My mother said, "Be quiet."
But, because we're boys
We're really quite incapable
Of lacking any noise
But even though it's hard for us
We're trying to be silent
We're wrestling so soundlessly
It's hardly even violent
Our loud music we are playing
So quietly, you see
It's at volume twenty-seven
Instead of volume thirty-three
And tiptoeing quieter
Than a tiny little mouse
We're honking silent horns
Throughout the soundless house
I'm slamming doors so carefully
The floor won't even shake
Our screaming's making the smallest noise
That screaming can possibly make
But Mother is still mad at us
It seems we cannot win
Wait, I might remember now
I may have dropped a pin
--By Hannah Eby, age 12
This poem is entirely fictitious--any resemblance to her actual brothers or mother is purely coincidental!
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Friday, December 29, 2017
Merry and Bright
For three days we were together
All twenty-two of us
In my parents' little ranch house
With the walk-out basement
Where my 96-year-old grandmother lives
My seven
My brother's four
My other brother's four
My sister's four
My parents
And my grandma
All on top of each other
Stuffed onto every couch and chair
Jumping over legs
Squeezing past each other
Dodging foam swords and balloon rockets
But everyone merry and bright
While I sat one night playing cards
With my sister and sisters-in-law
My father sat locked in animated conversation
With one of my nephews about a chemistry project
Discussing the possibility of burning excess methane gas
And using the carbon dioxide produced to make limestone
While my husband and my oldest brother
Exchanged perspectives on the interpretation
Of the book of Revelation
From the front room drifted the familiar sounds
Of the same movies my kids have watched
Every Christmas they've ever been at Grandma's
Because Grandma rarely buys a new movie
And I thought that that moment
Could never be more merry or bright
It was colder than Antarctica outside
Opening gifts was a bit chaotic
The top dishwasher rack fell apart more than once
The air mattress I slept on gave out in the middle of one night
And left me mostly on the floor
There was the same microwave that has run like a diesel engine
Since the day they bought it ten years ago
Shaking people from their beds each morning
With every bowl of oatmeal warmed
When my aunt and uncle dropped by with my cousin and her family of five
We had to send a team in a minivan to haul home enough Casey's pizza
Just to feed everyone once
My mom had to teach me how to count the beeps
To set the correct temperature on her oven
So I could heat my family's gluten-free pizza
Since the display is a bit garbled these days
(That's five beeps up for pizza, by the way
And you have to keep it in the front right corner
Because the back left tends to burn things)
But there was not a house in Iowa that night
More warm or merry or bright
So many stories
So many hugs
Really listening
Truly caring
Some patience and lip biting
Right when they were needed
So many laughs
When we presented my parents with a new (quiet) microwave
My dad said he didn't know what that was for
Since their old one worked perfectly fine
And my mom wondered how she would know now
When my dad was using the microwave
While she was outside gardening
So much warm and bright
My dad sat one night in the office
Where my boys were bedded down
In sleeping bags and blankets on the floor
And sang his favorite repertoire of bedtime songs
In his deep and gentle tones
That woke up memories from bedtimes
When I was my boys' age
And for awhile in the bursting house
All was very calm
And dim
And melancholy
And bright
Everyone was ready to leave and sad to go
With rounds and rounds of hugs and good-byes
While the kids scrambled to find their shoes
And the parents scrambled to find their kids
And when we were finally home
Elijah said he would sleep better
If he were still at Grandma's and Grandpa's
Our house was a little too empty, I think
So I sat by my boys' bed a little longer
And sang every song I could remember my dad singing
I sang them in my deepest, gentlest voice
And for a moment that room
Was calm
And dim
And merry
And bright
All twenty-two of us
In my parents' little ranch house
With the walk-out basement
Where my 96-year-old grandmother lives
My seven
My brother's four
My other brother's four
My sister's four
My parents
And my grandma
All on top of each other
Stuffed onto every couch and chair
Jumping over legs
Squeezing past each other
Dodging foam swords and balloon rockets
But everyone merry and bright
While I sat one night playing cards
With my sister and sisters-in-law
My father sat locked in animated conversation
With one of my nephews about a chemistry project
Discussing the possibility of burning excess methane gas
And using the carbon dioxide produced to make limestone
While my husband and my oldest brother
Exchanged perspectives on the interpretation
Of the book of Revelation
From the front room drifted the familiar sounds
Of the same movies my kids have watched
Every Christmas they've ever been at Grandma's
Because Grandma rarely buys a new movie
And I thought that that moment
Could never be more merry or bright
It was colder than Antarctica outside
Opening gifts was a bit chaotic
The top dishwasher rack fell apart more than once
The air mattress I slept on gave out in the middle of one night
And left me mostly on the floor
There was the same microwave that has run like a diesel engine
Since the day they bought it ten years ago
Shaking people from their beds each morning
With every bowl of oatmeal warmed
When my aunt and uncle dropped by with my cousin and her family of five
We had to send a team in a minivan to haul home enough Casey's pizza
Just to feed everyone once
My mom had to teach me how to count the beeps
To set the correct temperature on her oven
So I could heat my family's gluten-free pizza
Since the display is a bit garbled these days
(That's five beeps up for pizza, by the way
And you have to keep it in the front right corner
Because the back left tends to burn things)
But there was not a house in Iowa that night
More warm or merry or bright
So many stories
So many hugs
Really listening
Truly caring
Some patience and lip biting
Right when they were needed
So many laughs
When we presented my parents with a new (quiet) microwave
My dad said he didn't know what that was for
Since their old one worked perfectly fine
And my mom wondered how she would know now
When my dad was using the microwave
While she was outside gardening
So much warm and bright
My dad sat one night in the office
Where my boys were bedded down
In sleeping bags and blankets on the floor
And sang his favorite repertoire of bedtime songs
In his deep and gentle tones
That woke up memories from bedtimes
When I was my boys' age
And for awhile in the bursting house
All was very calm
And dim
And melancholy
And bright
Everyone was ready to leave and sad to go
With rounds and rounds of hugs and good-byes
While the kids scrambled to find their shoes
And the parents scrambled to find their kids
And when we were finally home
Elijah said he would sleep better
If he were still at Grandma's and Grandpa's
Our house was a little too empty, I think
So I sat by my boys' bed a little longer
And sang every song I could remember my dad singing
I sang them in my deepest, gentlest voice
And for a moment that room
Was calm
And dim
And merry
And bright
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Seedlings
I've loved trees since before I can remember. I remember rocking in my mother's lap with my blanket and loving the blue spruce outside the window. There was a tire swing in an enormous weeping willow that drew me in from the time I could walk. My dad loves to tell the story of how I once, at the tender age of four, climbed far too high in that weeping willow. When he called to me to warn me that I could kill myself up there I had called back with great annoyance, "Well at least I would die happy!" Laughter bubbles up inside my dad every time he tells that story because he knows how right I was.
We moved from that house and those trees when I was five. The trees at our new house were younger. Two apple trees, two ash, a maple, and a pine. The maple was uselessly spindly, the pine was a bit sticky, and the apple trees were too small to be an adventure. But the ash in the back corner of the yard on Harmony Drive had low, flat branches that wound up the tree just like a winding staircase. I could almost walk right up into that green tower, where I would sit still for what felt like hours with only my quiet thoughts.
When I was maybe eight or nine, walking home from school one spring day I stopped to pick up three silver maple helicopter seeds. I peeled the green shiny pods from their dead flaky crust and rubbed them in my palm with my thumb. Without too much thought I stuck them in a row in the empty flower bed beside my house and wondered if they might grow, and to my great delight, they did. I watered them and watched them with pride for a month or so, before begging my dad to help me plant them in the yard. I asked my dad, of course, because he was the soft one when it came to impractical nonsense. And he lovingly helped me transplant three silver maple weed-trees in a row beside our hedge. He helped me stake them up so they would grow straight and fence them off to keep the bunnies from nibbling. And I realize now that he mowed around those ugly trees for over a decade simply because they were "Kathy's trees."
After my maple trees were well established there came one day in a Ranger Rick magazine, a postcard that I could fill out to join The National Arbor Day Foundation, which I promptly sent back with $10.00 of my birthday money so that I could receive ten free trees. A few weeks later a large manilla envelope arrived, and I was thrilled to find ten spindly little Colorado Blue Spruce twigs inside. I think both of my parents helped me this time to cut the tops off of ten 2 liter bottles and fill them with some dirt from the back-yard to plant those tiny twigs in. I loved watching those saplings come back to life in that dirt, and grow stronger with my care. Five of those trees survived and were eventually planted around the edge of the yard on Harmony Drive, where I believe they all stand to this day. I had big plans of turning my entire yard into a forest at that time, but then I grew.
It's hard for me to realize now how the worries of life dried up my early love of green things growing. For so many years the garden was beyond my reach--in the Chicago concrete, in the dormitories, and the condos, and the rental properties where we never owned the dirt. Life was keeping everyone going, and time was for surviving and saving my strength for tomorrow.
It was Hannah who woke me: yapping on and on about the magnificent magnolia and how high she had climbed in the overgrown Arbor Vitae. It was Hannah crying when we moved away from that magnolia, and Hannah naming every tree at our new house before we'd been there a month. It was Hannah sobbing as the electric company's tree trimmers irreverently lopped off half of our sugar maple, "Belle," and Hannah sobbing again as the half-dead Elm where the woodpecker family lived came down last fall.
At first, to my own horror, I heard myself dismiss her. I heard myself spout practicalities and wisdom, and far too few tears. My aunt told me then that my Grandpa Johnson, who died the year before I was born, loved trees. She said he loved the great oaks by the old white farmhouse in Minnesota that I remember swinging under. I never knew I had so much of him in me… and in my daughter. I looked again at the ruined Elm, and this time I saw it. I cried with Hannah for the Elm tree then, and I ached for our loss.
It was Hannah who eventually wore that dead flaky crust off of my heart, and smiled at the shiny green seed inside. This spring she put me back in the dirt where my roots could drink deeply, and she is watching me come back to life. This spring Hannah and I are watching all the green things grow.
Hannah told me that our sun porch could be a greenhouse, and I believed her. We went to buy a few packets of flower seeds and decided to almost clear the shelf. We put six-dozen eggs in a bowl in the fridge so we could fill the cartons with seedlings. We passed the little display of fruit bushes and strawberry shoots and decided to grab one of each of those too. Naomi caught wind of our fever and asked if she could plant some pear seeds from the pear she was eating. I told her they wouldn't grow, but that we had plenty of dirt so she could give it a go if she wanted. And heavens, this spring our sunporch is growing!
The flowers are growing, hundreds of flower sprouts!
The fruit bushes and shoots are bushing and shooting!
And glory be, even the pear seeds came to life with their big, strong leaves pushing up and out and into the sun!
And we all feel just like we have new babies. We're gently watering, and carefully transplanting, and rooting for each seedling because they are growing right in our souls. We're researching D'Anjou Pear trees to make sure we can actually grow these babies, and then, when we find out that D'Anjou Pear trees need to be planted with a Bartlett Pear tree for pollination, we are eating Bartlett Pears as fast as we can and planting ALL the seeds because we REALLY need at least one to grow!
Then, because we didn't have enough things to grow, this week I helped Hannah join the National Arbor Day Foundation, and we are both eagerly anticipating the arrival of her ten free Redbud trees.
"Where exactly are you planning to put all of this stuff?" Matt asked one day.
So we all glared at him like we'd glare at the naysayer who forgets to say "Congratulations" to the mother who has unexpectedly found herself pregnant with a seventh child. And then we sighed and reminded Matt that trees are blessings, not burdens, and that I'm the one who'll be mowing around them anyway. And to this he had no reply. And so it is settled: our yard will be a forest one day.
And my soul will be happy. It will be full of green things, and life, like it should be. And Hannah's soul will grow strong with the trees, just like her mama's did. And if we die trying to keep all these green things alive, at least we'll die happy.
We moved from that house and those trees when I was five. The trees at our new house were younger. Two apple trees, two ash, a maple, and a pine. The maple was uselessly spindly, the pine was a bit sticky, and the apple trees were too small to be an adventure. But the ash in the back corner of the yard on Harmony Drive had low, flat branches that wound up the tree just like a winding staircase. I could almost walk right up into that green tower, where I would sit still for what felt like hours with only my quiet thoughts.
