The Princess just lost her last baby tooth. It was an arduous process. Something cracked in the root structure last night and ever since then, she hasn't been able to eat. Much complaining. It wasn't nearly as loose as it should have been. But she was adamant that that tooth had to come out. Now.
So, for the last hour, we've been working on removing her tooth. And by we, I mean me.
I was not allowed to use my right hand. So there I was, left-handed, paper towel for leverage. Trying to maneuver in her mouth, risking digits to her braces and chomp reflex. I had her sit up straighter.
She was whimpering and tapping my arm, the signal for me to stop. Thing is, I hadn't touched her tooth yet.
I took both of her hands in mine, looked her in her wide, wild green eyes, and said,
"I mean this quite seriously and sincerely, Princess. Remember this: When you grow up, and you have babies, TAKE THE EPIDURAL."
The Faithful Alligator
12 July 2009
10 July 2009
The Yellow Brick Road
I have a terrible time seeing myself in 10, 15, 20 years. I have always had trouble with "envisioning" where I would be. I know what I want, not how or if I'll get there. But looking back, how easy it is to see what led me here. Like a maze, it's so easy to see the critical turns in hindsight.
Snapshot of a summer's day at the community pool. Between two lounge chairs sit: my 12-in-a-few-more-days Princess, Kate's 5 year old son, my 7 1/2-year old Dictator, Kate's almost 7-year old daughter, and Kate's 2-year old son. Bug-bitten, pool shriveled, eating snacks, wrapped in towels, squinting at the sun, laughing. Together.
And I have a moment, a flashback. A cold day in December 1990. I'm being silly and laughing and skipping along a sidewalk 100+ miles from this place. Arm-in-arm with Kate (and a Boy who wasn't THE Boy for her). Singing songs from The Wizard of Oz. Until I popped my ankle and had to go to the hospital.
I spent the next 10 days navigating the sidewalks and finals while propped up on crutches. Dodging slight insults from a Boy who wasn't THE Boy for me.
I spent the next nearly 10 years going on to another school, more Boys, finding Husband, finding Kate again. Kate, who navigated schools and trips to Europe and Boys and adventures that fascinate and terrify me, the homebody. It helps that I moved so close to the town she grew up in -- the one with the magical sounding name. We laugh about it now -- how enthralled I was with her little Ohio town.
And how glad I am to share with her our lives. The Boys who weren't THE ONE for her or me. The bond of similar location -- one she knows since childhood and I've learned as an adult. The bond of same college, same professors, common friends. And now the bond of our children and their friendship.
Snapshot: June 1997 and I'm very pregnant. Kate drives me the 100 miles to my hometown, for my baby shower. She's the one who predicted I'd have a girl, 9 days late. I can still see the candle as a prize that my mother brought to her, that July, to award her for her amazingly accurate guess.
And yesterday, squinting into the sun, Kate and I looked at that same girl -- all elbows and hipbones and freckles and braces, sun streaks and green eyes. And all wrapped up in Kate's 5-year adoring boy. And my daughter who followed, joined at the hip to Kate's daughter. And the magic of a 3rd child, all Kate's doing, there! No thirds or boys for me.
On the sidewalk in 1990, I didn't know where I'd end up. I couldn't see where I'd be. At that point, I just knew that I really liked Kate -- she's my "vanity friend" -- she reminds me of me. All extroverted and silly and writery. And yet, so different. She's braver than I am. She's so much more prone to try, to do, to attempt, to call me on things. She has sisters where I have brothers. She goes on adventures! But Kate is Kate, and I always knew I liked her.
So glad, here and now, to have followed that yellow brick road -- that road diverging in a yellow wood -- that path I took that led me here: with Husband, with The Princess and The Dictator. With friends new and old. With bonds being forged over blueberry newtons and SPF 50.
And with Kate, who nags me nearly every day to write, to put my ass in the seat, to attempt, to dream. So that maybe, 10, 15, 20 years from now, we'll have something even more amazing to laugh about.
Snapshot of a summer's day at the community pool. Between two lounge chairs sit: my 12-in-a-few-more-days Princess, Kate's 5 year old son, my 7 1/2-year old Dictator, Kate's almost 7-year old daughter, and Kate's 2-year old son. Bug-bitten, pool shriveled, eating snacks, wrapped in towels, squinting at the sun, laughing. Together.
