Lost in play

Yesterday was such a perfect day. A perfectly normal day. An Eden-and-Mommy day that was spectacular just for the normal-ness of it. Eden's been getting over a cold so we skipped church. We watched some shows. Read a lot of books.  Made lunch. Played school. Drove through the car wash. Went to the library. Did a little shopping. Finger painted...and then moved the paint into the bathroom and painted the bathtub.

I remember this sort of normal-ness from my childhood. Slow, lazy days at home, concentrated on discovery, keeping oneself occupied, learning, and spending the day with each other. Getting lost in our play. Making the day up as we went along.

Spending the day with the day itself.

Noticing the light on the walls as they day goes by. Letting yourself be a part of it rather than anxiously waiting for the next thing to happen.

Spending time listening to the daytime neighborhood sounds: wind chimes. Trucks. Children. Birds. Footsteps. Cars. Silence. The breeze flowing through the trees.

I am concerned that our society is forgetting what this feels like.

It feels good.

The holiday I didn't ask for

The week before Thanksgiving, our house flooded. With raw sewage. Over $11k of damage. (We heart Mercury Insurance.)

Let's see, what else has happened since then?

• A repeat flood before the property management took any action
• Camped in our house for two weeks with no toilet and no water down the drains (hooray for being able to use the tap for drinking water and cooking!)
• Got Nate's car back from body shop sans rear-end collision (over $11k damage there, too)
• Nate's car went to the dealer to fix a battery issue (another $1k! But it's the first thing it's needed in 100k miles, so we are only milding whining on that one)
• Nate was interviewing for a new job (which he landed, hooray!)
• I've been (attempting) training for a half marathon
• We all got sick
• Thanksgiving somewhere in there
• Nate's debut solo album CD release show
• Eden's Christmas program
• BUSY work season, for both of us
• Water heater is now leaking...

I had a small nervous breakdown last night. It seemed like every part of my life -- marriage, finances, parenting, work, house, holidays -- was in shambles. Nothing this season was as I had planned, or expected. And none of it our fault! I felt so overwhelmed.

The quiet, unhurried, uncomplicated holiday season I was looking forward to -- a memory-making season -- was torn out of my grasp. The new holiday season I was given was certainly NOT what I wanted, and most definitely NOT what I had asked for. But it was handed to me, with all of it's decisions, harried agendas, discomfort and mayhem.

A memory-making season, no doubt.

I still feel overwhelmed. But then I look at these:

And the list doesn't seem quite so important.

...Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night...

This painful practice of falling in love

Every time I find myself composing posts in my head, it's in letter form to Eden.

"Dear Eden, I just want you to know how proud I was of you today."
"Dear Eden, I missed you so much while I was at work today."
"Dear Eden, you had a hard day today and I wasn't sure how to deal with it."

It's like I'm scared to try and write about other things, to write about myself. I want to ignore that part. And I don't want to forget a millisecond of the other.

I can't seem to shake this sense that I've got to do it right, that there is only one chance, that today...today might be the day. Or tomorrow.

It is unusual for a child's parent to die, I tell myself. But it's such a hard feeling to shake.

Friends and coworkers joke about getting old, about "milestone birthdays." Joke about turning 29 again. Forty doesn't seem old to me, but it is a looming milestone. It would mean I only have 8 years -- really, 7 years -- left. And that doesn't seem long enough.

It's not a morose feeling (anymore) and I'm not depressed. It's more like an expectation, except I know it's irrational and I should just let it go. It's very similar to the feeling I got several years after my rollover car accident, every time I would drive past an SUV. It's like Pavlov's dog, a conditioned response of sorts.

It makes me want to throw caution to the wind, quit my job, and spend every waking minute I have with my family. But that isn't rational, either. We depend on my job for the income, for the health care, for the retirement...for the mortgage, school.... And work is something I value -- making a difference, leading the way, helping, honing and refining one's gifts for the greater good. Traits I want to model for her.

I can't tell where to draw the line between feeling guilty and feeling relieved. Between worry and preparation. Between acceptance and anticipation.

It's not every day that I feel these things, think these things. It's like a circle...it comes, it goes, it comes, it goes. Ebb and flow.

It's such a painful practice to fall deeply in love again after having lost it. I'm not quite sure how it's done.

Is "noisy-ness" a word? It should be.

I'm feeling so overwhelmed these days.

Overwhelmed by noise, I guess.

Not the loudness of life, so much as the quantity of things trying to get my attention.

Is there another word for that?

I need downtime. Maybe a whole month would be good.

When Eden Cries

I've never, ever understood the cry-it-out philosophy, and never left Eden alone as a baby to cry. Lately, though, she's been going through a tantrum-like phase and it's wearing me thin.

I'm not sure I'd even call it a tantrum. It's more like intense emotional upheaval. Usually surrounding inability to meet a goal (like putting on her own sock) or denial of something she desparately wants (like touching a hot stove or running out into the street). Her favorite place to go when she is upset is in the kitchen, where she will turn her face into the corner of the cabinets and wail at the top of her little lungs. Big, deep gasps for breath in between large alligator tears falling down the cabinet doors. If all is truly lost, she will collapse down in a heap in the corner, dejected, shoulders sagging and head bent to the ground.

It's all I can do to keep from scooping her up in my arms and holding her close, kissing her and nursing her until her sorrow goes away. But she doesn't even want me to touch her! She pushes my hands away emphatically and her wails increase.

I'd say I don't know what's going on, but I really do. As much as it pains me to say so, I understand completely. I'm the same way.

A few nights ago I finally sat down on the kitchen floor and just waited there while she cried. I'd periodically reach out to rub her foot or pat her leg, and pull away quickly when her angst went up a notch. I eventually took off my shirt, figuring the sight of her beloved mommy-milks might be comforting. And there we were, maybe two feet apart on the cold kitchen floor. She, working through a major emotional meltdown; and I, sitting nearby feeling as if my heart was breaking and waiting for her to need me.