When I was maybe eight or nine, walking home from school one spring day I stopped to pick up three silver maple helicopter seeds. I peeled the green shiny pods from their dead flaky crust and rubbed them in my palm with my thumb. Without too much thought I stuck them in a row in the empty flower bed beside my house and wondered if they might grow, and to my great delight, they did. I watered them and watched them with pride for a month or so, before begging my dad to help me plant them in the yard. I asked my dad, of course, because he was the soft one when it came to impractical nonsense. And he lovingly helped me transplant three silver maple weed-trees in a row beside our hedge. He helped me stake them up so they would grow straight and fence them off to keep the bunnies from nibbling. And I realize now that he mowed around those ugly trees for over a decade simply because they were "Kathy's trees."
After my maple trees were well established there came one day in a Ranger Rick magazine, a postcard that I could fill out to join The National Arbor Day Foundation, which I promptly sent back with $10.00 of my birthday money so that I could receive ten free trees. A few weeks later a large manilla envelope arrived, and I was thrilled to find ten spindly little Colorado Blue Spruce twigs inside. I think both of my parents helped me this time to cut the tops off of ten 2 liter bottles and fill them with some dirt from the back-yard to plant those tiny twigs in. I loved watching those saplings come back to life in that dirt, and grow stronger with my care. Five of those trees survived and were eventually planted around the edge of the yard on Harmony Drive, where I believe they all stand to this day. I had big plans of turning my entire yard into a forest at that time, but then I grew.
It's hard for me to realize now how the worries of life dried up my early love of green things growing. For so many years the garden was beyond my reach--in the Chicago concrete, in the dormitories, and the condos, and the rental properties where we never owned the dirt. Life was keeping everyone going, and time was for surviving and saving my strength for tomorrow.
It was Hannah who woke me: yapping on and on about the magnificent magnolia and how high she had climbed in the overgrown Arbor Vitae. It was Hannah crying when we moved away from that magnolia, and Hannah naming every tree at our new house before we'd been there a month. It was Hannah sobbing as the electric company's tree trimmers irreverently lopped off half of our sugar maple, "Belle," and Hannah sobbing again as the half-dead Elm where the woodpecker family lived came down last fall.
At first, to my own horror, I heard myself dismiss her. I heard myself spout practicalities and wisdom, and far too few tears. My aunt told me then that my Grandpa Johnson, who died the year before I was born, loved trees. She said he loved the great oaks by the old white farmhouse in Minnesota that I remember swinging under. I never knew I had so much of him in me… and in my daughter. I looked again at the ruined Elm, and this time I saw it. I cried with Hannah for the Elm tree then, and I ached for our loss.
It was Hannah who eventually wore that dead flaky crust off of my heart, and smiled at the shiny green seed inside. This spring she put me back in the dirt where my roots could drink deeply, and she is watching me come back to life. This spring Hannah and I are watching all the green things grow.
Hannah told me that our sun porch could be a greenhouse, and I believed her. We went to buy a few packets of flower seeds and decided to almost clear the shelf. We put six-dozen eggs in a bowl in the fridge so we could fill the cartons with seedlings. We passed the little display of fruit bushes and strawberry shoots and decided to grab one of each of those too. Naomi caught wind of our fever and asked if she could plant some pear seeds from the pear she was eating. I told her they wouldn't grow, but that we had plenty of dirt so she could give it a go if she wanted. And heavens, this spring our sunporch is growing!
And glory be, even the pear seeds came to life with their big, strong leaves pushing up and out and into the sun!
And we all feel just like we have new babies. We're gently watering, and carefully transplanting, and rooting for each seedling because they are growing right in our souls. We're researching D'Anjou Pear trees to make sure we can actually grow these babies, and then, when we find out that D'Anjou Pear trees need to be planted with a Bartlett Pear tree for pollination, we are eating Bartlett Pears as fast as we can and planting ALL the seeds because we REALLY need at least one to grow!
Then, because we didn't have enough things to grow, this week I helped Hannah join the National Arbor Day Foundation, and we are both eagerly anticipating the arrival of her ten free Redbud trees.
"Where exactly are you planning to put all of this stuff?" Matt asked one day.
So we all glared at him like we'd glare at the naysayer who forgets to say "Congratulations" to the mother who has unexpectedly found herself pregnant with a seventh child. And then we sighed and reminded Matt that trees are blessings, not burdens, and that I'm the one who'll be mowing around them anyway. And to this he had no reply. And so it is settled: our yard will be a forest one day.
And my soul will be happy. It will be full of green things, and life, like it should be. And Hannah's soul will grow strong with the trees, just like her mama's did. And if we die trying to keep all these green things alive, at least we'll die happy.
Friday, February 17, 2017
Cono Morning (written fall 2008)
Tender new morning light peeks through my blinds
I hear the familiar thud and padding of feet
Clad in footed princess pajamas
Coming tentatively down the hall
They stop at my door
I pretend to be asleep
Wishing she will give up
And pad her way back to bed
The door cracks open
Through squinted eyes
I see such sweet wispy blond curls
Such hopeful blinking blue eyes
That I can’t help but smile
Her mouth, curled tightly around a shriveled thumb,
Breaks into a grin and her eyes leap with joy
She laughs, dashes for my bed,
Dingy pink blanket dragging behind,
And scrambles up beside me
Snuggling in, she wrinkles her nose in a grin
And nuzzles my face
“I wuv you, Mommy”
I nuzzle back and breathe her hair in
There is a thumping from the hall
A crib rail vigorously thudding back and forth
Then the banging of a sippy cup on the wall
Hannah is delighted, “Emma’s awake!”
I hoist my heavy, pregnant belly out of bed
Hannah runs ahead of me, “I want my juice!”
The banging continues, faster now
“Stop it, Emma!” an annoyed voice calls
Now it is me peeking in their door
Emma is pleased
She smiles, binky dropping from her mouth
And strains to reach me over the crib rail
Naomi rolls in her bed,
Brushes her long, frizzy hair from her face
“Mommy, Emma woke me up”
“Me too” I sigh
Now there are six feet clad in footed jammies
Toddling, thudding eagerly to the kitchen
Jumping in anticipation
As I dole out watered down juice into three sippy cups
They gulp happily
Hannah blinks up at me,
“Mommy is your baby kicking?”
“Not right now”
“Not right now”
“I think our baby is nocturnal” Naomi advises
“My baby’s kicking,” Hannah beams
Then lifts her shirt, “Wanna feel it?”
I place my hand on her tiny, thin tummy
And pretend to feel a kick, she is satisfied
I gaze at their faces, their eyelashes, chapped cheeks
And try to memorize each detail
Some morning I will wake up alone
It will be a foggy memory
I want this morning to be as crisp and alive then
As it is now
Some morning sleep will be plentiful
But there will be no wrinkled, grinning nose to nuzzle mine
No footed jammies to lead me to the kitchen
Some morning this morning will be a memory
Prognosis (Poem for Naomi, written around 2011)
Infinitely complex
Untenably marred
Boundlessly resilient
This child in my arms
Swollen belly
Crooked feet
Crossing eyes
Murmured beat
Liver scarred
Kidney cysts
Endowments of
A genome glitch
Devalued, dismissed
I cradle my girl,
Shielding her spirit
From a misjudging world
Which gene encodes
Her gift for art,
Her passion for books,
Her merciful heart?
What nucleic acid
Could portend
Her affection for horses
Her first best friend?
And which base pair
Might empower
Her compassion for
A frost-nipped flower?
Which locus holds
Her giddy smile?
What helix encrypts
The soul of a child?
What white-coated Einstein,
What world-wide reserve
Of human insight
Can presume her worth?
Infinitely complex
Untenably marred
Beyond their prognosis
A child in my arms
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Wanderlust and Dinner
It isn't that there is anything wrong here
It's more that I am here again
Here at the kitchen sink with my hands in luke-warm water
Scraping bits of sticky dried bread from the bread-maker pans
Again
Here pulling steamy silverware out, putting greasy silverware in
Crunching Rice Chex under my feet and sighing
And sweeping
And wiping
Again
Here filling bread-maker pans with water, oil, and yeast
No measuring spoons needed
Each bit slipping in from memory
And I'm unsure whether this automated accuracy
Amazes or disgusts me
This orchestrated kitchen dance
My pride and my drudgery
Monotony
Mon…o…ton…y…
Lord, I'm gagging here
Gagging on monotony
Send me anywhere, but not to dinner
Not to the quiet, not to the usual
Not to the faithful ordinary
Please, poet friends, take me away
Sarah, Audrey, Andrew, Rich
With my hands in the water
Sing my heart out of this
Lord, help me offer this
Deep breath in
Smile at these tiny hungry taskmasters
Catch them in a hug as they run by
Reign me back from wanderlust
From all the worlds I'd rather spend today in
Heart, don't choke on those sweet lies
Potatoes, wash potatoes
Slice the peppers, thaw the meat
Find the rhythm and the music
In the steady, in the staying
In the never trading them for me
The offering
In a world of leavers leaving
Wandering after their dislocated souls
Stay. Right. Here.
With your hands in the water, dear heart
Stay here and decide to sing
Stay and chop potatoes
Pour yourself out again
And again
In the ordinary
In the never-heroic, rarely-seen, often-snubbed
Dinner
And when you stay, dance
Set a table with stability
Generosity
Less of me
More of "How was your day?"
(I wanted to run screaming from the kitchen but I didn't)
"Are you hungry? I made a plate for you"
"It's in the fridge, do you want me to warm it up now?"
It isn't that I'm doing anything grand here
It's more that I'm cleaning up dinner again
In a world of leavers leaving
Here with my hands in puke-warm water
Elbow-deep in monotony
In less of me
This heart is set on staying
And tonight is set in peace
It's more that I am here again
Here at the kitchen sink with my hands in luke-warm water
Scraping bits of sticky dried bread from the bread-maker pans
Again
Here pulling steamy silverware out, putting greasy silverware in
Crunching Rice Chex under my feet and sighing
And sweeping
And wiping
Again
Here filling bread-maker pans with water, oil, and yeast
No measuring spoons needed
Each bit slipping in from memory
And I'm unsure whether this automated accuracy
Amazes or disgusts me
This orchestrated kitchen dance
My pride and my drudgery
Monotony
Mon…o…ton…y…
Lord, I'm gagging here
Gagging on monotony
Send me anywhere, but not to dinner
Not to the quiet, not to the usual
Not to the faithful ordinary
Please, poet friends, take me away
Sarah, Audrey, Andrew, Rich
With my hands in the water
Sing my heart out of this
Lord, help me offer this
Deep breath in
Smile at these tiny hungry taskmasters
Catch them in a hug as they run by
Reign me back from wanderlust
From all the worlds I'd rather spend today in
Heart, don't choke on those sweet lies
Potatoes, wash potatoes
Slice the peppers, thaw the meat
Find the rhythm and the music
In the steady, in the staying
In the never trading them for me
The offering
In a world of leavers leaving
Wandering after their dislocated souls
Stay. Right. Here.
With your hands in the water, dear heart
Stay here and decide to sing
Stay and chop potatoes
Pour yourself out again
And again
In the ordinary
In the never-heroic, rarely-seen, often-snubbed
Dinner
And when you stay, dance
Set a table with stability
Generosity
Less of me
More of "How was your day?"
(I wanted to run screaming from the kitchen but I didn't)
"Are you hungry? I made a plate for you"
"It's in the fridge, do you want me to warm it up now?"
