Leaving, Living, Loving

Whenever my children and I go on a trip, I scour my computer for the file titled "PackingList.pdf" and print out a copy. I set it on the kitchen counter a week before we go and I mentally tick off my list, occasionally adding things for the adventure, things like "birthday gifts" or "book for mom" or "chocolate."

The beginning of our trip is usually pretty smooth. If we fly to our destination, I get snacks and electronics ready for everyone in a special, easy to reach pouch. If we drive, I like to clean the car before we go, making sure we have enough leg room for my tall brood. As we journey to our destination, I have immense satisfaction in curbing their hunger pangs by flinging bags of Chex Mix or cut apples in their general direction.

The return trip from anywhere is an exercise in chaos. There are no "Return Home Packing List.pdf" files to refer to and our stuff has been deposited haphazardly around the hotel room or grandma's house or wherever we found ourselves. There are less healthy snacks. We find ourselves rummaging through the car to find *whatever* we can to eat and this week we returned home from Iowa eating stale Cheetos. They didn't crunch. My oldest daughter, in a fit of desperation, began to feel claustrophobic and began hucking clipboards and art supplies and trash at the feet of her sister just to get some breathing room. Understandably.

This year I have said a lot of hellos which have been glad and joyous and long and beautiful occasions. I have said a few goodbyes as well and if I were in fifth grade and had to write a "compare and contrast" essay regarding these two seasons, I would say this:

Generally speaking, it's more fun to say hello than goodbye.
The things you say during "goodbye" seem more enduring than the greetings you say at "hello."
The sentiments you say between "hello" and "goodbye" are important, too. Things like, "I love you" or "I'm sorry" or "My, you're lovely" or, my personal favorite, "Please pass the chocolate cake."

Some people don't know how to communicate to anyone because they haven't been given the tools. Or maybe they see it as a luxury. I don't see communication or emotions as a luxury; I see them as a necessity of living a life observed. I'm not interested in pretending things aren't happening, but then I'm not interested in sensationalism either. I might cry and it might be ugly and I might need a break from the intensity of it all, but communicating and emoting are not bad. They CAN be used in a bad way, but if the aim is to use your powers for good, that's a good direction in which to head.

I recently said goodbye to my dying grandmother, her hand squeezing mine fiercely as hot tears dripped off my face, using my free hand to quietly blow my nose so she wouldn't hear me crying. At first I felt ashamed for being so useless, for being so full of emotion and not being a strong rock for her. But when I let myself just cry, the rivers washed over me, onto her and held us together. A baptism of sorts.

My grandmother loved me. I know she did. That being said, she didn't come from an era where love was distributed in gushy sentiment. It was delivered in the form of letters describing peach pie and little cards and sometimes coupons which she clipped for me. She hugged me and smiled at me, but there was not a wealth of sentiment between us.

Some people are hurt by others who cannot communicate love in the way they understand it. This makes perfect sense. A father may be irritated by his adult son for not being able to live more frugally, while the son may be equally irked at the father for not seeing the efforts he puts into being a good father and husband.

I know a fair amount of people who are under the notion that people need to be left alone when they grieve. The idea is that they'll see you on the other side, as if you're going through an impenetrable tunnel, like the kind they have at carnivals, the ones with boats. "I can't be with you in the tunnel," is the logic, "but when you're free from the hurt and pain and ugly, I'll be there for you on the other side with a nice iced tea."

This does nothing for the heart. If anything it shrinks love. This produces a world of pain and abandonment issues. It would be better if the person bought their own ticket for the tunnel and followed their friend through, calling their name, getting wet from jumping out of the boat ride just to catch up; love would do that. Then they could both emerge from the tunnel with new vision and large hearts and very squishy sneakers.

I don't see people who need comforters who are perfect and polished and poised. People who are hurt need friends who will reach out, make the phone call, touch their hand and say things like, "I don't know what to say, but I'm here to listen. I might make mistakes, but I'm trying. How are you?"