And I have a moment, a flashback. A cold day in December 1990. I'm being silly and laughing and skipping along a sidewalk 100+ miles from this place. Arm-in-arm with Kate (and a Boy who wasn't THE Boy for her). Singing songs from The Wizard of Oz. Until I popped my ankle and had to go to the hospital.
I spent the next 10 days navigating the sidewalks and finals while propped up on crutches. Dodging slight insults from a Boy who wasn't THE Boy for me.
I spent the next nearly 10 years going on to another school, more Boys, finding Husband, finding Kate again. Kate, who navigated schools and trips to Europe and Boys and adventures that fascinate and terrify me, the homebody. It helps that I moved so close to the town she grew up in -- the one with the magical sounding name. We laugh about it now -- how enthralled I was with her little Ohio town.
And how glad I am to share with her our lives. The Boys who weren't THE ONE for her or me. The bond of similar location -- one she knows since childhood and I've learned as an adult. The bond of same college, same professors, common friends. And now the bond of our children and their friendship.
Snapshot: June 1997 and I'm very pregnant. Kate drives me the 100 miles to my hometown, for my baby shower. She's the one who predicted I'd have a girl, 9 days late. I can still see the candle as a prize that my mother brought to her, that July, to award her for her amazingly accurate guess.
And yesterday, squinting into the sun, Kate and I looked at that same girl -- all elbows and hipbones and freckles and braces, sun streaks and green eyes. And all wrapped up in Kate's 5-year adoring boy. And my daughter who followed, joined at the hip to Kate's daughter. And the magic of a 3rd child, all Kate's doing, there! No thirds or boys for me.
On the sidewalk in 1990, I didn't know where I'd end up. I couldn't see where I'd be. At that point, I just knew that I really liked Kate -- she's my "vanity friend" -- she reminds me of me. All extroverted and silly and writery. And yet, so different. She's braver than I am. She's so much more prone to try, to do, to attempt, to call me on things. She has sisters where I have brothers. She goes on adventures! But Kate is Kate, and I always knew I liked her.
So glad, here and now, to have followed that yellow brick road -- that road diverging in a yellow wood -- that path I took that led me here: with Husband, with The Princess and The Dictator. With friends new and old. With bonds being forged over blueberry newtons and SPF 50.
And with Kate, who nags me nearly every day to write, to put my ass in the seat, to attempt, to dream. So that maybe, 10, 15, 20 years from now, we'll have something even more amazing to laugh about.
08 July 2009
AFK
AFK - Away From Keyboard
I don't need to tell the faithful few who check here with any regularity that I've been away from the keyboard. We hold that truth to be self-evident.
I've been a bit out of sorts. Put out. Not myself, in a way. Still searching for what I'm supposed to do next. Got a rejection from what I really thought was the Next Big Thing.
In the meantime, though, I have been spending quality time with The Princess and The Dictator. Weaving snippets of poetry in my head -- for the first time since the early 1990s, really.
We are pool-bound tomorrow. Until then, here is a picture from last summer's Father's Day camping trip. You can always see a little bit of "America's Next Top Model" in how they choose to pose!
22 June 2009
The More Things Change . .
19 June 2009
The Wrongest Christmas Ornament, Ever
Because little children should all be given an ornament like this one for Christmas:
I've had that image stored in my cell phone for 6 months now. I promised my friend that her childhood memory would be immortalized on my blog.
And in the collective nightmares of us all.
10 June 2009
Sign of the Times
The Princess has spent the better part of today designing her dream mansion. She has charts and cross-referenced lists of what will go in each room. Which closet holds skirts and which holds shoes are all detailed in colorful marker.
She indicated that she would have people working for her, in her mansion.
"Like servants?" I asked.
"Well, to run the pizza place and the bowling alley and stuff" was her reply.
"I would like to challenge you to think about what it is, exactly, that you will have done to EARN the money to build this mansion. How exactly are you going to better the world and make the money to have this house?"
Yes, I actually did say words to that effect. And I went on reinforcing, when she argued that it was just all for pretend, that I'd still like her, even in her dreams, to dream about making a difference.
The latest list that she's making? The list of "Cutbacks" -- those people that she's going to have to let go because she just doesn't have room for them in her scheme.
That's right. Even in the dreams and play-acting of 11-year old girls, people are getting laid off these days.
She indicated that she would have people working for her, in her mansion.