It isn't that I'm doing anything grand here
It's more that I'm cleaning up dinner again
In a world of leavers leaving
Here with my hands in puke-warm water
Elbow-deep in monotony
In less of me
This heart is set on staying
And tonight is set in peace
Saturday, December 17, 2016
Humbled Creator, a Poem by Hannah
Christmas isn't about the presents
Christmas isn't about the tree
Christmas isn't about the food
Or the stockings by the chimney
We celebrate Christmas because of a Manger
In a stable dirty and old
Inside lay the maker of the universe
But he wore no crown of gold
He came to earth as a child
Tiny, crying, weak
He humbled himself to a baby boy
Who couldn't even speak
But He made the mountains
He made the sea
He made the oceans
He made you and me
The aspens show
Even the mice know
He is the creator
We should be awestruck
by Hannah Eby, age 10
Christmas isn't about the tree
Christmas isn't about the food
Or the stockings by the chimney
We celebrate Christmas because of a Manger
In a stable dirty and old
Inside lay the maker of the universe
But he wore no crown of gold
He came to earth as a child
Tiny, crying, weak
He humbled himself to a baby boy
Who couldn't even speak
But He made the mountains
He made the sea
He made the oceans
He made you and me
The aspens show
Even the mice know
He is the creator
We should be awestruck
by Hannah Eby, age 10
Monday, December 5, 2016
Christmastime, a poem by Naomi
At Christmastime we wish for snow
To build, play in, and have some fun
It's funny to think that in two months
We'll wish spring weather would soon come
At Christmastime I like night drives
We listen to carols on radio
And watch the houses flying by
Bedecked with lights that softly glow
At Christmastime we decorate
By hanging wreaths and strings of lights
We hang our stockings in a row
Then add the tree, oh what a sight
At Christmastime I love to watch
The twinkling lights hung on its boughs
As if they know the secrets wrapped
And can't help smiling at the thought
At Christmastime, family comes
Or perhaps we visit them
Grandmas, grandpas, aunts, and uncles
They're always great to see again
At Christmastime we count the days
Until that day arrives
Then the gifts are opened, and gone is the surprise
Until again, it's Christmastime
by Naomi
To build, play in, and have some fun
It's funny to think that in two months
We'll wish spring weather would soon come
At Christmastime I like night drives
We listen to carols on radio
And watch the houses flying by
Bedecked with lights that softly glow
At Christmastime we decorate
By hanging wreaths and strings of lights
We hang our stockings in a row
Then add the tree, oh what a sight
At Christmastime I love to watch
The twinkling lights hung on its boughs
As if they know the secrets wrapped
And can't help smiling at the thought
At Christmastime, family comes
Or perhaps we visit them
Grandmas, grandpas, aunts, and uncles
They're always great to see again
At Christmastime we count the days
Until that day arrives
Then the gifts are opened, and gone is the surprise
Until again, it's Christmastime
by Naomi
Monday, November 7, 2016
Junior High Girls, You’re Missing Out on a Fantastic Friendship
Listen girls, I understand. I was a junior high girl once too. I know that you’re busy figuring out who you are and who you will become. You want to know which clothes will tell the world the most about your unique personality, which song lyrics ring the most true in your heart, and which other junior high girls are the most like you. You are naturally drawn to other people with similar personalities, similar tastes, similar goals, and similiar convictions. It feels fantastic to be surrounded by people who are like you—the kind that you instantly click with—I understand.
But can I be your older sister here and help you see something you’re missing? You’re missing out on a fantastic friendship with someone you’d least expect: the quiet, somewhat odd girl who sits by herself in the back of the classroom, the back of the lunchroom, or the back row of your church..
Ah, you think you’re on to me now, you think I’m writing this to tell you that she needs you to be her friend, that you need to perform an act of community service and selflessly reach out to her even though it’s painfully hard and you have nothing to gain, but you’re wrong. I’m telling you that you’re missing out on a fantastic friend for YOU.
That girl is my daughter, and I know some things about her that you don’t know. I know that she’s actually only quiet and awkward until she gets to know you, and that the initial few weeks or months that you might have to spend on helping her develop a friendship will be an investment well worth making. I know that she is actually fantastically smart, and you’d never guess it, but she can be quite witty and crack some hilarious jokes when you least expect them. But more important than that: she is kind. She is genuinely, from the heart, kind in a way that is rare among your age group. She is loyal and would never turn her back on you, never trade you for a newer or more popular friend, never speak hurtful words behind your back.
It’s true that there are ways you could help her. You could take her by the hand and patiently lead her into the dizzying world of junior high friendships. You could overlook her sometimes-awkward laugh, or the way she blinks back tears whenever she feels strong emotions, or the small awkward silences that happen when she’s not sure what to say next. You could help her learn what to say next. You could teach her that it’s safe to trust and that you won’t abandon her as a friend when a more popular girl comes along. But I want you to know that she can help you too.
She can almost certainly help you with your math and science homework. She can teach you to draw shockingly beautiful horses, and recommend a long list of good books to read. These things you might have guessed. But did you know that she is the best listener you will ever hope to have in a friend? She will listen and listen with the goal of truly understanding your heart instead of jumping in with her own stories, and she will actually care about who you are, how you are feeling, and what you are going through. She is wise. She thinks deeply behind that quiet face and, if you are patient enough to wait for an answer, she will offer you advice that is mature beyond her years and yours. When you least expect it then, she will crack you up with wit and humor, you never would have guessed that she hid.
But can I be your older sister here and help you see something you’re missing? You’re missing out on a fantastic friendship with someone you’d least expect: the quiet, somewhat odd girl who sits by herself in the back of the classroom, the back of the lunchroom, or the back row of your church..
Ah, you think you’re on to me now, you think I’m writing this to tell you that she needs you to be her friend, that you need to perform an act of community service and selflessly reach out to her even though it’s painfully hard and you have nothing to gain, but you’re wrong. I’m telling you that you’re missing out on a fantastic friend for YOU.
That girl is my daughter, and I know some things about her that you don’t know. I know that she’s actually only quiet and awkward until she gets to know you, and that the initial few weeks or months that you might have to spend on helping her develop a friendship will be an investment well worth making. I know that she is actually fantastically smart, and you’d never guess it, but she can be quite witty and crack some hilarious jokes when you least expect them. But more important than that: she is kind. She is genuinely, from the heart, kind in a way that is rare among your age group. She is loyal and would never turn her back on you, never trade you for a newer or more popular friend, never speak hurtful words behind your back.
It’s true that there are ways you could help her. You could take her by the hand and patiently lead her into the dizzying world of junior high friendships. You could overlook her sometimes-awkward laugh, or the way she blinks back tears whenever she feels strong emotions, or the small awkward silences that happen when she’s not sure what to say next. You could help her learn what to say next. You could teach her that it’s safe to trust and that you won’t abandon her as a friend when a more popular girl comes along. But I want you to know that she can help you too.
She can almost certainly help you with your math and science homework. She can teach you to draw shockingly beautiful horses, and recommend a long list of good books to read. These things you might have guessed. But did you know that she is the best listener you will ever hope to have in a friend? She will listen and listen with the goal of truly understanding your heart instead of jumping in with her own stories, and she will actually care about who you are, how you are feeling, and what you are going through. She is wise. She thinks deeply behind that quiet face and, if you are patient enough to wait for an answer, she will offer you advice that is mature beyond her years and yours. When you least expect it then, she will crack you up with wit and humor, you never would have guessed that she hid.
Do you know what an investment is? It’s where you pay an amount first in order to gain access to something that will be worth more in the end. Some friendships are like investments—they don’t come as easily as others, but they offer greater reward down the road. You may have to be willing to do most of the talking at first or think of lots of questions to get her talking. You may have to patiently wait for responses from her as she organizes her thoughts. Be patient. Keep trying. It’s worth it.
After you have spent a few weeks and months learning to understand each other you will realize that she taught you some of life’s best lessons: that people are not always as they seem, that some of the more rewarding relationships take work, and that a loyal friend is often more valuable than a popular one. You will begin to see the other quiet or awkward or disabled people in your life in a new light too—as unique, valuable, enriching, human beings that are worth the effort to welcome into your life—and that is a lesson you will benefit from for as long as you live. You can never repay her for that.
Trust me on this one. It took some work for me to get to know her too, but you will never regret that you did.
Trust me on this one. It took some work for me to get to know her too, but you will never regret that you did.
With love to you,
That Quiet Girl’s Mom
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Afternoon October Road
I caught you on an afternoon October road
Past large white houses and large white barns
Set in sunset fields of drying heirloom corn
And autumn green pastures with short-cropped grass
Where proud draft teams rest from harvest
Past mum-lined porches and bonnet-dressed clothes lines
By gravel driveways where wooden wheels clatter
Behind lean brown horses minding their reigns
Soft cattails and red sumac swished in the ditches as I passed
Reminding me to watch the road, and not the oaks
Not the fresh tinted shades in the afternoon glow
Not the rising, beating arrow of geese
Sweeping my soul up into flight
Straight back to the garden gate
Back to the guarded gate
I drove grazing, grasping for the sweetness here
Spilling over, lingering behind you
The sent of your presence after you left
While the hero poets sang to me
To let me know they'd caught it too
They and I, we wait for you
I wanted to bring it home with me
Hoarding manna sun on autumn oaks
Home with chores, with stress, with vacancy
Home with biting, careless words
So I held my tongue and let it hurt
I didn't mind at all today
To drive again the same October road
To find the sun still lit the cattails
Still swishing reddened Sumac lining fields
And remember we're both on the wrong side here
Both pounding on the back side of the the gate
Both digging for the well, scraping bread from sand
And sometimes it doesn't hurt to let it hurt
I caught you on an afternoon October road
With the mum-lined porches and the poets
The scent of your presence, enough for today
Trickling rock, sandy wafer, a sigh in the ache
Just please come back soon and open the gate
Past large white houses and large white barns
Set in sunset fields of drying heirloom corn
And autumn green pastures with short-cropped grass
Where proud draft teams rest from harvest
Past mum-lined porches and bonnet-dressed clothes lines
By gravel driveways where wooden wheels clatter
Behind lean brown horses minding their reigns
Soft cattails and red sumac swished in the ditches as I passed
Reminding me to watch the road, and not the oaks
Not the fresh tinted shades in the afternoon glow
Not the rising, beating arrow of geese
Sweeping my soul up into flight
Straight back to the garden gate
Back to the guarded gate
I drove grazing, grasping for the sweetness here
Spilling over, lingering behind you
The sent of your presence after you left
While the hero poets sang to me
To let me know they'd caught it too
They and I, we wait for you
I wanted to bring it home with me
Hoarding manna sun on autumn oaks
Home with chores, with stress, with vacancy
Home with biting, careless words
So I held my tongue and let it hurt
I didn't mind at all today
To drive again the same October road
To find the sun still lit the cattails
Still swishing reddened Sumac lining fields
And remember we're both on the wrong side here
Both pounding on the back side of the the gate
Both digging for the well, scraping bread from sand
And sometimes it doesn't hurt to let it hurt
I caught you on an afternoon October road
With the mum-lined porches and the poets
The scent of your presence, enough for today
Trickling rock, sandy wafer, a sigh in the ache
Just please come back soon and open the gate
Friday, September 30, 2016
Little Brothers, by Naomi Eby
Only I can tell you the impossibleness
When I yell at them to come pick up their mess
And they give me the hugest of grins
They're little and cute and they make me laugh
But sometimes I forget about that
When they wake me with their din
Those terrible two, what mischief they make
That thing you had perfect, it's sure to "break"
Sometimes I really do wish I had none
But then the smaller one, close to five
Asks, "Will you play?" and it's sure to revive
The spirit of adventure of being young
And yes, they annoy me and get into my stuff
And sometimes it seems they can't grow fast enough
But soon they'll be gone, turned into young men
Then I might sleep in, and they'll not be in my way
But then I will yearn for the days when we'd play
The simple games we used to, then
by Naomi Eby, age 12
When I yell at them to come pick up their mess
And they give me the hugest of grins
They're little and cute and they make me laugh
But sometimes I forget about that
When they wake me with their din
Those terrible two, what mischief they make
That thing you had perfect, it's sure to "break"
Sometimes I really do wish I had none
But then the smaller one, close to five
Asks, "Will you play?" and it's sure to revive
The spirit of adventure of being young
And yes, they annoy me and get into my stuff
And sometimes it seems they can't grow fast enough
But soon they'll be gone, turned into young men
Then I might sleep in, and they'll not be in my way
But then I will yearn for the days when we'd play
The simple games we used to, then
by Naomi Eby, age 12
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Before You Get a Parakeet, by Hannah Eby
Here are a couple tips to having a perfect parakeet. Please read through before you consider getting one.
Food
- You'll need one small pack of normal seed mix and 200 large packs of millet sprays (still, you'll be out of millet before you're out of normal seed mix).