The days of flimsy handshakes and brisk hugs are over for me. It's time for strong goodbyes. It's time to get messy. It's the new fashion trend: Tear-drop soaked shirts and snotty noses on shoulders. Looking someone closely in the face and saying, "I love you," coffee breath be damned.

I don't know a formula, per se, for communicating, but I will say this:

People appreciate when you try.

Just try.

Say the lovely things you need to say. Utter the hard things with truth and humility. Stay a while. It might not be pretty or be neatly wrapped with a bow on top, but at least you expressed love.

Say hello.
Choke out a goodbye.
Try.

Forty

My husband and I have an unfinished basement. We never plan on finishing our basement because we both recognize that basements are holding grounds for memories and rarely-needed high-chairs for babies who visit us and, well, unnecessary stuff.

We moved into this house 7 years ago. Last month I think we finally unpacked the last boxes. We formed a huge purge circle in the basement. A "purge circle" is like a crop circle in that it involves methodically crunching down material. Like cardboard boxes. Old artwork. Business cards. That sort of thing. We had three piles: Sell (Craigslist), Give (Goodwill) and Trash Without Any Remorse. We went bonkers on that basement. We were ruthless.

The next week we came home with a trunk full of memories because Dan's parents are moving from their home of 30 plus years. Naturally the stuff went in our newly purged basement. Nature abhors a vacuum.

When the children go to school, the house will creak less because I will probably attack their closets and remove the following:
Annoying toys
Broken toys
Maybe all their toys
Scraps of paper which they swear are important
Balls of lint which they might swear are important
Anything which smells funny, looks funny or acts funny in a way which does NOT make me laugh

And here's the kicker: They won't even notice.

Nope. For all these years I have allowed them to keep their rooms how they want and now I am going in with HAZMAT suits, a Dyson vacuum and grenades filled with–I don't know–Lysol or something.

They won't notice. But I will.

I'm not sure what is up with this recent rash of purging in my house. It's just so freeing. And most of my Mom friends who have elementary aged children are doing it, too. I see the wide eyes they give me as they describe the things they have found in their house, unawares.

Purging house isn't enough for me.
I'm purging my mind, too. Getting rid of ways of thinking which I have outgrown.

I'm starting to outgrow complaining... I want redemptive endings to stories. I want people to end their sad stories with "And THAT'S when I started to learn (contentment) or (how much my children love me) or (how to fish)." Add some faith and hope between the lines.

Perhaps it's un-feeling of me, but I'm bewildered when people complain that no one is friendly or that people don't invite them to parties. I just want to say, "Have you tried smiling and introducing yourself?" Or..."Have you heard of evite.com? Host your own party, sister! Don't look at their calendars. Just do it." If you're new to a company or school or crowd, don't WAIT for people to introduce themselves. You have a hand. Extend it. Say hello. Shake hands. Fist bump. Whatever. Heaven help me if my children don't learn this life lesson: If you want to have friends, you must be friendly.

In a fair week I  am turning forty. I'm not sure if culture told me to start pumping extra estrogen or if my body did it on its own, but I am becoming bolder and learning to say "yes" by saying "no."

I'm saying "yes" to books and I'm saying "no" to constant negativity.
I'm saying "yes" to true friendships and I'm saying "no" to people-pleasing.
Yes to truth. No to sensationalism.

Thumbs up on:
creativity, baking, gardening, laughing with children, everyday wine, calling friends on the phone, investing in your home team, taking walks, making friends with people even if they're super rich (you read that correctly), praying for justice, crying when life hurts, seeking redemption every instant of every day and always having art supplies on hand.

Thumbs down to:
not trying again, making life complicated, being fancy on the outside and hollow on the inside, dry cake, refusing to communicate, Facebook-only friends, bad theology and stinky refrigerators.

I told my mother about some of these changes in me and she asked, knowing the answer already, "How old will you be turning this year?" And I answered, "Forty." "That's when it happens," she said, "That's when you start standing up for yourself and speaking your mind. That's when you feel more comfortable saying 'no.'"

Sweet mercy.