At long last she started inching toward me and didn't resist when I scooped her up into my arms and offered to nurse. She sighed a broken, heavy sigh into my arm and cuddled in close, her eyelashes long and wet around red-rimmed eyes. She fell asleep there, slowly relaxing into me.

I wish I knew for sure that I handled it best, but there really isn't any way of knowing, is there? Even when she was a baby she didn't like much physical attention when she was upset, other than nursing. It's awkward for me not to cuddle during duress, but it seems she really just needs her space. I guess as long as she knows I'm nearby and available, that's all that really matters.

Still, it's especially hard if we're in the car and I can't pull over. Or, even at home, it's just hard to watch your baby cry, you know? It was easier when she was small and less aware of herself. And if I find her growing self-awareness unsettling, how much more so must it be to her?

This morning, before I left for work, she crawled up in my arms and started pulling up my sweater, I thought, to nurse. When I pulled up my shirt she got this huge, happy grin, sighed a long and happy sigh and laid her cheek on my breast. Closed her eyes and hugged me. Like she just wanted to be sure the mommy-milks were still there, and was happy to know they were, if she needed them. It was the cutest thing ever. Definitely worth being 5 minutes late to my meeting this morning. And sorta made up for the rawness of all the tantrums of late.

Why the tears are threatening to overflow

I've been thinking a lot about loss lately.

I think it started with Haiti.

I think it continued as I was listening to someone I care about lament a bathroom remodeling project over the phone while I was watching coverage of mass grave burials in Haiti. They were using skip loaders to move the bodies.

The juxtaposition between my current life (problems/complaints/desires/status) and theirs in Haiti struck me, and has stayed with me.

I think it continued when our copy of Newsweek came in the mail and I saw a picture of a very young girl in a pile of bodies outside a morgue in Haiti awaiting burial. She was just one of many people. But she was young, and I have a young daughter, and I cannot imagine. I just cannot imagine.

I think it continued this afternoon when I came across a blog of a mother who gave birth to a premature and stillborn daughter on January 8, just a few short weeks ago. Her Christmas blogs were all about babies and hope and anticipation. Her most recent ones are heart-wrenchingly honest. Brutal to read. And I cannot imagine.

Well, maybe I can imagine.

And I think it continues as I mull over the possibility of what I would do "if."

My God, my God, do not let it ever be.

But it was for my mother.

And for me. And us, her children.

We are -- I am -- so sheltered in our world of plenty. Our insulated world of plenty and goodness and prosperity and even excess. But bad things still happen to good people, and while it is difficult and painful and unthinkable and harsh, I'm not sure it's entirely morbid or even unproductive to think about what I would do.

If.

I think I would feel like I could never survive it. Having been through it once I don't think I could do it again. I think I would never be able to raise my head off my pillow again, that my heart would never heal, that my world would shatter beyond repair.

But I know that time heals. I know that He brings peace. I know that all things -- even unimaginable, horrific things -- are temporary and can be overcome. Still my heart is full and my old scars ache for those who are experiencing these things fresh and real and oh-so-overwhelmingly today.

So I pray.

My personal struggle: Part 2 - Resolution

I was going to apologize for such a downer post last time, but I'm not going to. It's normal to have a bad day now and again, and I think our society places far too much value on being happy all the time. Instead, I would like to thank you for hanging in there with me as I go through this journey!

 

It was my morning cup of coffee that changed my whole perspective.

 

I've been going through this inner turmoil of sorts for awhile now. Itchy to find my next challenge. Worried that I'm not currently climbing any great corporate ladders. Realizing that time with Eden is my most precious commodity, and realizing that the cost of these other endeavors will ultimately lead to leaving her more.

 

Somehow, I had this grandiose picture in my head of what our lives would look like: I'd be making a six figure salary within the next 10 years. Nate would only have to work if he wanted to. We'd send Eden to a private school. We'd buy a house and rent out the condo. I'd be the best at what I do and a lot of people would hold me in high esteem.

 

But my heart was pained because, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fit Eden into that picture. Not the way I wanted to. Not the way I want to be her mom. Not any way that seemed best for her.

 

Yesterday, I took a mug of coffee in the car with me on my way to work.

 

Coffee in a mug makes a car smell a certain way, much different than coffee in a travel mug. Don't you think? I do. And I was instantly taken back 20 years to fifth grade, when my dad would drive me to school, he sipping coffee from his wide-base ceramic travel mug, and me sitting next to him on the pickup's bench seat and thinking what an important man he must be, all dressed up in his suit and tie.

 

He died when I was 11, and a lot of people seemed to notice. He got a big obit in the paper. A ton of people sent my mom cards. Former President Jimmy Carter sent my mom a signed note of his condolences.

 

But my father was not a big man. He worked hard to make enough money for us to get by, but we certainly weren't rich. He worked mediocre construction jobs then put himself through training to be a mediocre real estate appraiser. Not that he was mediocre, but he just held middle-of the-road, commonplace jobs. He was no CEO. He didn't have a staff of hundreds, or even twenty.

 

What my dad did do, was give. He gave every chance he got. He gave of his time, his talent, and his treasure, to the church, to his community, to his friends, and to his family. Right before he died he spent a week managing operations for a Jimmy Carter Habitat for Humanity rebuild project just across the border in Tijuana, Mexico.

 

One whiff of that coffee and it struck me: I've already made it.

 

I have a great relationship with my husband. We have a wonderful daughter. I have a good job with excellent benefits and I enjoy the work I do. We have a small but very comfortable home in a condo complex with wonderful neighbors. We don't have a lot, but we have enough to save some and enough to give some away. When Nate graduates this Spring we will both have master's degrees. And, most likely, if we are smart about our money we will be able to finagle sending Eden to private school. Compared to the vast majority of our planet, we are rich beyond belief.