- Fruits, veggies, and cheeses, which will just sit and rot because your parakeet will freak out and act like the food is going to murder it. (Forget healthy foods!)
- Your parakeet will probably end up on a diet of basically millet and your own Chex cereal (very unhealthy for your parakeet).
Safety
- Nail pillows across every single window in the house to avoid your bird trying to go through them (this may result in a fractured skull or broken bones).
- Avoid having anything hot (ovens, light bulbs, etc.) or anything sharp (scissors, knives, etc.) in the house.
- Uninstall any ceiling fans or window air conditioners.
Cleaning
- Take out the cage tray every two minutes to avoid a feather/seed-shell/dropping mess.
- Also manage changing the bird's water every two minutes as well.
- Spread newspaper or any other poop-proof material over everything in the house.
- Change the poop-proof cover three times a day.
- Wear a protective suit (an astronaut suit or a diving suit are some suggestions) whenever holding or handling your bird in any way to avoid being covered in poop and feathers.
Now that you have seen what you need to do to have a perfect bird, make sure you still want one. It's a BIG responsibility. Maybe your bird will just have to live with a not-perfect home.
By Hannah Eby, parakeet owner, age 10
Food
- You'll need one small pack of normal seed mix and 200 large packs of millet sprays (still, you'll be out of millet before you're out of normal seed mix).
- Fruits, veggies, and cheeses, which will just sit and rot because your parakeet will freak out and act like the food is going to murder it. (Forget healthy foods!)
- Your parakeet will probably end up on a diet of basically millet and your own Chex cereal (very unhealthy for your parakeet).
Safety
- Nail pillows across every single window in the house to avoid your bird trying to go through them (this may result in a fractured skull or broken bones).
- Avoid having anything hot (ovens, light bulbs, etc.) or anything sharp (scissors, knives, etc.) in the house.
- Uninstall any ceiling fans or window air conditioners.
Cleaning
- Take out the cage tray every two minutes to avoid a feather/seed-shell/dropping mess.
- Also manage changing the bird's water every two minutes as well.
- Spread newspaper or any other poop-proof material over everything in the house.
- Change the poop-proof cover three times a day.
- Wear a protective suit (an astronaut suit or a diving suit are some suggestions) whenever holding or handling your bird in any way to avoid being covered in poop and feathers.
Now that you have seen what you need to do to have a perfect bird, make sure you still want one. It's a BIG responsibility. Maybe your bird will just have to live with a not-perfect home.
By Hannah Eby, parakeet owner, age 10
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Simple Joys, A Poem by Naomi
Morning peace, evening cuddles
Watching the boys splash through puddles
Sitting with sisters near midnight
Reading together by flashlight
Watching the sunrise at seven a.m.
Playing with brothers and joking with them
Reading with the cat when no one's awake
Seeing the geese out by the lake
Being in nature, full of quiet and peace
Jumping in piles of autumn leaves
When the gerbils do things that make you laugh
Such as rolling so comically in their dust bath
Even hearing Avalynn as she sings
Simple joys are found in so many things
Watching the boys splash through puddles
Sitting with sisters near midnight
Reading together by flashlight
Watching the sunrise at seven a.m.
Playing with brothers and joking with them
Reading with the cat when no one's awake
Seeing the geese out by the lake
Being in nature, full of quiet and peace
Jumping in piles of autumn leaves
When the gerbils do things that make you laugh
Such as rolling so comically in their dust bath
Even hearing Avalynn as she sings
Simple joys are found in so many things
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Summer's End, A Poem by Naomi
It is now the end of August
And summer's coming to an end
I really like the breeze
But don't look forward to the leaves
It tumbling to the ground will send
Because of what that will mean
That winter's drawing close
With many layers and dull gray skies
With freezing snowstorms that arise
And a cold wind that always blows
It also means that school's begun
And soon will come the frost
But fall's still fun
And when spring comes
Anew will be the things we lost
by Naomi Eby, age 12
And summer's coming to an end
I really like the breeze
But don't look forward to the leaves
It tumbling to the ground will send
Because of what that will mean
That winter's drawing close
With many layers and dull gray skies
With freezing snowstorms that arise
And a cold wind that always blows
It also means that school's begun
And soon will come the frost
But fall's still fun
And when spring comes
Anew will be the things we lost
by Naomi Eby, age 12
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Up and Running
For years I lived in fifth gear, red-lined my RPMs, and never stopped for maintenance. I was good at multitasking, enjoyed activity, and flew like Super-Mom with my train of littles behind me. I kept my sense of humor and laughed about the stress and sleeplessness in my blog. I had it together.
I noticed a small slow-down with my pregnancy with Toby, and noticed that I couldn't recover even with a good night's rest after he was weened and sleeping through the night. But I managed.
My pregnancy with Elijah was much worse, and about six months after he was born my body felt like both engines were stalling at 30,000 feet. I fought pretty valiantly to keep everyone flying for another six months. I was always, always exhausted. Everything felt heavy. My brain felt foggy. I had to lean on the shopping cart just to push it through the store, and then I stood in the aisles unable to remember what I had come to buy. My reaction times felt slow. I felt unsafe driving. I could barely make it up a flight of stairs. And then one day I tried to spread peanut butter on bread and felt like I couldn't even lift the knife. I tried again and my arm said "no." And that was when I realized that we had crashed.
We went to doctors and doctors, but most test results looked great. The tests that were off were odd and inexplicable. Diet changes didn't help. Sleep didn't help. I hated feeling like I couldn't manage on my own, but finally caved and accepted other people's offers to help me on a regular basis. Things got worse that year until I couldn't hold my head up in the car and had to rest it on a neck pillow. I couldn't hold my arms up on the steering wheel for more than a few minutes and had to alternate resting one arm and keeping the other at 6:00 while I drove. It got to where I couldn't hold my foot steady on the gas pedal for long and had to use cruise control in ridiculous places it was never designed for. I gained over 20 pounds from both inactivity and from eating in an effort to find energy somewhere. I felt like the energy mortgage company had come to collect on 10 years of missed payments, and had decided to foreclose on my body.
Finally, a neuromuscular specialist in Indianapolis took me seriously and ran every test imaginable. They all came back normal, except one. My coenzyme Q10 levels were very low. CoQ10 is needed for energy production in every cell of the body. I have no idea why my levels were so low, my dietary intake of it was normal and the body is supposed to be able to manufacture it anyway, but this was something to go on. After 6 weeks on a high-quality CoQ10 supplement I noticed the brain fog lifting. After 3 months, my arms and legs felt lighter. I was functional again, but nowhere near healthy.
That was three years ago. Over the last three years my schedule has gradually eased as my children have grown. I have decided to prioritize rest. I have felt gradually better, but I haven't really felt healthy yet. I tried multiple times to lose the weight I'd gained with no success. In fact, I continued to slowly gain, topping out at over 30 pounds heavier than I'd been since I lost the baby weight after Elijah.
At the beginning of this summer I decided I was finally at a place in life where I could take care of myself again. I had no babies or toddlers anymore. We weren't moving houses or in the midst of any other major life upheaval. I decided this was my chance to help myself.
I used an online calorie counter to figure out how much I could eat and still lose weight, and then I held myself to that, which means I've felt hungry most of the summer. I said "no" to stress this summer because I've learned that I can't be stressed and energetic at the same time. I let myself sleep without guilt. I prioritized activities that made me feel mentally healthy, like writing again. I prioritized getting my kids out to the pool and made sure I actually swam. I got my kids out for walks and bike rides. Matt and I started walking a couple miles almost every evening. And one evening we started jogging.
Jogging. Ugh. Those first two blocks I jogged were painful. And that was all I made it: two blocks. We didn't jog every night, but we kept trying off and on. A little here, a little there. And we walked a little faster.
This summer, since June 1st, I've lost 16 pounds. Last week I decided I could actually start jogging with Matt more seriously. I didn't even own a decent pair of athletic shorts, so I borrowed some from Naomi. I laced up some almost brand-new running shoes I've had since college, (since college!), and we ran. OK we jogged, but it felt really fast to me. The first night I made it 0.6 miles. The next night 0.8. I was so sore the next day we decided to take two days off from jogging. But last night I actually ran (jogged) an entire mile.
It's been at least 12 years since I've done that. Matt timed it and my time was 10:10. I was a little discouraged when I heard that I nearly died in order to finish a mile in 10 minutes, but then I remembered that my body has birthed and nursed five babies, and gained and lost 30 pounds six times since the last time I ran a mile. And then I remembered how weak I had been three years ago, and I decided that last night's mile was a pretty amazing milestone.
I'd still like to lose another 14 pounds, and I'd like to be able to run that mile without wondering if I was having a heart attack afterwards. But what's amazing is that these things seem like real possibilities again. And that is energizing.
Young mamas out there, take note. Please take care of yourselves. Your body will only run on nothing for so long. Eventually it will give you a foreclosure notice, and it will take years to repay your debt. Even super mamas need their rest.
I noticed a small slow-down with my pregnancy with Toby, and noticed that I couldn't recover even with a good night's rest after he was weened and sleeping through the night. But I managed.
My pregnancy with Elijah was much worse, and about six months after he was born my body felt like both engines were stalling at 30,000 feet. I fought pretty valiantly to keep everyone flying for another six months. I was always, always exhausted. Everything felt heavy. My brain felt foggy. I had to lean on the shopping cart just to push it through the store, and then I stood in the aisles unable to remember what I had come to buy. My reaction times felt slow. I felt unsafe driving. I could barely make it up a flight of stairs. And then one day I tried to spread peanut butter on bread and felt like I couldn't even lift the knife. I tried again and my arm said "no." And that was when I realized that we had crashed.
We went to doctors and doctors, but most test results looked great. The tests that were off were odd and inexplicable. Diet changes didn't help. Sleep didn't help. I hated feeling like I couldn't manage on my own, but finally caved and accepted other people's offers to help me on a regular basis. Things got worse that year until I couldn't hold my head up in the car and had to rest it on a neck pillow. I couldn't hold my arms up on the steering wheel for more than a few minutes and had to alternate resting one arm and keeping the other at 6:00 while I drove. It got to where I couldn't hold my foot steady on the gas pedal for long and had to use cruise control in ridiculous places it was never designed for. I gained over 20 pounds from both inactivity and from eating in an effort to find energy somewhere. I felt like the energy mortgage company had come to collect on 10 years of missed payments, and had decided to foreclose on my body.
Finally, a neuromuscular specialist in Indianapolis took me seriously and ran every test imaginable. They all came back normal, except one. My coenzyme Q10 levels were very low. CoQ10 is needed for energy production in every cell of the body. I have no idea why my levels were so low, my dietary intake of it was normal and the body is supposed to be able to manufacture it anyway, but this was something to go on. After 6 weeks on a high-quality CoQ10 supplement I noticed the brain fog lifting. After 3 months, my arms and legs felt lighter. I was functional again, but nowhere near healthy.
That was three years ago. Over the last three years my schedule has gradually eased as my children have grown. I have decided to prioritize rest. I have felt gradually better, but I haven't really felt healthy yet. I tried multiple times to lose the weight I'd gained with no success. In fact, I continued to slowly gain, topping out at over 30 pounds heavier than I'd been since I lost the baby weight after Elijah.
At the beginning of this summer I decided I was finally at a place in life where I could take care of myself again. I had no babies or toddlers anymore. We weren't moving houses or in the midst of any other major life upheaval. I decided this was my chance to help myself.
I used an online calorie counter to figure out how much I could eat and still lose weight, and then I held myself to that, which means I've felt hungry most of the summer. I said "no" to stress this summer because I've learned that I can't be stressed and energetic at the same time. I let myself sleep without guilt. I prioritized activities that made me feel mentally healthy, like writing again. I prioritized getting my kids out to the pool and made sure I actually swam. I got my kids out for walks and bike rides. Matt and I started walking a couple miles almost every evening. And one evening we started jogging.
Jogging. Ugh. Those first two blocks I jogged were painful. And that was all I made it: two blocks. We didn't jog every night, but we kept trying off and on. A little here, a little there. And we walked a little faster.
