society for celebrating the continuation and coming together of family. They are an acknowledgement of the importance of that central union in a family. Somehow, we seem to lose sight of the purpose when we start arguing over the shade of pink in a flower girl's dress, the kind of jewelry attendants are "allowed" to wear, whether or not we have been seated at as nice a table as that nasty cousin we've never liked, and whether or not Emily Post's rules have been followed to the letter.
Please don't misunderstand, I do like the idea of weddings just not the angst that surrounds them. They just don't interest me as much as the story that will follow after them. I'd just rather hear about the "Happily Ever After" than the "Once Upon A Time."
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Debating Baby Names
We have had a fun week this week of tossing back and forth names for our sweet #7. To be honest about it, I've been tossing out names and my husband has been rejecting them all, but it's fun to think of them.
When I hear something I like or think might work, I send him a quick text or email and say "How about....?" Which has either been met with stunned silence over how much he dislikes my suggestion or he calls me laughing and says "Would you be serious about this, please?"
Here are some of the rejects:
Josephine Elisabeth (after grandparents) and we would call her Josie
Astrid Elisabeth (after her grandmother and the name that keeps coming to me when I pray about it)
Mary Isidore (Okay, this one started out as a joke but grew on me. St Isidore is the patron saint of the internet and computer guys)
Judith Marie (Do I even have to explain how much I love Judith in the Bible? LOVE HER!)
I'm trying really hard to stay away from the current Catholic big family favorites of Gianna, Lucy, and Kateri. I like them all but truly know so many girls with these names.
So, help me out here. I'm running out of ideas and he's not suggesting anything. Internets, what would you name a little Catholic girl? We like off-beat and a little quirky (Did you see Astrid up there?) but with a good saint to go with it. I'm taking suggestions here. What do you got?
When I hear something I like or think might work, I send him a quick text or email and say "How about....?" Which has either been met with stunned silence over how much he dislikes my suggestion or he calls me laughing and says "Would you be serious about this, please?"
Here are some of the rejects:
Josephine Elisabeth (after grandparents) and we would call her Josie
Astrid Elisabeth (after her grandmother and the name that keeps coming to me when I pray about it)
Mary Isidore (Okay, this one started out as a joke but grew on me. St Isidore is the patron saint of the internet and computer guys)
Judith Marie (Do I even have to explain how much I love Judith in the Bible? LOVE HER!)
I'm trying really hard to stay away from the current Catholic big family favorites of Gianna, Lucy, and Kateri. I like them all but truly know so many girls with these names.
So, help me out here. I'm running out of ideas and he's not suggesting anything. Internets, what would you name a little Catholic girl? We like off-beat and a little quirky (Did you see Astrid up there?) but with a good saint to go with it. I'm taking suggestions here. What do you got?
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Palindrome
Thank you to everyone for their prayers and kind words through my mini-freak out. Fear is sometimes completely irrational, like when you say "I can feel the baby kicking......the baby is dead" and the whole time you know that makes no sense, but that's where your brain goes.
We saw #7 today. Healthy. Active. Bigger than expected. (Hooray for being a week closer to the end than anticipated.) And most definitely a girl.
We have a pattern going, which makes my OCD husband and nerdy children happy. girl, 2 boys, girl, 2 boys, girl
In the words of my 11 year old. "If it's a girl, we'll be a palindrome. The same forwards and backwards."
And so they are.
We saw #7 today. Healthy. Active. Bigger than expected. (Hooray for being a week closer to the end than anticipated.) And most definitely a girl.
We have a pattern going, which makes my OCD husband and nerdy children happy. girl, 2 boys, girl, 2 boys, girl
In the words of my 11 year old. "If it's a girl, we'll be a palindrome. The same forwards and backwards."
And so they are.
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Parade
We went to the local small town 4th of July parade this morning. I love parades. They were a huge part of my life as a military child, the pomp and ceremony is so central to that life. I had forgotten how much I missed that kind of thing.
Yesterday, my 7 year old asked if she could go to the parade this morning since she'd never seen one. How is that even possible?
We drove downtown and grabbed a spot to sit on the curb and waited for it all to begin. The children ran and chased each other under the big oak trees in front of the elementary school, the crowd laughed when the sprinklers turned on and doused a huge part of the crowd, and everyone kept glancing up the street waiting for it all to begin.