 

I realized that this is it. Or, that this is enough. That if I just do this for the rest of my life, that is okay. I don't need to run a company or hold an office to make a difference in the world. I can do that by volunteering, by giving, by looking out for small opportunities to make someone's life better today. In fact, I'd posit that someone in my position actually has a greater capacity to truly change the world than someone whose time is all wrapped up in the politics of running a company. (No offense to any executives out there. Not having walked in your shoes, I could be completely wrong.) Who knows, maybe those other things will come along some day, but if they do they will have to be the right fit. And if they are, then it is meant to be.

 

I feel sorta disgusted with myself that I let my vision get so far off track of who I really am. But, I can tell you, I felt worlds better unlocking my office this morning, at peace with myself and my lot and looking forward to discovering my next opportunity to make the world a better place. Oddly enough, I felt important again.

 

I think my dad would be proud of that.

My personal struggle

I feel OH SO GUILTY today. We just got back from a long weekend up in Big Bear with Nate's family (more on that later) and I took an extra day off to rest. Do laundry. Be alone.

I need this. Oh, how I need this. But I feel so guilty. Lazy. Why am I burning a vacation day just to be with myself?

Vacation days should be gathered and saved up like precious gold (or, perhaps "like drops of pumped breastmilk" would be the more appropriate metaphor). Right? Because working mamas like myself only get to see their precious babies 3 hours or so a day, and usually not the best hours, either. Because people at work need me and I have responsibilities to carry out and, really, by the end of my 4 or so hours alone today I won't have accomplished much relaxing anyway, right? Vacation days should not be squandered this way. So why am I doing this?

I should just relax and enjoy the day because I am human and need some time to myself, or so they say. "You have to take care of yourself so you can take care of everyone else." Or so they say. Why, then, do I still feel so guilty? Why did I send Eden off to Grandma's while Daddy went to work? Why didn't I take her and whisk her away to the zoo for a fun-filled mommy-and-daughter day? Why didn't I put the chores on hold and spend the day at the beach laughing at the seagulls together and learning what sand is like? Why am I sitting here on the couch pining away when I could be doing laundry, scrapbooking, or cleaning out my closet?
 
(No fair making fun of that last option. I like cleaning things out.)
 
I'm trying to be a good mommy. Heck, I'm trying to be the best mommy I can be. But let's be honest, here. I have NOT been trying to be the best MOLLY I can be. Not even trying to be the best wife I can be. I feel like I'm using up all my energy on the mommy thing. And work? Well. Work is on auto-pilot right now. I could do my job in my sleep. Which is great for the organization. Not so great for my ego, or my career, or any sense of personal accomplishment on the corporate front. Work is boring and time-consuming and blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.
 
I feel like I'm floating along in la-la-land, with no direction, no purpose, and barely enough energy to get me through the measley few hours I get to spend with a tired child every evening. Sometimes I try and convince myself that achievement and drive is for people in their 20s and now that I'm 30 I should be happy to slow down and enjoy the day-to-day a little more. I tell myself that raising a wonderful, happy, balanced little girl to be a productive member of society is one of the greatest accomplishments I could hope for.
 
But I still feel bored, direction-less, and unproductive.
 
Isn't that terrible?
 
Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't change the mommy thing for the world. I just don't see how all the other pieces are supposed to fit together and I feel like I'm running out of time to figure it out.

And I can't wait for Eden to come home.

On heartache, and healing

I heard this song driving home the other day. It's the song, "Where are you, Christmas?" from the movie, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. It's basically a song of longing; the writer sees Christmas all around but can't seem to find the Christmas inside like she once could. It struck me that, not so long ago, a song like that would find me driving down the road with tears streaming down my face, touched by the longing in the song and sharing in it's sadness.

 

But not so much now.

 

I had lunch with a dear friend recently who is going through the terrible sadness of watching her family implode in a mess of disruption, anger and misplaced priorities. In my friend's face I could see the pain of her childhood. She was no longer a grown adult sitting in front of me, but a little girl who just wanted her mommy, a mommy who will never be the mommy her daughter needs her to be.

 

I can feel the twinge of heartache for a lost parent, but it's faint and far away.

 

As Eden and I decorated our little house together this year (the first time I've had a partner in the decorating process!) I found my mind drifting back to my own childhood. I remember the years cloaked in golden memory, the ones where Christmas Eve was magical and dear and full of family. And I remember the awful event of losing one's daddy, the painful empty space that ensued, and the awkward attempts to try and recreate what once was.

 

But it's just a memory now. Knowledge. Not a heartache.

 

Heartache is par for the course in human existence. It's part of what makes us human. It's as inescapable as the sun's rising and as normal as breathing. It's also temporary, though. Which is really hard to remember when one is in the midst of it all.

 

I'm grateful that I noticed it, this year. So thankful to appreciate the beauty of that song without having to share in the pain. Cognizent of the fact that songs like that could not be written without the heartache having been there in the first place. And happy that, this year at least, I'm in a place of peace and rest.

 

It's been a long time coming.

The Man on The Street

Every Sunday I sing for a church that meets in a movie theater in our downtown city area. Every Sunday on our way home we drive past this one particular man who is always on the same street corner with a sign, "Homeless & Hungry. Please Help."

Now, there are a lot of homeless people in San Diego. Especially in the winter. And a lot of them live downtown. But there is something different about this guy that has intrigued me from the moment I first saw him. He looks sad, intelligent, and maybe a little lost. He is dressed differently - he wears lighter colors, tennis shoes and shorts sometimes, and and always seems well put together for some reason.

I give him whatever I can when I have cash or change, which usually isn't often in this debit card day and age.

This past Sunday, I felt especially sad driving by him, because I didn't have any cash. Nathan and Eden and I had gone to Starbucks (twice) that morning already. I had spent the day scrapbooking on Saturday. Money is tight right now, but we have a roof over our heads, Christmas lights up on our back porch and presents piled up in our closets waiting for wrapping paper.