"Like servants?" I asked.
"Well, to run the pizza place and the bowling alley and stuff" was her reply.
"I would like to challenge you to think about what it is, exactly, that you will have done to EARN the money to build this mansion. How exactly are you going to better the world and make the money to have this house?"
Yes, I actually did say words to that effect. And I went on reinforcing, when she argued that it was just all for pretend, that I'd still like her, even in her dreams, to dream about making a difference.
The latest list that she's making? The list of "Cutbacks" -- those people that she's going to have to let go because she just doesn't have room for them in her scheme.
That's right. Even in the dreams and play-acting of 11-year old girls, people are getting laid off these days.
05 June 2009
Lip Service
Begin with the confession: When I went to Pittsburgh, mom, I did not go to Mass.
During a trip to visit with college friends a few weeks ago, I visited my friend Amy's church for Sunday services. She is an elder in her very small, very friendly Presbyterian church. And what happened to me there was the same thing that happens to me every time I attend a Protestant service, listen to Christian radio, or walk into a Christian bookstore: I cried.
Let me say that it was NOT guilt that brought the tears, although I must admit that I struggle with the Catholic guilt because I missed Mass. Somehow, though, I always feel like such a spiritual snob when I tell a friend, "Oh, sorry, your services don't 'count' for me. I have to go to Mass."
I always say that I find such comfort in the Mass and the prayers and the rituals. And how much I like knowing that the same prayers being said around me are the prayers being said back home. The flip side of that, which is enough sometimes to really shake me up and start the tears flowing, are the prayers said in another church. They are different and new -- I am forced to listen. Not just for novelty, but to know what it is I say Amen to.
Two very distinct parts of the service struck me -- one was inspiring and one had me thisclose to sobbing.
[Mom, you might just want to stop reading this right now. If you keep reading, you must promise to be nice.]
The youth of this church have a mime ministry. Yes, there is a part of me that would normally make fun of this or not understand or respect it. That being said, I was so very inspired by these young people expressing their faith so fearlessly and artistically. I know of no 14-year old boys that would so openly perform and portray their beliefs. The mimes performed to a musical adaptation of "The Prayer of Jabez". I know that there is a Catholic rebuttal to the Prayer of Jabez that I can't remember right now.
What I do know is this: I've been struggling so much with trying to be specific in what I ask for, from God. I've tried to pray for what I want in my job search, what I want as a mother, what we need as a family. I am not good at praying specifically. So, to watch those intense faces and dramatic arm gestures praying for God to increase their territories, it felt like specific prayer to me. It was a lesson in asking God for what I want, in fervent prayer.
The point at which I wanted to sob was when the members of the church, one by one, would introduce themselves and state why they were asking for prayer that week. Not everyone spoke. But everyone who wished to, could. Around the room we went: "I am Carla and I know that I'm going to have a really tough week this week. And I just ask for your prayers for me as I face it." That one stuck in my mind.
If I thought I could have spoken without sobbing, I would have introduced myself. And asked for prayer for my job search. Thanksgiving for Husband's temporary job that then had the potential to become permanent with benefits. For courage and fortitude and comfort in seeking what would most give me time with my daughters.
Then, get this: the leader of the prayer (I don't think he was the minister) then led each of us in prayer for each of those very specific intentions. We prayed by name for Carla. We asked God for strength for her in her rough week ahead. We prayed for the sick, by name. And those preparing for a missions trip to Haiti. Each person that had spoken up and requested prayers heard the entire congregation pray for their request.
That prayer challenged me and changed me.
How many times have I promised someone that I would pray for them and then forgotten? Or prayed in a very non-committed, rushed "all those people I promised prayers to" way?
There are times that I have most definitely failed to really lift up in prayer those people who have asked me to pray for them. I gave them lip service with my promises.
In a parish the size of ours, we have our petitions every week that list a few global petitions and then the "our own intentions we mention in the silence of our hearts (pause here) and the petitions in our parish petition book". That's as personal as we get. I know that it's not practical to do it any other way.
But I've been trying to consciously pray for people lately. I've been carrying the petitions further into my week. I'm trying to think of the names and the faces of those people who ask for prayer -- and really PRAY for them, as I should.