The firetruck led the way with it's flashing lights and chirping siren. The driver stopped long enough for one of the police officers on the route to take his picture. No one minded the delay.
Then came the veterans proudly carrying our flags. Everyone who was able bodied on the parade route stood in silent respect and the men doffed their ball caps. "Stand in honor of the colors, boys," I heard my husband whisper to our sons. They stood beside him proudly and attention.
The local Council members and politicians rode by in gaily colored cars and golf carts, waving and shouting, "Happy 4th!" and "God bless America!"
It was a typical folksy small town parade, full of symbolism and community. Folks dressed as our founders and rang the Liberty Bell.
They tossed candy to the children, and handed out stickers and fliers.
Near the end of the parade came the Star Wars Costume Society. What parade could be complete without without an intergalactic bounty hunter or two?
The tail end was another firetruck, and then the whole of the group that had been watching the parade. As the truck passed them, they gathered their belongings and joined in the march, waving hands and flags and greeting friends, neighbors and strangers.
We were all the parade, spectators and entrants alike. We were all America, and celebrated it together.
Yesterday, my 7 year old asked if she could go to the parade this morning since she'd never seen one. How is that even possible?
We drove downtown and grabbed a spot to sit on the curb and waited for it all to begin. The children ran and chased each other under the big oak trees in front of the elementary school, the crowd laughed when the sprinklers turned on and doused a huge part of the crowd, and everyone kept glancing up the street waiting for it all to begin.
The firetruck led the way with it's flashing lights and chirping siren. The driver stopped long enough for one of the police officers on the route to take his picture. No one minded the delay.
Then came the veterans proudly carrying our flags. Everyone who was able bodied on the parade route stood in silent respect and the men doffed their ball caps. "Stand in honor of the colors, boys," I heard my husband whisper to our sons. They stood beside him proudly and attention.
The local Council members and politicians rode by in gaily colored cars and golf carts, waving and shouting, "Happy 4th!" and "God bless America!"
It was a typical folksy small town parade, full of symbolism and community. Folks dressed as our founders and rang the Liberty Bell.
They tossed candy to the children, and handed out stickers and fliers.
Near the end of the parade came the Star Wars Costume Society. What parade could be complete without without an intergalactic bounty hunter or two?
The tail end was another firetruck, and then the whole of the group that had been watching the parade. As the truck passed them, they gathered their belongings and joined in the march, waving hands and flags and greeting friends, neighbors and strangers.
We were all the parade, spectators and entrants alike. We were all America, and celebrated it together.
Happy Independence Day, Y'all!
Friday, July 1, 2011
Sanity Lost
Five years ago, we lost a baby at 18 weeks gestation. She died over the 4th of July weekend from a true knot in the cord. We discovered her demise at an ultrasound on July 5th and induced on the 6th. My only indication that something was wrong was the intense backache all weekend, the contractions gearing up for labor.
I try really hard to be a woman of faith. I don't believe in signs or omens. I don't think certain days are good or bad luck. I believe in the Hand of God not the hand of fate.
But here I am once again, 18 weeks pregnant over 4th of July weekend. I have an ultrasound scheduled for the 5th. Oh, and my back is again killing me. Please, please, please let there be no induction on the 6th.
I am fighting to be rational and not fear, but the memory of that week haunts me. My heart remembers the agony. I just want it to be the 7th today. I want to sleep through this weekend and not have to face the memories and the fear.
I want to enjoy the cookouts and the fireworks and just celebrate this weekend instead of swallowing the fear that lurks below the surface. My soul can be strong, but I am not soul alone. I am also flesh, and my flesh is afraid.
I try really hard to be a woman of faith. I don't believe in signs or omens. I don't think certain days are good or bad luck. I believe in the Hand of God not the hand of fate.
But here I am once again, 18 weeks pregnant over 4th of July weekend. I have an ultrasound scheduled for the 5th. Oh, and my back is again killing me. Please, please, please let there be no induction on the 6th.
I am fighting to be rational and not fear, but the memory of that week haunts me. My heart remembers the agony. I just want it to be the 7th today. I want to sleep through this weekend and not have to face the memories and the fear.
I want to enjoy the cookouts and the fireworks and just celebrate this weekend instead of swallowing the fear that lurks below the surface. My soul can be strong, but I am not soul alone. I am also flesh, and my flesh is afraid.
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