This summer, since June 1st, I've lost 16 pounds. Last week I decided I could actually start jogging with Matt more seriously. I didn't even own a decent pair of athletic shorts, so I borrowed some from Naomi. I laced up some almost brand-new running shoes I've had since college, (since college!), and we ran. OK we jogged, but it felt really fast to me. The first night I made it 0.6 miles. The next night 0.8. I was so sore the next day we decided to take two days off from jogging. But last night I actually ran (jogged) an entire mile.
It's been at least 12 years since I've done that. Matt timed it and my time was 10:10. I was a little discouraged when I heard that I nearly died in order to finish a mile in 10 minutes, but then I remembered that my body has birthed and nursed five babies, and gained and lost 30 pounds six times since the last time I ran a mile. And then I remembered how weak I had been three years ago, and I decided that last night's mile was a pretty amazing milestone.
I'd still like to lose another 14 pounds, and I'd like to be able to run that mile without wondering if I was having a heart attack afterwards. But what's amazing is that these things seem like real possibilities again. And that is energizing.
Young mamas out there, take note. Please take care of yourselves. Your body will only run on nothing for so long. Eventually it will give you a foreclosure notice, and it will take years to repay your debt. Even super mamas need their rest.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Friends
In the midst of the sleepless, diaper-changing fog that was a good eighty-percent of the first decade of my parenting career, I couldn't fathom that parenting would not always feel that way. I didn't see the end of nursing babies, potty training, toddler tantrums, and lining up five slices of homemade gluten-free bread to mass produce sandwiches like I worked at Subway. I saw no end to the laundry and dishes, to feeling stressed over the thought of getting five miniature tyrants all buckled in a minivan at the same time.
The end of that era has slowly crept over me like a gently fading evening when you look up from the flowerbed you've been weeding and realize the hot sun has cooled, and the fireflies are out, and you can see the first stars. The past ten months since we moved to our new house have felt like the east turning slowly from black to deep blue, to brilliant pink. Like a sunrise of parenting, or maybe just my soul.
I sleep now. I sleep in almost every day because the kids can make their own breakfasts. They play Legos, or Kinex, or Settlers of Catan and it's unlikely that anyone will die or permanently damage the house, and I sleep. I sleep like the land of Israel slept during the Babylonian captivity, enjoying all the sabbath rests I have missed. And I missed a lot over the last twelve years. I feel zero guilt in taking them now.
When I wake, if I find oatmeal and syrup drizzled around the floor and the table, I can call the guilty parties to the kitchen, and tell them to clean it up themselves, because they can do that now. They're getting all grown up, and it is wonderful.
I make exactly one bowl of oatmeal when I wake up now, and I pour one glass of orange juice--my own. I take a shower whenever I want to. I still have to cook most of the food for this family, but I can cook in peace, and sometimes I have help. Hannah especially likes to be in the kitchen. She likes to make cookies, and apple crisp, and little pizzas on thick-sliced homemade bread.
Naomi would rather quietly fold laundry while she hums by herself in the living room. She likes working by herself, making things nice and neat, and saving up the money we let her earn so she can buy another Lego set. Recently I have gone entire weeks without touching any laundry at all because she's been collecting it, washing it, drying it, folding it and putting it away for the entire family without me ever saying a word to her about it. Most days now, I find a fresh stack of my neatly folded clothes sitting on my bed. I put them in my drawers, and that is the end of my laundry duties.
Emma is a star during evening clean-up time. She is quiet and steady, working to make sure all the toys are picked up and the rooms are neat before bed. I never have to ask her twice and she usually does far more than her fair share of the work. I can't say the same for the boys, but they have definitely improved. They eventually clean up their room too now (sometimes after a consequence or two), and they've begun stepping up with chores. Elijah is the newest dishwasher unloader at my house, and he does a pretty good job.
Sometimes I still make large family meals, and we still sit down all at the same time and sing a Psalm together before we eat, but if I am in a hurry or just need a break, the kids can make their own sandwiches now. Every single child is capable of finding food for him or herself, and of cleaning up the table after they eat. When I need to pack a day's worth of food so we can take a trip, I can call Hannah and Naomi to pack the sandwiches and the zip-baggies of chips and dried fruit, and they willingly help.
What does all this mean for me? It means I am resting like it's my full-time job this year, and I am learning to play again. It means that I wake up with energy and sometimes look at a whole day ahead and realize, to my perpetual amazement, that I can enjoy that day with my kids.
We can go to the pool and it doesn't feel like work anymore: they put on their own swimsuits and sunscreen, four of them know how to swim and I'm not frantically trying to count five heads and make sure they're all above water. No one throws a public temper tantrum. While Elijah plays happily with his life-jacket on, Hannah and I can take turns throwing the diving sticks way out in the pool to see who can swim the farthest under water and retrieve them. We come up spluttering and laughing and do it again. Going to the pool with my kids is something entirely different now. It's fun.
We can take long walks in the county park, and enjoy feeding ducks and getting a little lost. I don't mean the way a preschool teacher enjoys walks in the park with her class, but more the way I used to walk in the woods with my seventh-grade friends. We imagine together, we explore together. We like each other's company.
We can come home to make sandwiches together and then settle down to a game of Scrabble, or Monopoly, or Settlers of Catan, and I don't go easy on them. We try to beat each other, and we love it.
This new phase of parenting feels a bit more like being an RA in a college dormitory. I still have to pull out my authority on a somewhat regular basis, and I'm certainly not afraid to do that, but most of the time we're making cookies and heading out on adventures together. We stay up way too late and talk about deep things, especially with Hannah. She is my new deep-thinking, somewhat irritating, but incredibly fun friend.
Friends. My children are my friends now. Real friends--the type you want to spend time with, even though they sometimes drive you nuts. The type you want to hurry and tell when something exciting happens or to hug when the news is terrible. They make me laugh, not with adorable baby faces and toddler antics anymore, but now with witty humor and quick puns and budding unique personalities. I like these people that they're growing up into. I'm so glad I get to spend my life with them.
My first sleepless nights with a newborn weren't exactly a surprise to me. I'd heard that sleepless nights happened. But somehow hearing didn't prepare me for the realities of parenting: not the sleepless nights, not the potty training, and not this newest phase either--the friendship.
Twelve years ago, ten years ago, and eight, and seven, and four years ago, I planted seeds. And oh, they've needed lots of water, and lots of weeding and protecting, but oh, how strong they've grown. Sometimes they now offer me shade, and protection. And the view on my farm is breathtaking.
The end of that era has slowly crept over me like a gently fading evening when you look up from the flowerbed you've been weeding and realize the hot sun has cooled, and the fireflies are out, and you can see the first stars. The past ten months since we moved to our new house have felt like the east turning slowly from black to deep blue, to brilliant pink. Like a sunrise of parenting, or maybe just my soul.
I sleep now. I sleep in almost every day because the kids can make their own breakfasts. They play Legos, or Kinex, or Settlers of Catan and it's unlikely that anyone will die or permanently damage the house, and I sleep. I sleep like the land of Israel slept during the Babylonian captivity, enjoying all the sabbath rests I have missed. And I missed a lot over the last twelve years. I feel zero guilt in taking them now.
When I wake, if I find oatmeal and syrup drizzled around the floor and the table, I can call the guilty parties to the kitchen, and tell them to clean it up themselves, because they can do that now. They're getting all grown up, and it is wonderful.
I make exactly one bowl of oatmeal when I wake up now, and I pour one glass of orange juice--my own. I take a shower whenever I want to. I still have to cook most of the food for this family, but I can cook in peace, and sometimes I have help. Hannah especially likes to be in the kitchen. She likes to make cookies, and apple crisp, and little pizzas on thick-sliced homemade bread.
Naomi would rather quietly fold laundry while she hums by herself in the living room. She likes working by herself, making things nice and neat, and saving up the money we let her earn so she can buy another Lego set. Recently I have gone entire weeks without touching any laundry at all because she's been collecting it, washing it, drying it, folding it and putting it away for the entire family without me ever saying a word to her about it. Most days now, I find a fresh stack of my neatly folded clothes sitting on my bed. I put them in my drawers, and that is the end of my laundry duties.
Emma is a star during evening clean-up time. She is quiet and steady, working to make sure all the toys are picked up and the rooms are neat before bed. I never have to ask her twice and she usually does far more than her fair share of the work. I can't say the same for the boys, but they have definitely improved. They eventually clean up their room too now (sometimes after a consequence or two), and they've begun stepping up with chores. Elijah is the newest dishwasher unloader at my house, and he does a pretty good job.
Sometimes I still make large family meals, and we still sit down all at the same time and sing a Psalm together before we eat, but if I am in a hurry or just need a break, the kids can make their own sandwiches now. Every single child is capable of finding food for him or herself, and of cleaning up the table after they eat. When I need to pack a day's worth of food so we can take a trip, I can call Hannah and Naomi to pack the sandwiches and the zip-baggies of chips and dried fruit, and they willingly help.
What does all this mean for me? It means I am resting like it's my full-time job this year, and I am learning to play again. It means that I wake up with energy and sometimes look at a whole day ahead and realize, to my perpetual amazement, that I can enjoy that day with my kids.
We can go to the pool and it doesn't feel like work anymore: they put on their own swimsuits and sunscreen, four of them know how to swim and I'm not frantically trying to count five heads and make sure they're all above water. No one throws a public temper tantrum. While Elijah plays happily with his life-jacket on, Hannah and I can take turns throwing the diving sticks way out in the pool to see who can swim the farthest under water and retrieve them. We come up spluttering and laughing and do it again. Going to the pool with my kids is something entirely different now. It's fun.
We can take long walks in the county park, and enjoy feeding ducks and getting a little lost. I don't mean the way a preschool teacher enjoys walks in the park with her class, but more the way I used to walk in the woods with my seventh-grade friends. We imagine together, we explore together. We like each other's company.
We can come home to make sandwiches together and then settle down to a game of Scrabble, or Monopoly, or Settlers of Catan, and I don't go easy on them. We try to beat each other, and we love it.
This new phase of parenting feels a bit more like being an RA in a college dormitory. I still have to pull out my authority on a somewhat regular basis, and I'm certainly not afraid to do that, but most of the time we're making cookies and heading out on adventures together. We stay up way too late and talk about deep things, especially with Hannah. She is my new deep-thinking, somewhat irritating, but incredibly fun friend.
Friends. My children are my friends now. Real friends--the type you want to spend time with, even though they sometimes drive you nuts. The type you want to hurry and tell when something exciting happens or to hug when the news is terrible. They make me laugh, not with adorable baby faces and toddler antics anymore, but now with witty humor and quick puns and budding unique personalities. I like these people that they're growing up into. I'm so glad I get to spend my life with them.
My first sleepless nights with a newborn weren't exactly a surprise to me. I'd heard that sleepless nights happened. But somehow hearing didn't prepare me for the realities of parenting: not the sleepless nights, not the potty training, and not this newest phase either--the friendship.
Twelve years ago, ten years ago, and eight, and seven, and four years ago, I planted seeds. And oh, they've needed lots of water, and lots of weeding and protecting, but oh, how strong they've grown. Sometimes they now offer me shade, and protection. And the view on my farm is breathtaking.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
A Walk in the Park
Hannah decided early on today that we needed to go for a walk in the nearby county park. She asked, she pestered, she promised to pack a picnic lunch, and she sat silently beside me, staring quietly while I tried to work. I will admit that by the time I finally decided we could go this evening, I was so annoyed with her that my heart was not in it. Emma elected to stay at home with Matt because she didn't want to put down her book, and I didn't feel like pestering her to come.
Naomi, Hannah, Toby, Elijah and I walked through our subdivision and into a back entrance to the county park around 7:45pm. The weather was a perfect 72 degrees with low humidity and few mosquitos, and I began to feel glad to be out for a walk.
"Don't touch any of the weeds on the sides of the trail!" I called out, cautioning them about the poison ivy on either side of the narrow foot path, like I had warned them a hundred times before. We moved carefully along, single file, until we came out on the clearing by goal 19 of the frisbee golf course and skipped down the railroad-tie-lined stairs to a wooden bridge.
Filled with excitement, Elijah called out, "Hey, Toby! We're going down agent stairs! Agent stairs, Toby!"
"Really?" Naomi asked Elijah, "I didn't know these were spy stairs."