Eden and I were on our own (Nate had already gone to another gig) so I drove for awhile looking for a bank with a drive-through ATM. I couldn't find one so I stopped at a Wells Fargo and got Eden out of the car to go get $20 for the Man on The Street.

And then we drove all the way back to downtown (about 20 minutes away by now) to give him his money.

When I pulled up it was a green light, so he wasn't really expecting anyone to stop. I handed him the bill and as soon as he realized it was a $20 he started stammering his thanks and, almost as an afterthought, blurted, "Merry Christmas!" with tears in his eyes.

I wanted to jump out of my car and give him a big hug. I wanted to sit down and pour him a cup of coffee and find out what his story was. I wanted to write him a check for a thousand bucks. Why was he telling me Merry Christmas? It is I who already have the Merry Christmas, and he is the one shivering in the cold on a dirty street corner asking strangers to help him make it through the week. I mean, after all, it was just $20.

Instead, I just said, "Merry Christmas!", gave him a big smile and eased back into traffic. I looked in my rearview mirror about a block away and saw that he had given me a big wave right after I had pulled away from the curve. His back, now turned, was bent over a little and it seemed the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

It brings tears to my eyes even now to think about how fortunate we are, and how much other people are hurting, especially as the weather gets colder and the holidays approach.

My sister, Abigail, recently told her own story (she lives in Michigan):

I was driving back to the shop the other day after my last clean and I passed a young girl, 8th or 9th grade maybe. I couldn't help but notice that she wasn't wearing a coat. A pair of jeans and a short sleeved graffic T and she looked cold. She was hugging herself as she walked to keep herself warm. I drove on a couple blocks all the while feeling inside the struggles of right and wrong. So I decided that because I had so many coats at home it would be selfish of me to not give her the one I had with me. I turned around to where she was walking, got out of my car and asked her if she owned a coat. Keep in mind it has been snowing here and the temp is well below freezing now. She shook her head no, so I took off my old ratty blue coat and said, "you look cold, take my coat." she said thank you and that she was very cold. I wished her a Merry Christmas and we went our separate ways. This just reminds me how often we forget to think of others and how quick we are to judge them, or their parents. Most likely they are doing everything they can for their little girl and could not afford a winter coat for her this year. As I got in my car to head back to work I looked down the street and I was overwhelmed with a feeling I can not describe as I saw this young girl walking to her destination wearing my old blue coat!

I can't help but think about one of my dad's favorite passage of scripture in Isaiah, which reads "I want you to share your food with the hungry and to welcome poor wanderers into your homes. Give clothes to those who need them, and do not hide from relatives who need your help." (58:7, NLT)

This Sunday, we're going to take the Man on The Street a stainless steel thermos, some Christmas cookies, and one of my mother-in-law's care packages that has socks, toothpaste, toothbrush, etc. If you think of it today, maybe you could talk to the Man Upstairs about our Man on The Street. I'm sure He knows his story.

Catching up...

I found this blog in my drafts folder and never posted it. I have a lot more catching up to do...our 10-year anniversary, Eden's first birthday, my two-week vacation...but, first things first...

Eden is growing up.

(I wonder, how many blog entries will begin that way over the next 20 years??)

The other day Nate sent me a text while I was at work:

"We have a very smart, funny, wonderful little girl."

"I know, we do, don't we? What is she doing?"

"She is systematically emptying her entire toy chest and trying to fit it into her wipes container."

Very important work, you know.

A couple of nights ago we went on our usual evening walk, but this time we got out of the stroller. We walked around on the grass, kicked around the bouncy ball a bit, and watched the big kids who were sitting at one of the concrete picnic tables. But the most exciting thing (other than the new pink tennis shoes) was sitting on the curvy sidewalk next to the big, green park, and sifting through the wood chips, piece by piece. Turning them over, tasting them. Clearing patches in the dirt and throwing chips side to side.

It was extra poignant for me because Janette had just emailed me this story. I wish I knew who to attribute it to; I think she must subscribe to a blog or something like that. But, anyway, here is what she sent to me:

This is one of my favorite pieces of writing. I am reprinting it again this week at the request of a Challenger who wrote in looking for it. Enjoy!

In Oprah's magazine they call it an "A-Ha Moment," others call it a moment of self-truth or realization. Whatever one calls it, the moments are few and far between - those moments when a lesson is being taught and our job is simply to be the student.

I wanted to share with you one of the most valuable lessons my daughter taught me when she was sixteen-months-old. I call this essay, "Cherish Your Wood Chips." It can be found in the Change Your Life Challenge book and if you have heard me speak, it will be familiar to you. It was on of those moments where I learned about living; it was a gift that won't ever be forgotten.

Today was one of those days where I just couldn't get enough done. No matter how many times my pen scratched off a to-do list item -- a new one seemed to appear. But you, Samantha, didn't have anything on your agenda.

At sixteen-months your days are usually quite free. I sat in my home office, routinely punching computer keys, and you came to my office gate. You had your coat, draped over your head, looking like a little green goblin.

"Samantha we can't go outside today. For one, it's cold and secondly I just have too much on my plate." One of your blue eyes peered out questioningly from beneath the green cape. You then walked to the door and pounded on it. I realized that working was futile -- you wanted to go play.

I glanced at my watch, if we hurried we could be back in thirty-minutes, enough time to satiate your needs for the outside world without interfering with my needs on the inside world.

Together, hand in hand, we walked down to the park. I was ready to take you on your favorite swing. Instead, you plopped down in a pile of wood chips. I watched half in amazement and half in frustration as you scrutinized each one. Turning it. Tasting it. Feeling it.

I let out a sigh and situated myself on a low monkey bar. I don't have time for this, I thought. I didn't say the words -- but Samantha, I had brought you here to swing. I had brought you here to play. And since you were just examining wood chips -- I thought of the ways this time could be better spent. My to-do-list ran through my mind: change the laundry, answer e-mail, finish pre-pub issue, respond to Eric's galleys, finish Ken's marketing campaign, send kit to Scholastic.