Here's my hope: That when the sweet surges of estrogen wash over me, I will be transformed gently, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, stretching its wings, drying out, shaking off the old, limiting ways of thinking and rising with new colors, new vision and maybe some super cute Merrell sneakers. The only thing constant is change.

Grammy

When I was in my early teens, I was a lanky, non-confident girl who was always being swayed by the opinions of others. I liked art and home life and seemed to attract best friends who pushed me to be more silly or fashionable or guy-crazy than I actually was. I was in that odd place like most young girls are where their bodies are beginning to show signs of womanhood, but their emotions and life experiences suggest that the pendulum still rests strongly on the "girl" side.
"Like, hey. Like, wow. Like, whatevva."

In short, it was hard to be myself because I didn't know who my "self" was. Those teen years are really the equivalent of researching a grad school paper. My life thesis in 8th grade was how high I could tease my hair and STILL maintain a banana clip in it, all with the help of a little Aqua Net hairspray. Speaking of hairspray: I took up babysitting so that I could maintain my hairspray budget of $17.47 a week. I was highly flammable.

Other junior high foibles include the time I dated a boy for one hour because a friend begged me to do it. By second hour of that day, my SAME friend helped me craft a break-up letter. (Lame.)

Perhaps the pinnacle of my 8th grade wisdom was when a very popular girl came up to me and asked me if I thought Tiffany was a "butt." Except she didn't say "butt," she said a word which rhymed with "butt" and implied that Tiffany might make friends too easily with boys. Being unaware of this word, I ASSUMED that the "butt" word meant "jerk" (not because I asked but because I used context clues from popular girl's argument) so I answered the popular girl confidently, "Yes. Tiffany is totally that word." She smiled and said, "Sign this petition." And so I signed a petition stating that Tiffany made friends with boys far too easily. I'm sure I dotted the lowercase "i" in my name with a bubble heart because that's what we did in the 1980s.

It gets worse: That day I came home and used my new word on my mother.
Hiroshima was nothing compared to the explosion that came from her face.
Related: I learned that the "butt" word did NOT, in fact, mean "jerk."
Also: Context clues cannot always be trusted.

Why am I offering these stories? Because this:
Even though I was hormonally imbalanced and teetered precariously between the worlds of girl and woman and sometimes acting like a full-fledge ogre, I knew that I could visit my grandmother in Pennsylvania and be just me.
I didn't have to dress up or impress her or *gasp* CHANGE who I was.
I could just be me.
The girl who didn't know how to do her hair.
The girl who spent $30 on a surf shirt so that people would like her.
The girl who wouldn't even know what to do with a boy if she liked him.
The girl who loved art.

My grandmother didn't do a whole lot with me. We didn't go on vacations together or go shopping. She bought Cracker Jacks which we ate at night while we watched Wheel of Fortune. All her cereal in her pantry was labeled with a date on top. For a little variety we would mix the cereals in our bowls... a little Raisin Bran and Corn Flakes and Waffle-Os.

We picked broccoli from the garden. It was my job to take a small paring knife and kill the green broccoli worms. They burst when I sliced them. I thought it was fun.

When I turned 18 and graduated from school, my Grammy found a recipe for-- get this-- OWL SHAPED cookies. It involved two different colored cookies doughs which you would wrap one over the other in a large tube shape and slice so that it was a circle with an outline of another color, and then use a pistachio for the beak. She came from an era where happiness was homemade.

She was so excited to make these cookies that she couldn't wait for Granddad to get home; she took the great big Lincoln Towncar and went with me to the grocery store. Upon backing up the car, she caught the bumper on the side of the garage and peeled it from its original placement, causing it to stick out a full foot, if not more.

In order for Granddad to not be so angry about the bumper, she decided to fix it. I thought she was going to try to push it back into place. Instead, she ran inside and got the Windex. She made the bumper shinier than before. What a riot!

In the end, we made the cookies. While most 18-year olds prefer foods with more of a "cool" factor, I was quite happy with the owl cookies. Seriously (shaking head) OWL cookies? With the car repairs and ingredients for the cookies, they must have cost $500.