"Can you all stop yelling," I grumbled, "I'm afraid you're going to pop my eardrums."
"Don't worry, Mom," Toby comforted me, "it feels great when they pop."
Hannah had brought along some frozen peas to feed the duck family, so I tested Toby's navigational skills, asking him which way we should go to the find the ducks.
"Hmm…" he said, looking around, "my punctuations tell me that we should go this way."
"His punctuations?" Naomi laughed rolling her eyes, "I think you mean your calculations, Toby."
"Yeah," he nodded, "my calculations. Let's go!"
Toby's punctuations turned out to be correct and we soon arrived at the swamp, but the ducks weren't the least interested in our peas, so we headed off to explore some trails we hadn't been on before.
"I forgot to bring the map," I told the kids. Not the least bit worried myself, I teased them, "I hope we don't get lost in the woods overnight."
We soon found a long, wooden walk way that led us through a marsh, and followed a steep trail up a hill to a lookout.
We followed more trails and made our way farther into the park, but eventually I told the kids it was time to head home. The sun was getting lower and it was nearing bedtime.
"Let's see if the kids can lead us back home," I challenged them. "You can each take turns."
"Ooohhh, noooooo!" Toby whined, wilting like a parched flower, "I can't believe how lost we will be when Elijah leads."
"Hey," Hannah whispered, "Let's let Elijah lead us when we're on the wooden walk-way." They all giggled and agreed. Elijah was thrilled and never caught on to their scheme not to let him get us lost.
After the wooden bridge, it was Toby's turn to lead. The very first fork in the path that he came to, he chose the wrong direction. Naomi looked at me, knowing he was leading us the wrong way, but I shrugged and told her that it was generally the right direction. I thought I knew where he was headed and figured he couldn't get us too lost in a county park.
We happily traipsed along the trial beside the swampy woods in the dimming evening light. Toby soon realized that he had no clue where we were, and asked if we should turn around. "Nah," I said, "we'll pop out of the woods on the road soon. But when we finally did pop out, we were at a shelter house that I'd never seen before. That was the first time I realized I was turned around. The sky was cloudy, giving little hint of which direction held the fading sun. I could have called Matt and asked for directions, but I didn't want to have to do that, so I chose another trail through the woods that seemed to lead in the direction we needed to go.
By now Toby and Elijah were tired and worried. "Mom, is it possible we could actually get stuck in the woods all night?" Toby asked.
"No, buddy," I assured him, "I know where we're going." But I was losing my confidence. When that trail dead-ended at a "Private Property" sign, I actually started to worry. We had maybe thirty minutes of daylight left, and at least a mile to go to get back to our subdivision. We turned down another path with my steps quickening.
When we finally popped out in familiar territory, I sighed, "See, Toby, I knew where we were going. That was fun, wasn't it?"
"More like absolutely terrifying!" he retorted.
"I think I touched poison ivy," Elijah worried, "and you need to check me out for fleas."
Crossing a little bridge Hannah noticed a large, dead turtle floating upside down in the water. We all stood, peering over the bridge and trying not to gag at the rotting sight. "Where are its wings?" Elijah asked. I wasn't sure how to answer that.
Finally making our way back through the frisbee golf course, we met a deer, quietly standing and staring at us. We watched her and whispered, and quietly walked toward her. She flicked her ears and her tail at us and finally walked calmly into the woods.
Eventually we found goal 19 and the foot-path to our subdivision, stepping out onto the streets just as the streetlights were coming on.
"I can't believe Emma missed our adventure!" Hannah moaned. "We saw a really long wooden bridge, a huge hill, a deer, a dead turtle…"
"…agent stairs, fleas..." I added.
"…and we got LOST," she continued. Emma's going to be soooo sad!"
At last, after probably a four-mile walk, we stumbled into our home, only to find Matt and Emma happily challenging each other at a 1990s Super Nintendo soccer game.
"Oh man," Matt said, "You guys missed out."
Naomi, Hannah, Toby, Elijah and I walked through our subdivision and into a back entrance to the county park around 7:45pm. The weather was a perfect 72 degrees with low humidity and few mosquitos, and I began to feel glad to be out for a walk.
"Don't touch any of the weeds on the sides of the trail!" I called out, cautioning them about the poison ivy on either side of the narrow foot path, like I had warned them a hundred times before. We moved carefully along, single file, until we came out on the clearing by goal 19 of the frisbee golf course and skipped down the railroad-tie-lined stairs to a wooden bridge.
Filled with excitement, Elijah called out, "Hey, Toby! We're going down agent stairs! Agent stairs, Toby!"
"Really?" Naomi asked Elijah, "I didn't know these were spy stairs."
"Can you all stop yelling," I grumbled, "I'm afraid you're going to pop my eardrums."
"Don't worry, Mom," Toby comforted me, "it feels great when they pop."
Hannah had brought along some frozen peas to feed the duck family, so I tested Toby's navigational skills, asking him which way we should go to the find the ducks.
"Hmm…" he said, looking around, "my punctuations tell me that we should go this way."
"His punctuations?" Naomi laughed rolling her eyes, "I think you mean your calculations, Toby."
"Yeah," he nodded, "my calculations. Let's go!"
Toby's punctuations turned out to be correct and we soon arrived at the swamp, but the ducks weren't the least interested in our peas, so we headed off to explore some trails we hadn't been on before.
"I forgot to bring the map," I told the kids. Not the least bit worried myself, I teased them, "I hope we don't get lost in the woods overnight."
We soon found a long, wooden walk way that led us through a marsh, and followed a steep trail up a hill to a lookout.
We followed more trails and made our way farther into the park, but eventually I told the kids it was time to head home. The sun was getting lower and it was nearing bedtime.
"Let's see if the kids can lead us back home," I challenged them. "You can each take turns."
"Ooohhh, noooooo!" Toby whined, wilting like a parched flower, "I can't believe how lost we will be when Elijah leads."
"Hey," Hannah whispered, "Let's let Elijah lead us when we're on the wooden walk-way." They all giggled and agreed. Elijah was thrilled and never caught on to their scheme not to let him get us lost.
After the wooden bridge, it was Toby's turn to lead. The very first fork in the path that he came to, he chose the wrong direction. Naomi looked at me, knowing he was leading us the wrong way, but I shrugged and told her that it was generally the right direction. I thought I knew where he was headed and figured he couldn't get us too lost in a county park.
We happily traipsed along the trial beside the swampy woods in the dimming evening light. Toby soon realized that he had no clue where we were, and asked if we should turn around. "Nah," I said, "we'll pop out of the woods on the road soon. But when we finally did pop out, we were at a shelter house that I'd never seen before. That was the first time I realized I was turned around. The sky was cloudy, giving little hint of which direction held the fading sun. I could have called Matt and asked for directions, but I didn't want to have to do that, so I chose another trail through the woods that seemed to lead in the direction we needed to go.
By now Toby and Elijah were tired and worried. "Mom, is it possible we could actually get stuck in the woods all night?" Toby asked.
"No, buddy," I assured him, "I know where we're going." But I was losing my confidence. When that trail dead-ended at a "Private Property" sign, I actually started to worry. We had maybe thirty minutes of daylight left, and at least a mile to go to get back to our subdivision. We turned down another path with my steps quickening.
When we finally popped out in familiar territory, I sighed, "See, Toby, I knew where we were going. That was fun, wasn't it?"
"More like absolutely terrifying!" he retorted.
"I think I touched poison ivy," Elijah worried, "and you need to check me out for fleas."
Crossing a little bridge Hannah noticed a large, dead turtle floating upside down in the water. We all stood, peering over the bridge and trying not to gag at the rotting sight. "Where are its wings?" Elijah asked. I wasn't sure how to answer that.
Finally making our way back through the frisbee golf course, we met a deer, quietly standing and staring at us. We watched her and whispered, and quietly walked toward her. She flicked her ears and her tail at us and finally walked calmly into the woods.
Eventually we found goal 19 and the foot-path to our subdivision, stepping out onto the streets just as the streetlights were coming on.
"I can't believe Emma missed our adventure!" Hannah moaned. "We saw a really long wooden bridge, a huge hill, a deer, a dead turtle…"
"…agent stairs, fleas..." I added.
"…and we got LOST," she continued. Emma's going to be soooo sad!"
At last, after probably a four-mile walk, we stumbled into our home, only to find Matt and Emma happily challenging each other at a 1990s Super Nintendo soccer game.
"Oh man," Matt said, "You guys missed out."
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Toby, Brave and Charming
When we moved to our new house last fall, we moved 20 minutes away from the nearest hospital. Given my kids' health history and semi-frequent-flier status at the ER, I was thrilled to see a brand new urgent care clinic being constructed this spring just five minutes away from our new house. Every time I drove by I thought to myself, "It won't be long until that's going to come in handy."
Yesterday all Toby could talk about was going to the pool. He wanted to go first thing in the morning when he woke up. Unfortunately, we didn't have much food prepared in the house, and I had to spend the afternoon cooking. I told Toby I would do my best to get us to the evening swim session from 6-8pm. He spent the rest of the day asking every few minutes if it was time to put his swim trunks and sunscreen on.
"Is it time to go to the pool yet?" he asked at 1:00pm. "Should we get our swimsuits on, just to be ready?"
"Buddy," I answered, while chopping red peppers and onions, "by the time I get done making the chicken salad sandwiches and flatbreads it's going to be 3:00, and by the time we got to the pool after that it would be closing for swim lessons at 4:00. We're going to have to wait until the 6:00 swim session. That's five hours away. Go find something else to do for awhile."
"Ohhhhh!" he whined, staggering backward with the pain of this news, which I'd already told him twice before, "I can't wait! I'm going to go off the diving board like fifty times! Seriously, I can't wait!"
"Toby, go away," I cautioned him, losing patience, "I will tell you when it's time to get ready."
He managed to spend some time playing in a cape in the back yard, but the heat only reminded him of how much he wanted to swim. He wiggled a loose tooth, and them came to me and begged me to pull it out for him. Growing more annoyed with the interruptions, I grabbed a paper towel and yanked it out, which made him happy for a good fifteen minutes. Eating chicken salad sandwiches on warm, fresh flatbreads cheered him up for awhile, but it wasn't long before he was back to pestering.
"OK, fine," I caved at 5:00pm. "You guys can go put on your swimsuits and sunscreen. Hannah, can you help put the boys' sunscreen on? Emma, bring me your hairbrush and pony tail holders. Let's get ready to go."
"Whaaaahooo!" Toby cheered, running back to his room. "Time to jump off the diving board!"
Within a few minutes we were suited up and lathered up, and Toby was begging to unlock the van. "Sure, buddy," I said, peering into the hallway mirror and smoothing the last bits of sunscreen on my forehead. Toby cheered, turned around, bent over like a track star, and ran full-speed-ahead around the corner toward the kitchen. One second later there was a loud crack, followed by a horrible scream.
All moms know their children's' screams. We can identify from four rooms away which scream means "She stole my legos," which one means, "Someone's chasing me with a squirt gun," and which one means, "I have a paper cut and my life is flashing before my eyes." I have sat calmly and sipped coffee in front of guests who are panicking when my children scream. "No, no, I assure them, that child just stubbed their toe on the bathroom door and they will appear hopping on one foot in three…two…one… cue the hopping child." There are very, very few screams which will raise my heart rate at this point in my mothering career, and when they happen I usually find myself scolding my wounded child with something like, "Good grief, Hannah, I thought you were actually hurt. I don't want to hear a scream like that again unless you're missing a finger."
But this scream sent an immediate jolt of adrenaline into my mama brain. "Toby!" I called over the screaming. "Come here! Let me see it. OK, buddy, let me see," I coached as he came running with his hand clasped over his left cheek and blood dripping down his face onto his swim shirt and down onto the hardwood floors. Judging by the amount of blood I immediately changed my mind and told him not to take his hand off the wound while I rushed him toward the bathroom.
Of course, the bathroom door was locked, and the occupant was unable to unlock it at the moment. So I shuttled, poor screaming Toby toward the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood drips behind us. I must have had blood on my hands at that point because as I swung my hand up for the paper towels I splattered blood on the counter, the Kitchen aid mixer, the butcher knives, and the wall. I used the first wet paper towel to uncover Toby's face, and the second to dry the wound enough to examine it.