I let out another sigh and was about to pick you up and take you home, when a little boy approached. I watched as you excitedly ran to him. You displayed each proud find -- each beautiful wood chip.

The little boy smiled like it was a holiday as he accepted each offering. When your hands were empty, you ran back for more.

The boy continued to smile. He was with his grandmother -- and while she paused for your sixty-second exchange, she then hustled him along saying, "We need to get on the swing so I can get back and finish dinner."

You watched the boy on the swing. It was like a silent communication. You knew, he too, would rather be playing with the wood chips.

After about ten minutes on the swing and a few glances at her watch, the grandmother caught the young boy and began the descent home. Your gaze followed him -- and Samantha, you don't have a poker face -- you were sad. You plopped back into the wood chips and began to pick them up again. One by one. You had no dinner to fix. You weren't even hungry. The only thing of importance were the wood chips and someone else who could understand their magnificence.

I was saddened a bit as I watched you there. Eventually you will have dinner to cook, you might have your own kids to take to the park, laundry to-do, or a boss to reckon with. Somewhere, somehow, you will learn the constraints of our world. But not today.

As I watched you, I realized I could be like the grandmother and pull you from the magic land of wood chips and take you back to the world of time and accountability. But in that instant, I knew I needed those wood chips too.

So I went down next to you. I on my back, in light colored clothes -- immersed in a pile of wet, muddy wood chips; you in your jeans, kneeling, intently handing me each one.

We made the chips into a necklace. We built them into a tower. We stuck them down our shirts. We played catch with them. We pretended they were pizza. We imagined what they would say if they could speak. We smiled at them and pretended that they smiled back.

People mulled around the park, taking their dogs for ten-minute walks, skipping along on their thirty-minute jogs. I am sure they thought we were crazy.

When I next glanced at my watch, two hours had passed. We both had wood chips in our hair and mud on our clothes, but I don't think either of us has ever looked more beautiful.

You stood up, ready now, to go home. And I took your hand and we walked together.

When we got home -- I took out a pen and paper and in big black lettering I wrote: "Cherish Your Wood Chips." I stuck it in my daily-planner, right across from my to-do list.

Samantha, when I woke up this morning, I didn't know you would hand me one of the secrets to happiness. When I awoke this morning, I did not understand the value of a wood chip.

The next night we stopped and played in the park again. This time, there was a couple there with their little red-headed boy, who was probably about 2 1/2. She was ready to burst, overdue for delivery, and walking around the park trying to convince their soon-to-be-arriving little girl to go into labor. The little boy had a BIG bouncy ball as well as a regular-sized bouncy ball, and he was so nice to share with Eden. Actually, I think Eden had more fun watching him than anything else. It was so wonderful to watch her study him--how he ran, how he hit the ball--and watch her eventually warm up to him and start to share. Eventually, she was trying to chase him all over the park. Too cute.

Before I know it she'll be asking to go to the park by herself. Today I'll just revel in sorting wood chips. 

Appalachian Spring

There are few things more beautiful to me than sitting in my rocker and nursing my daughter to sleep while I watch the evening sky turn soft orange and blue behind a dark line of trees and listen to Aaron Copeland's Appalachian Spring.

I don't have much to pass on from you, Daddy, but Appalachian Spring takes me right back every time.

If my life had a soundtrack, it would be one of the defining themes.

I'm baa-ack, Part 2

So far, so "good".....

Work has actually been great for me. So far. I forgot how much I really love my work. I love having a handle on something that I'm good at. Something productive. Things have really changed in the office, but the core of my work is still there and I'm really looking forward to figuring out what next year will bring.

That said, the transition has not been without hurdles....As Debby put it, I think we were all worried about me and how I would handle it. I think we should have been more worried about Eden and Nate! Eden has decided to refuse a bottle. Which makes it hard on Nate and Debby because now they are dealing with a massively frustrated child any time they try and feed her. And she's hungry. Which means that, until she takes a bottle, I may be working shorter days and sleeping a lot less at night.

Nate's struggling, too. He has a lot of schoolwork due this week. At least he only has a few weeks left in school and then he'll be on break until late January. (What a relief that will be!) So, if we can just hang in there for a few more days of this I think we'll be in a much better place to handle the transition.

I must say, it is an odd and new feeling to wake up in the morning and have another soul to care for, feed, clothe and then...leave behind... I am getting much better about letting go and letting Nate take care of her. I think I was a bit selfish during my months at home. Not that it was a bad thing. He was busy and I was treasuring every single moment I had without work on the brain. Now it's his turn.

I must say, there is nothing like those big blue eyes lighting up at the sight of me after being gone all day, and the huge, huge grins she's giving us. Makes up for all the sad crying. She is growing so much every day. I'm so proud of her, and happy to be her momma.

Speaking of, she rolled over last Friday - I'll post a video soon!

Love to all. I've had lots of well-wishes and am hoping to update everyone at once via this post. (And thank you, Mom, for your email. I read the whole thing. And I'll call you soon!)

Love your day today. It's only going to happen once.

Eden's not the only one adjusting...

Okay, all you other mommies out there - this mommy is in need of a pep talk. None of my nursing or baby books have chapters about mommy developmental stages, but I think I'm going through one, and it's making me sad!

I felt like this about a week after we brought Eden home from the hospital. Overwhelmed, sad, completely in love with my baby but entirely unsure of my own self and surroundings. It didn't take long for me to find my rhythm of nursing and cuddling all day long. And the first month passed beautifully!!

But, now the real world is knocking. It's time for me to buck up and start taking care of the house. We can't eat takeout food forever. And, even though she hates being in the car I have to go out now and then for my own sanity's sake. I gotta figure out some way to juggle things.