I felt selfish for asking for more prayers when I've not been as generous as I could be with mine. And how can I learn to pray specifically for myself if I'm not specific in my prayers for others? How well those young people, with no words at all, showed me a new way to pray -- to just open my heart and pour out my faith and my prayers to God, who understands when I don't even speak. (I will not necessarily begin a mime ministry from this. But I won't make fun of it either.)
Not giving lip service in my prayers and promises to pray for others is another lesson I'm learning. Another change I'm making.
Thank you, all, who have prayed for me. I am praying for you all, more and more, every day.
During a trip to visit with college friends a few weeks ago, I visited my friend Amy's church for Sunday services. She is an elder in her very small, very friendly Presbyterian church. And what happened to me there was the same thing that happens to me every time I attend a Protestant service, listen to Christian radio, or walk into a Christian bookstore: I cried.
Let me say that it was NOT guilt that brought the tears, although I must admit that I struggle with the Catholic guilt because I missed Mass. Somehow, though, I always feel like such a spiritual snob when I tell a friend, "Oh, sorry, your services don't 'count' for me. I have to go to Mass."
I always say that I find such comfort in the Mass and the prayers and the rituals. And how much I like knowing that the same prayers being said around me are the prayers being said back home. The flip side of that, which is enough sometimes to really shake me up and start the tears flowing, are the prayers said in another church. They are different and new -- I am forced to listen. Not just for novelty, but to know what it is I say Amen to.
Two very distinct parts of the service struck me -- one was inspiring and one had me thisclose to sobbing.
[Mom, you might just want to stop reading this right now. If you keep reading, you must promise to be nice.]
The youth of this church have a mime ministry. Yes, there is a part of me that would normally make fun of this or not understand or respect it. That being said, I was so very inspired by these young people expressing their faith so fearlessly and artistically. I know of no 14-year old boys that would so openly perform and portray their beliefs. The mimes performed to a musical adaptation of "The Prayer of Jabez". I know that there is a Catholic rebuttal to the Prayer of Jabez that I can't remember right now.
What I do know is this: I've been struggling so much with trying to be specific in what I ask for, from God. I've tried to pray for what I want in my job search, what I want as a mother, what we need as a family. I am not good at praying specifically. So, to watch those intense faces and dramatic arm gestures praying for God to increase their territories, it felt like specific prayer to me. It was a lesson in asking God for what I want, in fervent prayer.
The point at which I wanted to sob was when the members of the church, one by one, would introduce themselves and state why they were asking for prayer that week. Not everyone spoke. But everyone who wished to, could. Around the room we went: "I am Carla and I know that I'm going to have a really tough week this week. And I just ask for your prayers for me as I face it." That one stuck in my mind.
If I thought I could have spoken without sobbing, I would have introduced myself. And asked for prayer for my job search. Thanksgiving for Husband's temporary job that then had the potential to become permanent with benefits. For courage and fortitude and comfort in seeking what would most give me time with my daughters.
Then, get this: the leader of the prayer (I don't think he was the minister) then led each of us in prayer for each of those very specific intentions. We prayed by name for Carla. We asked God for strength for her in her rough week ahead. We prayed for the sick, by name. And those preparing for a missions trip to Haiti. Each person that had spoken up and requested prayers heard the entire congregation pray for their request.
That prayer challenged me and changed me.
How many times have I promised someone that I would pray for them and then forgotten? Or prayed in a very non-committed, rushed "all those people I promised prayers to" way?
There are times that I have most definitely failed to really lift up in prayer those people who have asked me to pray for them. I gave them lip service with my promises.
In a parish the size of ours, we have our petitions every week that list a few global petitions and then the "our own intentions we mention in the silence of our hearts (pause here) and the petitions in our parish petition book". That's as personal as we get. I know that it's not practical to do it any other way.
But I've been trying to consciously pray for people lately. I've been carrying the petitions further into my week. I'm trying to think of the names and the faces of those people who ask for prayer -- and really PRAY for them, as I should.
I felt selfish for asking for more prayers when I've not been as generous as I could be with mine. And how can I learn to pray specifically for myself if I'm not specific in my prayers for others? How well those young people, with no words at all, showed me a new way to pray -- to just open my heart and pour out my faith and my prayers to God, who understands when I don't even speak. (I will not necessarily begin a mime ministry from this. But I won't make fun of it either.)
Not giving lip service in my prayers and promises to pray for others is another lesson I'm learning. Another change I'm making.
Thank you, all, who have prayed for me. I am praying for you all, more and more, every day.
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