"OK, buddy, OK, " I repeated, "Let me see it. Shhhhh! Take a deep breath and blow it out like birthday candles. There you go. Blow it out again. OK." Trying to keep him calm, I looked at his blood stained shirt and joked, "Well, I don't think you'll be wearing that swim shirt to the pool today."
Instantly Toby's tears welled up again, "Well, can't we just rinse it out or something?" he pleaded.
But looking at the half-inch long, deep, and gaping gash on Toby's left cheek bone, I knew I had to break some tougher news to him. "Kiddo, I don't think we're going to be able to go swimming tonight. I need to let a doctor look at this. You might need stitches."
This is where poor, brave Toby lost it. Talk about adding insult to injury. All he wanted was to go swimming, and now we were heading to the doctor instead. Puddles of tears ran down into the wound and soaked the paper towel he was holding. "I'm so sorry, buddy. I know it stinks, but we need to get you taken care of," I consoled him.
"Do stitches hurt?" he asked.
"Not too much, they give you a medicine to numb your skin so you don't feel much, and sometimes they can just use a glue to hold the cut together."
"Glue?!" he asked again, with wider, wet eyes. "Does glue hurt?"
"Not much at all, I said. You'll be OK, let's get ready to go. Everybody change back into clothes!," I called out, "we're going to go visit the new urgent care building."
By the time we arrived at urgent care and were called back to be seen, Toby was calm and the wound wasn't bleeding much anymore. The doctor looked at the the gash and told me that it was too deep and too gaping for derma-bond glue. "I think it'll come together nicely with a couple sutures," she said.
"Sutures?!" a keen-eared Toby piped up. "What are sutures? Do they hurt?"
The doctor left briefly to gather her supplies and find an assistant. I held Toby's hands and bent down to look in his eyes. "Listen, bud," I coached him, "it's a lot like a blood draw. Remember how you sat so still and brave for your last blood draw, and everybody was so proud of you? Remember how it hurts less if you sit still and brave, and it hurts more if you fight? It's the same with stitches. We need to do them to help that gash heal well, and the doctor will be as gentle as possible. She doesn't want to hurt you, but you have to help her out and be brave, OK?"
He nodded, with his blood-shot eyes all brimming with tears, "OK."
The doctor appeared with a tray of suture supplies, and the assistant came in with a large sheet in her hands. "I think we'll just wrap this around him to help him hold still," she said.
I declined. "He'll be alright without that," I assured her. "He's a tough guy, right Toby?" Toby nodded.
I held Toby's hands, and the assistant helped hold his head still while the doctor washed and sterilized the wound. Elijah and Hannah kept crowding around, trying to watch and I kept shooing them back to their chairs.
"Are you a homeschool family?" the doctor asked. When I said that we were, she replied, "I knew it. I can always tell. They're so well behaved."
"Aw, thanks," I answered, "you hear that, Toby, you're doing a good job!"
The doctor smiled, "He's doing awesome."
The worst part was the needle with the numbing medicine. Toby tensed up. Tears welled up again. I coached him to take deep breaths and blow them out and he followed my instructions. Once he realized the the wound was numb, he relaxed and smiled. Then he turned on the charm.
"Can you feel that?" the doctor asked, pinching his cheek.
"Nah, I'm good," he responded cooly, and giving a thumbs up. He laughed a little as the doctor pulled the sutures through his skin under his eye and tied them up. We talked for a minute about how a third suture might help, and I told the doctor to go ahead and put a third in if he needed it.
"Yeah," Toby agreed, "go ahead. I'm good. I'm so good."
We all chuckled at his bravery. "I guess I don't need to hold his head," the assistant laughed.
"Toby, you've done better than a lot of grown men who come in here for stitches," the doctor praised him. "I have an idea, when you come back in five days to get these removed, you can just stay with me, OK? I'd like to keep you."
Toby beamed with pride and with relief when the stitches were finished. After a dab of antibiotic ointment and a dump trucks band-aid, which his mother would be way too cheap to ever buy for him, he was all set to go.
"Toby you can come back and visit us any time you want to, OK?" the doctor said, "We wouldn't mind helping you again at all."
I thought that might be a dangerous invitation for a seven-year-old boy, but I appreciated the compliment and the grin it put on Toby's face. His grin faded a little when they gave us the final care instructions, which included no swimming for a full week, but he kept his brave face on, nodding, "That's OK, I'm good."
Everyone was chuckling as we left with Toby waving good-bye and thanking them for the stitches. After a popsicle, some Tylenol, and a cartoon of his choice at home, Toby was ready for bed. When I reminded him that the tooth fairy also owed him a dollar for that tooth he lost earlier, and told him I'd pay him upfront, since the tooth fairy is sometimes unreliable, he was all grins.
How's he doing today? He's good. He's so good.
Yesterday all Toby could talk about was going to the pool. He wanted to go first thing in the morning when he woke up. Unfortunately, we didn't have much food prepared in the house, and I had to spend the afternoon cooking. I told Toby I would do my best to get us to the evening swim session from 6-8pm. He spent the rest of the day asking every few minutes if it was time to put his swim trunks and sunscreen on.
"Is it time to go to the pool yet?" he asked at 1:00pm. "Should we get our swimsuits on, just to be ready?"
"Buddy," I answered, while chopping red peppers and onions, "by the time I get done making the chicken salad sandwiches and flatbreads it's going to be 3:00, and by the time we got to the pool after that it would be closing for swim lessons at 4:00. We're going to have to wait until the 6:00 swim session. That's five hours away. Go find something else to do for awhile."
"Ohhhhh!" he whined, staggering backward with the pain of this news, which I'd already told him twice before, "I can't wait! I'm going to go off the diving board like fifty times! Seriously, I can't wait!"
"Toby, go away," I cautioned him, losing patience, "I will tell you when it's time to get ready."
He managed to spend some time playing in a cape in the back yard, but the heat only reminded him of how much he wanted to swim. He wiggled a loose tooth, and them came to me and begged me to pull it out for him. Growing more annoyed with the interruptions, I grabbed a paper towel and yanked it out, which made him happy for a good fifteen minutes. Eating chicken salad sandwiches on warm, fresh flatbreads cheered him up for awhile, but it wasn't long before he was back to pestering.
"OK, fine," I caved at 5:00pm. "You guys can go put on your swimsuits and sunscreen. Hannah, can you help put the boys' sunscreen on? Emma, bring me your hairbrush and pony tail holders. Let's get ready to go."
"Whaaaahooo!" Toby cheered, running back to his room. "Time to jump off the diving board!"
Within a few minutes we were suited up and lathered up, and Toby was begging to unlock the van. "Sure, buddy," I said, peering into the hallway mirror and smoothing the last bits of sunscreen on my forehead. Toby cheered, turned around, bent over like a track star, and ran full-speed-ahead around the corner toward the kitchen. One second later there was a loud crack, followed by a horrible scream.
All moms know their children's' screams. We can identify from four rooms away which scream means "She stole my legos," which one means, "Someone's chasing me with a squirt gun," and which one means, "I have a paper cut and my life is flashing before my eyes." I have sat calmly and sipped coffee in front of guests who are panicking when my children scream. "No, no, I assure them, that child just stubbed their toe on the bathroom door and they will appear hopping on one foot in three…two…one… cue the hopping child." There are very, very few screams which will raise my heart rate at this point in my mothering career, and when they happen I usually find myself scolding my wounded child with something like, "Good grief, Hannah, I thought you were actually hurt. I don't want to hear a scream like that again unless you're missing a finger."
But this scream sent an immediate jolt of adrenaline into my mama brain. "Toby!" I called over the screaming. "Come here! Let me see it. OK, buddy, let me see," I coached as he came running with his hand clasped over his left cheek and blood dripping down his face onto his swim shirt and down onto the hardwood floors. Judging by the amount of blood I immediately changed my mind and told him not to take his hand off the wound while I rushed him toward the bathroom.
Of course, the bathroom door was locked, and the occupant was unable to unlock it at the moment. So I shuttled, poor screaming Toby toward the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood drips behind us. I must have had blood on my hands at that point because as I swung my hand up for the paper towels I splattered blood on the counter, the Kitchen aid mixer, the butcher knives, and the wall. I used the first wet paper towel to uncover Toby's face, and the second to dry the wound enough to examine it.
"OK, buddy, OK, " I repeated, "Let me see it. Shhhhh! Take a deep breath and blow it out like birthday candles. There you go. Blow it out again. OK." Trying to keep him calm, I looked at his blood stained shirt and joked, "Well, I don't think you'll be wearing that swim shirt to the pool today."
Instantly Toby's tears welled up again, "Well, can't we just rinse it out or something?" he pleaded.
But looking at the half-inch long, deep, and gaping gash on Toby's left cheek bone, I knew I had to break some tougher news to him. "Kiddo, I don't think we're going to be able to go swimming tonight. I need to let a doctor look at this. You might need stitches."
This is where poor, brave Toby lost it. Talk about adding insult to injury. All he wanted was to go swimming, and now we were heading to the doctor instead. Puddles of tears ran down into the wound and soaked the paper towel he was holding. "I'm so sorry, buddy. I know it stinks, but we need to get you taken care of," I consoled him.
"Do stitches hurt?" he asked.
"Not too much, they give you a medicine to numb your skin so you don't feel much, and sometimes they can just use a glue to hold the cut together."
"Glue?!" he asked again, with wider, wet eyes. "Does glue hurt?"
"Not much at all, I said. You'll be OK, let's get ready to go. Everybody change back into clothes!," I called out, "we're going to go visit the new urgent care building."
"Sutures?!" a keen-eared Toby piped up. "What are sutures? Do they hurt?"
The doctor left briefly to gather her supplies and find an assistant. I held Toby's hands and bent down to look in his eyes. "Listen, bud," I coached him, "it's a lot like a blood draw. Remember how you sat so still and brave for your last blood draw, and everybody was so proud of you? Remember how it hurts less if you sit still and brave, and it hurts more if you fight? It's the same with stitches. We need to do them to help that gash heal well, and the doctor will be as gentle as possible. She doesn't want to hurt you, but you have to help her out and be brave, OK?"
He nodded, with his blood-shot eyes all brimming with tears, "OK."
The doctor appeared with a tray of suture supplies, and the assistant came in with a large sheet in her hands. "I think we'll just wrap this around him to help him hold still," she said.
I declined. "He'll be alright without that," I assured her. "He's a tough guy, right Toby?" Toby nodded.
I held Toby's hands, and the assistant helped hold his head still while the doctor washed and sterilized the wound. Elijah and Hannah kept crowding around, trying to watch and I kept shooing them back to their chairs.
"Are you a homeschool family?" the doctor asked. When I said that we were, she replied, "I knew it. I can always tell. They're so well behaved."
"Aw, thanks," I answered, "you hear that, Toby, you're doing a good job!"
The doctor smiled, "He's doing awesome."
The worst part was the needle with the numbing medicine. Toby tensed up. Tears welled up again. I coached him to take deep breaths and blow them out and he followed my instructions. Once he realized the the wound was numb, he relaxed and smiled. Then he turned on the charm.
"Can you feel that?" the doctor asked, pinching his cheek.
"Nah, I'm good," he responded cooly, and giving a thumbs up. He laughed a little as the doctor pulled the sutures through his skin under his eye and tied them up. We talked for a minute about how a third suture might help, and I told the doctor to go ahead and put a third in if he needed it.
"Yeah," Toby agreed, "go ahead. I'm good. I'm so good."
We all chuckled at his bravery. "I guess I don't need to hold his head," the assistant laughed.
"Toby, you've done better than a lot of grown men who come in here for stitches," the doctor praised him. "I have an idea, when you come back in five days to get these removed, you can just stay with me, OK? I'd like to keep you."
Toby beamed with pride and with relief when the stitches were finished. After a dab of antibiotic ointment and a dump trucks band-aid, which his mother would be way too cheap to ever buy for him, he was all set to go.
"Toby you can come back and visit us any time you want to, OK?" the doctor said, "We wouldn't mind helping you again at all."