I'm at a loss, though. I was such a busy body before Eden came along and now that I've spent a month catering solely to her needs I am skittish about attending to other things. But I miss feeling productive and in control. I'm not so naive as to think that I'm going to live the life the same way I did before. But, let's face it. I am a naturally busy person and there are many children who have wonderful lives despite their naturally busy mothers.

I guess I'm just trying to figure out who this new Molly is. On one hand I'm completely different --new priorities, new schedule, new lifestyle, new everything. On the other hand, I'm still Molly. Who is this new Molly-Mom? How will she handle things? What is important to her? How many car trips can she handle every week with her precious baby screaming bloody murder in the back seat?

So, all you other mommies out there, tell me you went through the same thing and that it gets better and not to worry. I'll figure out my new identity, won't I?

In the meantime, I'm going to go cuddle and nurse my little girl.

Touch and go...

It's bumpy road, these Workshop weeks.

I went up to visit Nate while he was in LA this past week. When he's at the workshop he's on, 24/7, and it's hard to get his attention. But I've seen him there enough by now that at least I know what to expect. It's hard to see him so stressed out. And I miss him while he's gone. And I miss the things that he's missing because he's too distracted to hear about them while he's gone. But in the grand scheme of things it's really not that bad. I can't imagine what military families go thorugh. That would be like the Workshop on steroids, times 100%. It was good to see him, though, and I know he misses being around to watch over me and make sure that Eden and I are okay.

Speaking of Eden, she is getting big enough now that her movements are further apart, but when she does move they are much more apparent. I can often feel her bones--maybe a heel or an elbow?--through my stomach. She must still be head-down, back out, because I think what I feel deep inside must be her arms and what I feel on the surface of my belly must be her legs and feet. She has become most definitely active between 4 and 6 p.m. and again later in the evening, around 9 or 10. I wonder what she looks like while she's moving around in there. It makes me smile when all of a sudden I get a 1-2-3 jab in the side; it's like our little secret that she's horsing around in there, and only she and I know it.

Anyway, now that I'm back I have to get used to living alone all over again. I've got a lot to do to keep me busy, which is the key to success. And there are other perks, like the bathroom stays cleaner longer, and the laundry doesn't pile up as quickly. For the record, though, I'd trade it all in a nanosecond to have Nate back home!

Home Sweet....Home?

Today continued the slow advance of "The Great Jarrell Family Clean-Out," otherwise known as "The Greatest Household Purge I've Ever Taken Part In."

Among other things, we moved the big bookshelf out of the music room into our bedroom, threw away another 5 or 6 garbage bags full of trash, and have yet another big pile of stuff to go to Goodwill tomorrow. Our little house is so tiny and so short on storage space that it's really taken a paring down to get everything to fit without that extra bedroom for storage.

I cannot believe how much crap we have been living with. And, seriously, I mean crap. We have not given away or tossed a single thing that we've used in the last year. Most things we haven't used in at least the last 2 years, if not longer. It's just stuff that's moved with us from place to place--things that have piled up along the way that we've been either too lazy or too sentimental to get rid of.

And, even though it's all useless to us right now, it is still hard to see it go. It's become familiar landscape to us, and it's odd to part with something so familiar. It feels like I'm losing a part of myself. Which is silly, because it's not a needed or useful part of myself.

Some things are items that we've enjoyed having over the past few years. Pots, picture frames, dishes, books.... But they are not the things we enjoy right now, so it is time for them to move on to become someone else's things to enjoy, so that we are able to make room for the things that we do currently use and need.

But.....my! Even this change is a little difficult.

Why do I feel a slight twinge of regret when I walk into our bedroom and see different furniture in there? A fleeting thought came and went that I should have taken a picture before we moved everything so that Eden would know what it looked like before we moved it all around for her.

What?!?!?

Perhaps it is just my irrational, tired, gestational brain that comes up with these hare-brained ideas. (Yeah, right; I used to be the most nostalgic pack rat I know. I think these are just momentary lapses.)

On the other hand, it's nice to get rid of the extra weight. It makes our home seem larger, and more peaceful. It isn't so difficult to find things any more (or to put them away, either.)

Still, I wonder if I've become at all obsessed with cleaning out our house. I wonder if I'll find myself dripping in the hall post-shower wondering where all the extra towels went, or rumaging though the bedroom trying to find a least one pair of pre-pregnancy pants. If we're lucky, Nate will still own all his guitars by the time we're done and we won't be missing any power cords to his amps.

Really, it makes me grateful for all that we do have. We live like royalty in a land of plenty, and everything we have is a gift.

Tucson Part 2: All's Well That Ends with Friends and Dry Heat

I opened the door of my hotel room and knew I had to get myself under control if I was going to get anything to eat. To my dismay, the wet towels from the earlier flood were piled up in the same place on the bathroom floor (where they had been since I first called the front desk at 12:30!). Already at the end of my rope with hotel, I called the front desk and politely said that the wet towels from earlier repairs were still on my bathroom floor and could they please come take care of it? Absolutely, they replied. Right away.

Mmmhmm.

Well, my dinner choices were limited at this point. It was 7:30 and I had no debit card to get cash because the bank had put a stop on our card due to travel (no complaints with the bank—they watch our account for us very well). Which is generally no problem; we just use our credit card for things until we call in to take off the stop. But I was tired and hungry and cashless. I considered ordering room service, but had no faith in the hotel to actually deliver said room service. I considered pizza, but had no patience to wait another hour for food. So, after a panicked phone call to Nate (poor Nate!) I grabbed the credit card and went down the gift shop.

Gift Shop Dinner
2 plastic individual bowls Frosted Shredded Wheat
1 small package beef jerky
1 ripe banana
1 apple
1 orange
1 frappacino-sized cup 2% milk
Spoon

The gift shop lady was SO nice. I was obviously distressed, and I told her I was buying dinner when she suggested I go next door and order something from the restaurant for dinner instead. She kept apologizing for what had happened to me, and ended up giving me the milk for free.