I haven't spent gobs of time with my grandmother, just enough here and there. But what I can say is that she kept a Spirograph on hand, she gave us fun food, she let us work beside her, she didn't try to impress us, she always, always sends us birthday cards and Christmas cards as well, she loves Jesus and--in the end-- I feel safe with her. I feel like she's on my team.

She's soft and comfy and unassuming. She wears those ankle socks with the pom poms on the back so that they don't slip into your tennis shoe.

I'm trying very hard to not speak in the past tense, but at the same time I am wrestling with the fact that my grandmother has just suffered a stroke which will make her different. She may not call me "Emmy" anymore in that high octave she uses for my name. She probably won't bake cookies anymore; I don't know. And she may not sew, either.

In essence, our family is left with snippets of her previous self. I've heard people talk about losing loved ones before and debate about --forgive the term-- the virtues of losing someone abruptly verses sluggishly and I have to say that plucking bits of a loved one's personhood one memory at a time seems horrible, like using an eraser on an evil pencil very, very slowly.

My reaction, then, needs to be this:
To unabashedly sustain her beauty and goodness and fullness.
To continue to bake cookies, particularly ones in the shape of an owl.
To use Windex to shine up life's errors.
To be myself and realize that living simply beside someone is far more powerful than trying to entertain them.
To realize that Cracker Jack's are special because someone told me they were special.
And to realize that people are special, too, for the same reason.

My VBS Friends

I recently finished a race.

To my running friends, I didn't run a marathon in any traditional sense of the word. But for all the energy it took, it could have been a 10K. I helped with Vacation Bible School.

The leaders of our group had tremendous patience, Red Bull-like energy and fantastic organizational skills. And because I love them and they bribed me with their smiles, I agreed to help.

In previous years I think I volunteered for VBS with half the heart that I did this year, but I chalk that up to the fact that my youngest child's energy and antics kept me busy. Now that she is older, I find that my mental capacity is somewhat stronger, to say nothing of my heart's availability. It turns out I really liked the kids in my group.

I think I was most surprised by the fact that these second graders wanted respect. They told funny jokes and offered smart responses, giving the teachers those "Aren't I clever?" glances. They are at a fantastic age to interact with the story without telling too many tangental tales about their puppy or baby brother. They actually listened. I think the best gift that they gave me was their smiles.

During snack time we were encouraged to quiz the children; leaders were given a sheet of questions which correlated with the day's lesson. Honestly, it was so blessedly loud in the room that any deep and probing conversations went out the window. We spoke broadly and slowly, like people do when they hear a train behind them. One day I looked around the table at my group and told each child something special I enjoyed about them. Their smiles. Their jokes. Their laugh. The next day one of the little girls came up to me and delighted, "I have TWINKLY eyes!" She caught me off-guard that she would remember the compliment I gave her the day before, but it felt right... that showing love to second graders means speaking life into them, right at their level.

The music was worshipful in the best sort of way. Children bumping up against me, occasionally yelling lyrics in my ear and dancing in the aisle all because they owned the space of the sanctuary and God owned the space in their hearts.

We had communion. Our teacher broke the bread. We had a special piece of bread for a little boy who has the most fantastic smile and who also happens to have celiac disease. But everyone ate. We crammed a large piece of bread in our mouth, each of us, and we smiled, hearing the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000, the story which reminded us that God can take little and make it big. I immediately thought of how threadbare I felt, my husband being gone two separate weeks at trade shows, my mind wondering what we would have for dinner... and I rested there in the moment of the story, knowing that Jesus could take my meager time and energy and make it more.

Earlier this week I heard three pieces of bad news from three different friends. My heart felt frayed and afraid and I began to forget that God was their God, too. I prayed for them as I could and, beautifully and mysteriously the Bible lesson of each day coincided with what my heart needed to hear. How Ezra helped rebuild the temple... how the temple was devastated, but God rebuilt it again. How God intersected Esther's life with that of the king at just the right moment to provide for His people.

During craft time I watched in amazement as a little boy scrawled his belief in God on a piece of paper. He was quiet and had big, lamb-like eyes. His declaration caught me off-guard and my eyes felt hot and tingly for a second.