I thought that might be a dangerous invitation for a seven-year-old boy, but I appreciated the compliment and the grin it put on Toby's face. His grin faded a little when they gave us the final care instructions, which included no swimming for a full week, but he kept his brave face on, nodding, "That's OK, I'm good."
Everyone was chuckling as we left with Toby waving good-bye and thanking them for the stitches. After a popsicle, some Tylenol, and a cartoon of his choice at home, Toby was ready for bed. When I reminded him that the tooth fairy also owed him a dollar for that tooth he lost earlier, and told him I'd pay him upfront, since the tooth fairy is sometimes unreliable, he was all grins.
How's he doing today? He's good. He's so good.
Friday, June 10, 2016
Toby Finds His Flippers
Sometime about four years ago I looked at my five small children and thought: "This summer I HAVE to start teaching this rabble how to ride bikes and how to swim. I might just die before I ever get all five of my kids riding bikes and swimming, but I'll have to die trying. If by some miracle they all learn to ride bikes and swim to save their lives, my work on this earth will be done."
Now, teaching any child to ride a bike or swim is a challenging task, but you have to know that Naomi and Emma have extra difficulties with balance and coordination. Naomi, who has mild autism, also absolutely couldn't stand the feeling of water on her face, and Toby has been afraid to death of water since he was a toddler. He never wanted to be at a swimming pool, splash pad, or anywhere else wet. I had my work cut out for me.
And so, four years ago, I started running behind wobbly bikes, bandaging scraped knees, and encouraging discouraged hearts. I started forcefully holding screaming children in the water while they pled for their lives and lifeguards gave me questioning looks. I stood for hours that added up to weeks, coaching and coaxing my kids to put their ears under water, relax and float, coordinate their strokes, not panic if they got splashed, be brave, put their head under water, relax and kick...
And you guys, by some miracle, one by one, they began to ride on their own! And we cheered and grabbed the camera and threw little parties for each one. And this summer all five of my kids are riding bikes all on their own!
And one by one the girls began to swim. They began to pass the pool swim test and proudly get tagged with the bright orange tag that allows them to jump off the diving board. One by one, they began to gather up their courage and jump off the diving board and I would hold my breath each time until their head popped up above the water and they swam to the edge with ease. And we threw little celebrations in the pool and even the lifeguards smiled.
Toby screamed for a full hour and a half last summer when I first forced him into the water. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, he gathered up his courage and learned to float and almost swam last summer. I hated when the pool closed last fall because I was afraid I would lose all that progress over the winter.
Last week we got our summer season passes to the local pool again and started hitting the pool at least three days a week. I almost couldn't believe it, but Toby got right in and picked up right where he left off last August. In the last two weeks, Toby has learned to back float and swim on his back, swim on his front with a sort-of breast stroke, and tread water. He got up his courage and went down the water slides, even though that meant his head went under the water at the end, and today…today he gathered up his courage and took the pool swim test.
The lifeguard who gave the test, just happened to be one who had watched Toby for three years: watched him sit happily on the side of the pool with a life preserver on while I taught his sisters to swim, watched him scream and fight me last summer, and watched him grow his flippers this summer. "OK, buddy, let's go," he said. Toby clenched his fists and mustered his courage as he walked to the pool, then he floated, and swam, and treaded water in the deep end, and he passed that test!!!
Oh my word, we whooped and hollered, and all the lifeguards smiled, and Toby got tagged!
Ahhh! I'm almost done folks, four kids are swimming now. Maybe, just maybe I'll get Elijah swimming this summer, but judging by the way he screamed when I took his life jacket off today, I might still have some work ahead of me.
Now, teaching any child to ride a bike or swim is a challenging task, but you have to know that Naomi and Emma have extra difficulties with balance and coordination. Naomi, who has mild autism, also absolutely couldn't stand the feeling of water on her face, and Toby has been afraid to death of water since he was a toddler. He never wanted to be at a swimming pool, splash pad, or anywhere else wet. I had my work cut out for me.
And so, four years ago, I started running behind wobbly bikes, bandaging scraped knees, and encouraging discouraged hearts. I started forcefully holding screaming children in the water while they pled for their lives and lifeguards gave me questioning looks. I stood for hours that added up to weeks, coaching and coaxing my kids to put their ears under water, relax and float, coordinate their strokes, not panic if they got splashed, be brave, put their head under water, relax and kick...
And you guys, by some miracle, one by one, they began to ride on their own! And we cheered and grabbed the camera and threw little parties for each one. And this summer all five of my kids are riding bikes all on their own!
And one by one the girls began to swim. They began to pass the pool swim test and proudly get tagged with the bright orange tag that allows them to jump off the diving board. One by one, they began to gather up their courage and jump off the diving board and I would hold my breath each time until their head popped up above the water and they swam to the edge with ease. And we threw little celebrations in the pool and even the lifeguards smiled.
Toby screamed for a full hour and a half last summer when I first forced him into the water. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, he gathered up his courage and learned to float and almost swam last summer. I hated when the pool closed last fall because I was afraid I would lose all that progress over the winter.
Last week we got our summer season passes to the local pool again and started hitting the pool at least three days a week. I almost couldn't believe it, but Toby got right in and picked up right where he left off last August. In the last two weeks, Toby has learned to back float and swim on his back, swim on his front with a sort-of breast stroke, and tread water. He got up his courage and went down the water slides, even though that meant his head went under the water at the end, and today…today he gathered up his courage and took the pool swim test.
The lifeguard who gave the test, just happened to be one who had watched Toby for three years: watched him sit happily on the side of the pool with a life preserver on while I taught his sisters to swim, watched him scream and fight me last summer, and watched him grow his flippers this summer. "OK, buddy, let's go," he said. Toby clenched his fists and mustered his courage as he walked to the pool, then he floated, and swam, and treaded water in the deep end, and he passed that test!!!
Oh my word, we whooped and hollered, and all the lifeguards smiled, and Toby got tagged!
Ahhh! I'm almost done folks, four kids are swimming now. Maybe, just maybe I'll get Elijah swimming this summer, but judging by the way he screamed when I took his life jacket off today, I might still have some work ahead of me.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
From Venus Until Galaxies
Not yet a year after I learned to form letters
In the wide glowing green of an evening backyard
The apple trees whispered to me
"Wake up"
"Sit still, little soul, and see"
"Rest from your play, learn to love awe, wonder at being"
It was then that I found my spirit didn't fit
Came squeezing out my eyes
And grasping for a something to catch it
I picked up a pencil and laid it in a notebook
"The apple trees are beautiful," I wrote
And it was enough
In seventh grade I stole the barstools from the kitchen
And draped them with a blanket so I could sit for hours
Beside my bedroom window after dark
Because there were stars beyond the apple trees
Because the stars and the trees and the mystery whispered
"Wake up"
There was a solitary tree in the plaza in the city
Bricked in it stood grieving beneath my dormitory window
Too burdened to whisper under the orange glow of city night
With ceaseless sirens and never a star
Sometimes the hills of Massachusetts whispered
Once in the fall the yellow leaves lifted my feet and my spirit
Down a settler's stone path to the ocean's edge
And the wide bright sky on the wide blue waves
Held my breath
And whispered, "Wake up"
In the irony of motherhood I never slept
And yet I slept for nearly a decade
Slept in the necessity, in the doctors and the dishes
In keeping everyone alive
Once in every while, usually with a child strapped on
I walked away alone and listened
Listened to the willows weeping where they stood
Sentenced to adorn retention ponds in the stifling suburbs
Listened to the endless cornfields ripple in the Iowa desert
And nearly screamed at the silent, treeless yard of the subdivision
Where no amount of fertilizer could make that green grass live
When my soul was nearly deaf from silence
We moved beneath five ancient battered pines
Beneath an ivy-drenched elm and an ash that had been lost to beetles
After a century of shading a farmhouse that barely remembered it used to be white
They solemnly watched a horizon where fireflies blinked
Where the sun always called to me as it left each day
"Wake up"
"Sit still, weary soul, and see"
"Love awe, and wonder, and being"
Until I gasped and breathed
Until I felt my soul couldn't fit
Until I found a paper to lay it in again
I rested there
Rocked my last baby long after he was asleep
From Venus until galaxies
Humming, thanking, grieving, writing
Waking
The pines turned their backs to hide their grief
When I left that porch
Left it for necessity
For a better place to do laundry and dishes
And keep everyone alive
"I can't see the sunsets here," I said
And my husband sighed
Because he's not the type to talk to pines
Sometime in the winter I stopped at the sink
Noticed the frozen branches of the plain maple against the sky
And marveled how the pattern differed from the oak peeking over the privacy fence
And from the half-dead elm with the holes in the top where the sparrows slept
When the green buds lined their patterns in spring
I marveled more and hated the maple less for not being a pine
"Did you ever have a favorite tree, mom?"
My daughter asked me today
"What did you name it?"
And I laughed to see that the apple tree's apples hadn't fallen far
"What is that maple's name?" I asked her
"That's Lucy," she grinned as if she knew her well
Tonight I took a paper and a pencil
Sat still on the new sunporch
That I thought a little too new to speak just yet
And looked to Lucy
"Well…" I said
To my delight she replied
"Wake up"
And when my spirit dripped over
I caught it here
And for tonight
It is enough
In the wide glowing green of an evening backyard
The apple trees whispered to me
"Wake up"
"Sit still, little soul, and see"
"Rest from your play, learn to love awe, wonder at being"
It was then that I found my spirit didn't fit
Came squeezing out my eyes
And grasping for a something to catch it
I picked up a pencil and laid it in a notebook
"The apple trees are beautiful," I wrote
And it was enough
In seventh grade I stole the barstools from the kitchen
And draped them with a blanket so I could sit for hours
Beside my bedroom window after dark
Because there were stars beyond the apple trees
Because the stars and the trees and the mystery whispered
"Wake up"
There was a solitary tree in the plaza in the city
Bricked in it stood grieving beneath my dormitory window
Too burdened to whisper under the orange glow of city night
With ceaseless sirens and never a star
Sometimes the hills of Massachusetts whispered
Once in the fall the yellow leaves lifted my feet and my spirit
Down a settler's stone path to the ocean's edge
And the wide bright sky on the wide blue waves
Held my breath
And whispered, "Wake up"
In the irony of motherhood I never slept
And yet I slept for nearly a decade
Slept in the necessity, in the doctors and the dishes
In keeping everyone alive
Once in every while, usually with a child strapped on
I walked away alone and listened
Listened to the willows weeping where they stood
Sentenced to adorn retention ponds in the stifling suburbs
Listened to the endless cornfields ripple in the Iowa desert
And nearly screamed at the silent, treeless yard of the subdivision
Where no amount of fertilizer could make that green grass live
When my soul was nearly deaf from silence
We moved beneath five ancient battered pines
Beneath an ivy-drenched elm and an ash that had been lost to beetles
After a century of shading a farmhouse that barely remembered it used to be white
They solemnly watched a horizon where fireflies blinked
Where the sun always called to me as it left each day
"Wake up"
"Sit still, weary soul, and see"
"Love awe, and wonder, and being"
Until I gasped and breathed
Until I felt my soul couldn't fit
Until I found a paper to lay it in again
I rested there
Rocked my last baby long after he was asleep
From Venus until galaxies
Humming, thanking, grieving, writing
Waking
The pines turned their backs to hide their grief
When I left that porch
Left it for necessity
For a better place to do laundry and dishes
And keep everyone alive
"I can't see the sunsets here," I said
And my husband sighed
Because he's not the type to talk to pines
Sometime in the winter I stopped at the sink
Noticed the frozen branches of the plain maple against the sky
And marveled how the pattern differed from the oak peeking over the privacy fence
And from the half-dead elm with the holes in the top where the sparrows slept
When the green buds lined their patterns in spring
I marveled more and hated the maple less for not being a pine
"Did you ever have a favorite tree, mom?"
My daughter asked me today
"What did you name it?"
And I laughed to see that the apple tree's apples hadn't fallen far
"What is that maple's name?" I asked her
"That's Lucy," she grinned as if she knew her well
Tonight I took a paper and a pencil
Sat still on the new sunporch
That I thought a little too new to speak just yet
And looked to Lucy
"Well…" I said
To my delight she replied
"Wake up"
And when my spirit dripped over
I caught it here
And for tonight
It is enough
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