(Second Note: I’m sitting by the pool and Steve just came out and asked if I could be interested in a decaf double latte. Bliss. He makes really good lattes.)

I decided it was highly unlikely there were towels in my room at this point, so I stopped at the front desk on my way back up to my room to request a towel. There was a whole stack of towels on the desk, but the young man behind the desk had to go downstairs to get some more. (All day long, every individual I spoke with was extremely considerate and very friendly—almost sickeningly sweet—but none of them ever actually did anything. It was a very odd experience.)

Interestingly enough, once I got back up to my room I had 7 towels within 10 minutes. It was as if they don’t do housekeeping between noon and 7:30 p.m. I did a bad thing and left the wet towels in the hallway. When one of the two towel-deliverers brought me some towels I said, “You might want to take these wet ones, too. They’ve been in my room all day, ever since they fixed my broken toilet.”

She said, “I can’t pick them up without gloves.”

I said, “Yes, it was gross for me, too.”

“You should have called housekeeping.”

ARRRGGGGHHHHHH!! Okay, regain composure…

“I did call housekeeping: three times since 12:30.” (Or, at least, that’s what I assumed I was doing when I called the front desk and asked them to clean my room. Perhaps the front desk doesn’t have the number for housekeeping.)

Well, she did take care of them. I think all the people I was short with figured I was just a crazy lady with red-rimmed eyes and, hopefully, they noticed my baby belly and have known or been a pregnant lady at some point in time.

I ate my dinner (quite filling, actually) and tried to work on the Pulse. It was hard, though—I had been so upset and now I was really tired. More than anything I was frustrated because I knew that now I would have to spend time working on it while I was at Steve and Gayle’s house, which is NOT my idea of a good vacation.

But when Nate rounded the door into my conference room to pick me up the next day, and we walked out the door and I saw Steve and Gayle there by their car, arms wide open, I knew I was in the right place and all was okay. I must be like Pavlov’s dog, conditioned to associate relaxation and contemplation with this amazing locale and these wonderful people.

The warm, dry air is soft on my skin as I sit in the shade by the pool. The desert is beautiful, and full of wildlife. From their back porch I look out into a wash, full of Sonoran desert beauty: ocotillo, saguaro cactus, pallo verde. Rabbits, quail, and birds are most common. There are a million birds singing and hopping around, finding snacks in trees, cacti and holes in the ground. We also saw a hawk, and some turkey vultures. And, near dusk on our last day, I see a coyote strolling up the wash. The nearby rusty-brown mountains rise up to meet a brilliant blue sky, and it is beautiful beyond compare. And quiet.

Very quiet.

And all is well.

Tucson Part 1: Trouble in the Big City

Oh, my goodness… What extraordinary contentment met me when I saw Steve and Gayle yesterday afternoon, outside the Hotel Arizona in sunny Tucson.

It certainly did not begin that way. The last two weeks have been extraordinarily difficult. Time at home was a rarity, and time with Nate rarer still; with work demands and all my extracurricular activities coming to a head, and a sudden plethora of gigs and other work demanding Nate spend his time away from home, working to help pay for our staggering tax bill.

Early Friday morning, Nate dropped me off at the airport in front of the Southwest terminal. I was unusually productive for the hour or so before my flight to Tucson boarded, which gave me a feeling that the day might end up being a productive and successful one. I had an IABC meeting to attend—one of two annual meetings for president-elects prior to their taking the helm of their respective local chapters. Unfortunately, the meeting coincided directly with the writing and editing phase of our monthly Pulse newsletter, of which I am editor.

This would not have been an issue if Nate and I had not planned a little mini-vacation with Steve and Gayle at their Tucson home, post-conference. We stayed here with them last year for a few days, and it was the most relaxing and enjoyable vacation we have ever had. Steve and Gayle are co-directors with Nate for the National Guitar Workshop, and they have spent many weeks together every summer traveling the West Coast and overseeing the week-long guitar camps put on by the NGW. So we have become great friends along the way.

My plan was to skip out on the group dine-around that evening and finish up the Pulse in my hotel room. Then, my mind could be free for a few days until we returned home.

Ah, plans. Little did I know a perfect storm was brewing.

When I arrived at the hotel at 10:30 a.m. I told the front desk I knew I was very early, but did they have any rooms they could give me for early check-in. (I was very tired and banking on a morning nap to get me through the day.) But no, they could not “check anyone in until 3 p.m.,” so I inquired as to the surroundings and got a code to log on to the free wireless. I figured I would make the best of it and work on the Pulse now.

After a watery bean and cheese burrito I settled at a table outside the restaurant with a Twix bar and a large glass of milk (to try and get the burrito taste out of my mouth). I checked my email and worked a little on the newsletter, but was soooo sleepy I could barely hold my head up. Oh, well.

(Note: Gayle just brought me a ramekin full of lightly sugared strawberries and purple grapes. She is the consummate hostesss!)

At noon I had reached a new low for myself and figured I would go beg the front desk to at least let me sleep on a couch somewhere (this is what pregnancy will do to you—it takes you to a place of extreme desperation that does away with any inhibitions you might have otherwise possessed.) When I got up to the desk, they were checking in a group of ladies so I took my place in line and checked in like the rest of them. SCORE. I had a bed. And time for a quick 30-minute nap before my meeting started.

On my way out I went to the bathroom (a common occurrence in pregnancy) and then changed out of my travel clothes into meeting clothes. When I went to turn off the bathroom light I noticed the floor was flooded and the toilet still running. So I called the front desk and said there was a flooding emergency. They said they would take care of it, so off to my meeting I went.

At our 3:00 break, Rob, one of my colleagues, said he needed to go check on his room because earlier his bathroom ceiling had been leaking water.

I said, “What a coincidence! I had water problems, too. My toilet overflowed earlier.”