Another boy in my group was strong and active and definitely not a "sitting" type of person. The first day I was frustrated with him. The second day I was challenged by him. By the fourth day, I honestly liked him. I saw that he did not respond well to even the slightest harshness of tone and that he had to be softly, but firmly spoken to in order to change his behavioral choices. Each child has their own love language.

The week felt like boot camp. Every morning my family crammed breakfast down their throats and I threw back some coffee. We rushed a lot and I found myself barking, "Go! Go! Go!" as if we were invading Normandy. I began to forego showers for more sleep, which might sound like I'm being melodramatic, but it's the honest truth.

But at the end of it all, when all the hoopla was silenced and the children were back home, I put my apron over my head and began making dinner. My youngest was sitting in the craft room making something out of construction paper and under her breath I heard the faint sound of singing, lyrics to a song she learned that week. A seed of joy had been planted. I smiled.

Summer Sanity

All the school-bound children were released from their academic shackles this week.

They were twice as twitchy as usual because the make-up-snow-days of school did not make the children 5 days smarter. Instead, it rendered the teachers unable to prepare one more week of studies. Let's just say there was a lot of quizzing, game-playing, assemblies and movie watching. Also, they gave the children popsicles with enough red dye #40 to last them the summer. And frankly, I approve of everything the teachers did.

But now the children are free.

It's not that we don't love our children.
It's just that life rarely offers smooth transitions.
NASA isn't here to coach moms into summertime "reentry," reminding us that our bodies have winter-atrophied and gently guiding us into swimwear and dodging the ice cream truck.

My five year old is accustomed to preschool "circle time." I'm not planning on recreating preschool. I'll probably give her a round hula hoop (it's a circle, right?) and call it good.

If you are a mom who keeps the same schedule year-round and has no transitions in life ever, then this post is not for you. You are amazing enough. You have found your zen. Off you go. Life, love and happiness to you.

But for all the moms who already feel like they're not creative enough or organized enough or loving enough and are scrubbing Pinterest for healthy snacks and casually surveying Facebook friends for swim classes (yes, that was me) all in the hopes that we won't watch television for twelve hours a day... I hold your hand.

First, I don't know the first thing about organization. It's not my strength. I observe what works for others and modify it for myself. My strength is encouragement and creative enterprises. This means that I hate for people to feel badly about themselves and I'll probably draw a happy picture to make them feel good. Which is why I blog and design. Can't help myself.

So I'm not here to give a how-to. Just some suggestions.
I'm here to say "Welcome to summer."

1. A hydrated mom is a happy mom.
Load up your pantry with happy beverages to keep your thirst quenched.
I love finding quirky teas at Trader Joes and steeping them for iced tea. I don't add sugar, but I do throw in some mint from my garden. I feel very posh when I drink it, like I'm at a fancy restaurant.
Iced coffee is amazing.
Lacroix water is fun.
Heck, try some vintage sodas from World Market. They won't particularly hydrate you, but they'll make you smile.

2. Trump your trouble. Plan your pleasure.
Give yourself and your children one thing to look forward to each day and one thing (which you dread) to address.
My daughter would rather put a splinter in her eye than do math. I plan on helping her with math this summer. I also have a closet bag full of craft ideas and adventures we can do to offset her inevitable anger with me for providing math problems during summer break.
Same goes for moms.
Purge a closet, then get a movie from the library.
Hose down the minivan, then get a Starbucks latte. Whatever floats your boat.

3. Lower expectations.
If it feels overwhelming, it probably is too complicated.
If you're not smiling anymore, your heart is gone. Find it.
Also: Naps are good.

4. Good news: Your children will remember the simplest, cheapest, grossest, weirdest activity this summer and it probably will have very little to do with you.
Example: My parents took me and my sister Noel up the east coast one summer to show us Plymouth Rock (boring) and a host of other incredible places. I do recall a lot of fascinating sights, but mostly I remember seeing the lower half of the Statue of Liberty (we were driving, a truck got in our way and I had to peer under its trailer.) I also remember a waiter who spilled a great deal of wine in a woman's lap. Also: I bought a five dollar stuffed animal. It was a white seal.