Rob said, “What floor are you on?”

“Four.”

“I’m on three! What room are you in?”

“Four-twenty.”

“No way!! I’m in three-twenty!”

At which time I had to reassure Rob that it was not dirty water that had been overflowing through his ceiling, just running water. I’m still not quite sure he believed me. On his return, Rob told me the problem was taken care of (though the room still messy) so I assumed my room was in the same state of repair and we both assumed that housekeeping would replenish our towel supplies and wipe down the floors by the time we returned from our meeting, at 5:30.

Ah, no. That didn’t happen.

When I got back up to my room at 5:30 I called the front desk again, said that my room had been fixed of a leaky toilet but that all my towels were wet on the floor and could they come take care of that and bring me new towels. “Of course! We’ll take care of that for you right away,” they said.

I tried to work on the Pulse a bit, but it was gaining on 6 p.m. and I really wanted to get some food and disappear back to my room before the crowd met for dinner in the lobby at 6:30. I was really hungry (my last meal was the watery burrito at 10:45) and didn’t want to wait until after they had gone, so I thought I’d slip down to the restaurant and order a burger to-go.

But I met everyone in the lobby.

Don’t get me wrong—I love these people, and I had things I needed to talk with them about. But I was exhausted, hungry, and near wit’s end and only wanted to be in my room, eating and getting my work done so I could go to sleep.

I ordered my burger and sat down with them while I waited. 30 minutes passed and they left, and I went to check on my hamburger. They sent three people back to check on it over the next 30 minutes, none of which returned until the manager came back out at 7 p.m. and asked me what exactly my order had been; they needed to put it in again.

At this point, I was holding back tears and was SO hungry and tired that all I could blurt out was, “Don’t cook anything. I’m pregnant and I’m starving and I just need to eat. I cannot wait anymore. Thanks, though.”

At the end of my rope, I walked as fast as I could through the hotel lobby to the elevators, trying not to let the tears fall or look noticeably upset. At the last minute I decided to take the stairs, unable to face an elevator ride with another human being. I couldn’t hold back the sobs on my way up the four flights of stairs to my room, and by the time I got to room 420 I was fully sobbing, out of breath, and really—really—hungry.

(to be continued…)

Coming Full Circle

Last Tuesday we found out I was pregnant!!!

When we first looked at the test it didn't seem real. We had to keep looking again. Yep, the line was still there! I have never before seen some of the expressions that flitted across Nate's face that night: incredulity, excitement, disbelief, panic. (Well, not really panic. But, yes, in a way, panic! This was really happening!)

Neither of us slept very well that night from all the excitement. Nathan immediately began singing songs and giving admonitions to my belly. He would periodically check to see how the "blob" was doing. And we couldn't help but tell people! Our miracle had happened! It worked! We did it! Hooray, Nate and Molly!!!! Now, we were three.

By Thursday, I was worried. I kept spotting, and not just a little. Nathan and I weren't quite sure how to handle it, and ended up on a roller coaster of high hopes and guarded expectations. All through the weekend, nothing changed. Then, on Monday, I started cramping around noon. By four, I knew I was in for it, but didn't want to take any ibuprofen just in case. I stayed at work too late, knowing I wouldn't be back for a few days, trying to get as much done as I could before it hurt too badly. But I misjudged how fast and how hard it would hit, and on the way home I had to pull over and call Nate, in tears, and he gallantly rushed to come pick me up and take me home.

He is unequivocally, hands-down, the most amazing, wonderful and steadfast man in the world, and I can not imagine a better partner and friend. We are a great team, he and I. I love you, babe.

Everyone at work is spectacular, I must say. I had to fight the urge to go back the next day and take care of things, but they all insisted I take the rest of the week off. Which, at the time, seemed excessive to me; but Nate wanted me to stay home, too, so I did. And I am SO glad I did. I can not recapture in words how precious and incredibly healing these few days have been, home alone, just Nathan and I. There is no safer place than when we are in each others' arms in our own private little space in the world.

So peaceful.

And knowing that I have the overwhelming support of not just my family, but every single person at work, too, makes me feel even safer.

What will Nate's face look like next time? We will be overjoyed, I know! And, perhaps, a little scared, too, but that is alright. If anything, this showed us how much we want to be parents, and how ready we are to step into this next chapter of our lives. It is hard to have to wait. But....trying is half the fun.... <wink!>

And then, early Wednesday morning, little Susanna was born in Michigan. What a miracle! We have come full circle in just one week.

So, I love you, little one. Whenever you come, and I can hardly wait to meet you.

Dust and ashes

The wind whipped through my hair and sent white ashes flying through the air like campfire snow. Sounds of a thousand broken pottery pieces rang out like a choir of tiny windchimes as we ran our hands through the rubble, searching for treasures. Occasionally, my mask would shift and I could taste the ash on my toungue.

Last Saturday, Nathan and I joined about 20 other people to sift through the ashes of a 2,800 two-story house that had burned to the ground in Ramona. The fire burned so hot that the ashes only piled up about 6" to 18" on the slab. The owner wanted us to sift through to see if we could find anything recognizable, in hopes that we could recover something of value or document the losses for insurance. There wasn't much to find. Occasionally we ran across a melted shoe, a shred of paper, or a broken trinket, but for the most part everything was either dust or melted.

Melted glass, by the way, is beautiful.

What impressed me most about the day was how everyone came together to make good out of a terrible situation. It must have been emotional for the homeowners to see a hoard of strangers sifting through the dusty remains of what used to be their home. On the other hand, I know it meant a lot to her to see everyone looking so carefully for something to retrieve.

Mom and Dad were there, and brought their tractor. What a blessing they were! And with the tractor's help we were able to clear the entire slab in one day.

Here's to tired backs and aching muscles.
To the many memories and the budding dreams.
Here's to finding strangers to unite toward a common goal.
Here's to moving on.