Plan on your children saying that the best part of Niagara Falls was the dead toad they saw squished in the road.

You get the point.

5. Trick other moms into being your friend.
If you're not particularly athletic, casually invite your marathon-happy neighbor to your house. Take notes on how to raise children who are not lethargic.
We're in this together, people. There are no perfect mom awards.

6. Respond to tiredness.
Hire a sitter.
Take a nap.
Drink coffee.

7. Do something good for yourself. Repeat. 
You can't give what you don't have.
Plan movie nights with friends.
Load up your library book requests of those hard to reach titles online so that when a book *finally* arrives in your cue, it feels like Christmas Day.
Shop at Trader Joes. Buy everything that is healthy and then offset that with Chocolate Covered Sea Salt Almonds.
Join a running club to offset aforementioned chocolate almonds.

Have fun, everyone. It may be a little funny starting a new season, but if you keep your head about you, you might make some fantastic memories.

This past weekend I renewed my wedding vows in a Passport Office.

It wasn't planned. I didn't wear a white dress. And to confuse matters further, only I participated in renewing our wedding vows; Dan did not.

It was a beautiful and sunny Saturday, the last weekend in May. It was the perfect kind of day to cram full of errands and rush children from store to store. (Where's the sarcasm font when I need it?) We were preparing to go to Niagara Falls and realized a bit too late that the passport office needs a little time to create and distribute passports, even if it is only for crossing the border to see our neighboring Canadians.

We rushed to Costco to get passport photos. Side note: that was the day Eve decided to wear her head in something resembling dread locks; Morgan fashioned five braids in her little sister's hair. Eve was thrilled. No time to change; She can have her Medusa picture retaken when she's ten years old.

We rushed home for a birthday party of a fantastic little boy. We laughed much, enjoyed great conversations and found our shoulders relaxing, easing into lawn chairs while noshing on pizza. Then Dan got that "we have to leave now" look on his face which I'm pretty sure I have never seen on him; I am normally the one gently pushing the backs of little people, telling them to wear clothing and get in the car. He wanted to make sure we got to the Passport Office before it closed; he was determined.

A few words about the Passport Office: It is maintained by the United States government. The walls are white. The seating in the waiting room are thinly padded folding chairs, probably from the 1980s. The room was filled with humankind and one--count them-- one person working there. The individual behind the desk was polite and precise. It became evident to me that this person would be immune to my normal modus operandi in such uptight situations (humor, of course) and that if I wanted to anger the federal government, this might be a great opportunity to do so. But I wanted to see Niagara Falls, alas.

Dan and I are sitting in the waiting room. The only indication that we are in any sort of line was the brown clip board we used to sign in, including our name and the time we arrived. The perimeter of the room is filled with people who look very bored. Even Dan wasn't cracking jokes. Even.

The children are tired and hot. I am as well. Dan has already started the self talk of how stupid he was for not starting this process earlier, how much we would have to pay to expedite them. He asks me what we should do.

I am instantly angry. "Oh, no," I'm thinking, "You're not going to blame me for this mess." I give him my "I don't know" face, eyebrows raised. Inside I'm as hot as a branding iron.

If we want comfort at this point, it is not going to come from the people in the waiting room or the Passport Office staff. One individual in the room offers that he used to work for a travel agency and begins to recite all the hoops we must jump through in order to receive our documents.

Dan and I look at each other.
I want to blame someone and he is sitting next to me.
I want to blame him.
He looks like a very good person to blame.
I want to be mad at him. But I quickly realize two things:

1. I am just as much to blame as he is. Neither of us were watching the calendar days flip as we anticipated going to New York. There are no contracts saying he was in charge of this. We just assumed that it would be easy, like getting a book of stamps. "Oh, we just need the 'local' Canadian passport," I imagined myself saying to the Passport staff, "I'm sure it won't take any time at all."

2. More importantly, I love this man. He has shown me more mercy than the entire United States. Plus, we are married. His mistakes are mine; my mistakes are his. Drawing lines in the sand isn't helpful for marriage.

I remembered our vows.

"Til death do us part."
"For richer or poorer."
"Waiting in lifeless Passport Offices."

And right there, in that moment, I picked up "our mistake" and smiled at him. "Let's take a gamble and not get the expedited service." Shoot, if we're going to go down, let's do it in a blaze of glory. Let's be royally wrong. We might not get to the other side, but at least we will be together.

We sat in the dull waiting room listening to people sighing until we heard, "Dan? Dan Dykstra?"

We crossed the threshold together.

Life and Landscaping

So I am fresh off of Memorial Day weekend, gut filled with laughter and maybe 2 Sangrias more than I should have ingested. But a good time nonetheless.

My guests (my in-laws!) were a blast to have over, mostly b/c we know each other and don't try to entertain or woo each other anymore. My father-in-law is still a closet democrat and I am an ignorant republican and anything we can't settle in debate (none) we just settle with laughter and vino. It's our love language.

But as my guests leave I realize that it feels like Monday but in actuality it is Tuesday. This befuddles me. I feel behind already, like I lost a day.

And all day I felt that way, slightly unmoored and definitely not improved by the dietary choices of the weekend. Junk food and burgers, if you must know. Fuzzy brained.

When my mother and father-in-law drove off, I held my baby girl as she wept. She sited that she wanted to be with her grandparents and that they belong here, not in Iowa and not in Wisconsin. Noted.

I took her for a walk so she would stop talking about watching movies. It was hardly exercise, but involved listening to her jabber nonstop about NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, jumping from one topic to the next like a jackrabbit as it jumps in zig-zag patterns.

And then we came home and waited for a contractor. Can we all just agree that waiting for people to fix things in your house is like waiting for a woman to go into labor? Just busy yourself with other chores and they will come, I swear. A watched pot never boils.

That, followed by trying to locate two new backup batteries for our sump pump. Our backup waited to screech its caw of death "Low battery! Low battery!" while our guests were nestling in their beds. Despite websites and toll free numbers plastered on the battery telling one where to purchase new ones, no help could be found. I almost began to wave money in the air yelling, "I have dollars! Please! I buy batteries from you." But salespeople for battery stores pick up the phone reluctantly hoping you won't ask them any questions as they continue playing vintage Atari on the company's clock. Go ahead, fight me on this. I dare you.

By the time noon rolled around, I had eaten two cookies, hardly any breakfast and fed Eve at least seven meals. Her boredom causes her to ask for food; this could prove a problem in the future, but for now she is only growing vertically.

So in my angst (Darn battery people. Crazy Tuesday.) I took the hedge trimmers from the garage and began pruning the bushes. The thing about hedge trimmers that one must remember is that they are an editing tool but they do not "unedit" whatever you remove. My newly pruned bushes resemble a little girl on picture day when her mother cut her bangs "real quick" before sending her off to school.

Upon trimming the boxwoods, I realized that one particular brown-looking one was not about to resurrect anytime soon, so I took to gingerly snipping off the bad branches and– for fun– attempted to dig out the root ball. There's no formula to digging out a structure which has spent its entire life entwining itself around earth, but I will say that if you can think of something maddening, you can use a lot more force when you plunge your shovel into its entrails.

By the time Morgan returned home from school she found a mother figure who was laying in bed, partly paralyzed by exhaustion and partly laid up due to dehydration. Eve was chirping around me, claiming that she needed to run down the street to visit a friend since she saw that I was unable to fight her. Children have antenna for when their parents are downtrodden.

I made dinner, realizing that I had forgotten to take Eve to her last Tuesday gymnastics class. It's Tuesday, not Monday, but all day my body said it was Monday. I sat down a bit and Morgan hit my thighs, asking me why they jiggled more than hers. I reminded her that my body gave her life and that maybe she should respect it. She smiled.

It was a day. I didn't conquer the world. But I'm still kicking.
Everything is going to be okay.