Loop de Loop Kind of Life

I'll never forget my first time on a roller coaster.  It was at Darien Lake in NY where our high school band had competed in the annual Battle of the Bands.  After performing, we were free to enjoy all the rides. 

My sister wanted to ride the roller coasters.

I did too, but at that point in my life fear played a big role, so I was scared to death.  I remember that we were the first in line for the next ride.  I wanted to run.  I'm not sure if it was being too proud to back out on my little sister, being too susceptible to peer pressure, or inwardly suspecting I'd regret not going at least once, but we went.

It took me all of 2 seconds to realize I was a roller coaster junkie.  I love the fear in the pit of my stomach when I lock in, the lurch and clang as the cars begin to move, the sickening drop of the car ahead of you plunging into nothingness, and the rhythmic swirling as you lean into the loops.  I just plain love the rush.  

Here's the thing about roller coasters: they're fun because they're temporary.  Can you imagine if every car ride were a roller coaster ride?  Maybe not so bad as a passenger, but would you want to drive that commute every day?  

I wouldn't.  

Yet here I am, living what can only be termed a roller coaster life.  Each day is filled with highs: my kids and I singing along with Tina Turner at the top of our lungs as we drive down the highway.  Each day is filled with lows: my son calling me "stupid mommy" at the top of his lungs while his sister screeches at him to "give me back my pony!"  

And in between . . . holy mackerel!  We race from the former to the latter at breakneck speed, sometimes feeling as if the journey is shaking us to pieces.  

Miraculously, however, sunset usually finds us coasting smoothly into the staging area, windblown, breathless, but laughing all the same.  

It's quite the ride! 

Let Freedom Ring

I've been thinking about freedom today.  The Bible says, "It is for freedom that Christ set you free."  It's a stirring sentiment.  But what does it mean? 

In counseling, I've been practicing something called the "Emotional Freedom Technique."  I like a couple of things about EFT.  The first is that it immediately (usually!) reduces the intensity of negative emotions.  It takes the "ouch" out of a situation, allowing me to be less reactive, less angry, less "stuck." 

The other thing I really like is that it enables me to take a situation and isolate the individual feelings/triggers and deal with them one at a time, rather than trying to handle them all at once.  I sort of liken it to swatting flies: with one, you take your time, follow it, and nail it.  With a whole swarm, you swat around blindly and generally end up hitting yourself in the face without killing a single fly. 

What does all this have to do with "freedom"?

At the end of counseling today I realized that what I wanted more than anything was to be free from the particular issues we were discussing.  The thing that surprised me was that the freedom I thought about was multi-faceted.  I didn't just want to be free of the immediate pain, I wanted to be free of seeing myself in relationship to the situation at all.  I wanted to be able to make choices without reacting to it, either positively or negatively. 

I wanted to view it as fact, but to have no visceral response, to have no sense of regret or waste or stupidity or just plain bad judgement.  I didn't want to spend the rest of my life--the rest of the day--being defined by it.  I wanted to embody Paul's words: "Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead . . . "  

Whole treatises can be written on the freedom we have in Christ.  Freedom from sin.  Freedom from punishment.  Freedom from death.  From guilt. 

Then there are the freedom "to's":  freedom to be in relationship with God, to be holy, to obey, to be filled with the Spirit and His gifts, to serve others, to be an ambassador for Christ, to love, to forgive. 

I was reminded today in a fresh and new way that it is God who has set me free . . . spiritually, relationally, emotionally, physically.  The work is done.  It's time for me to get with the program and embrace it. 

His work is Freedom.  For me.  For my kids.  For you. 

"He whom the Son sets free is free indeed!"

Sick Days

On Sunday, after spending a delightful visit with my aunt and uncle, I started getting a terrible sore throat.  I thought is was from talking too much.  I was wrong.  By the time I finished with brass quartet and choir rehearsals at church, I was in agony. 

Then my ex brought the kids home from Daddy Day.  I met them at the car, and my daughter (uncharacteristically) stood in the driveway bawling her eyes out.  He tells me, "She's been sick all day." 

My first thought--even as I realized how glad I was that I'd had the day to myself--was to wonder why he hadn't brought her home to rest if she was sick. 

My second thought was, "That's why my throat hurts!" 

My third thought was, "Oh no!  We're all going to be sick!" 

I've been a mom for over four years now.  I'm no stranger to "sick days."  But this is one of the things I've been dreading since I first learned I was getting divorced: my first solo sick day. 

It's a little weird that I worried about it because, to be honest, I can only think of two situations when I've been so sick that I've been unable to care for the rest of the house.  The first was when Ranita was an infant and I had mastitis--I called my ex then because I was so weak I was afraid I'd drop the baby.  The second was about a year ago.  I can't remember what I had, but I was sick enough that even my crying kids couldn't drag me out of bed.

Handling it alone and knowing you are alone are two very different things, however.  There are the little things, like the fact that I can no longer take NyQuil at night.  (The stuff knocks me out cold!  I used to wait for my ex to get home before taking it because I wanted to make sure someone else was in the house before I zonked out.) 

So Sunday night I rocked my little girl to sleep.  I got up with her in the middle of the night.  I gave up altogether at 2am, and the two of us spent the night snuggled on the couch . . . until my son got up at 5:30am. 

We watched movies all morning.  (Can we just say that I now know all 3 Madagascar movies inside and out?!)  All three of us curled up on the couch, and we stayed in the house all day.  We all went down for naps at 1pm and slept until 4pm.  We all needed to rest . . . and we did. 

Tuesday was similar, though Chinchita and I were starting to feel better.  It was Ranita's turn to be down in the dumps.  Mommy felt invigorated enough to do laundry and the dishes, clean the fish tanks, clean the bathroom, permanently "relocate" a mouse who trapped himself in my bathtub, vacuum, and take care of some post-divorce stuff.  (Go Mommy!) 

The kids rallied enough for a short pool session, but that was it. 

Today we're about 70%.  I'm shooting for 95% tomorrow!

What I learned, of course, is that I can do this.  There will be times when it is more than a bad cold, and we'll have to call in reinforcements, and that will be okay.  To be honest, even this time I wasn't completely alone. 

My sister rearranged child care so I could keep my sick self (and munchkins) home.  I put off grocery shopping a couple days longer than I thought I could . . . and we ate well all the same!  A friend texted me reminding me our struggle is against powers and principalities in the heavenly realms, not just what we see.  And we made it through!

Best of all, a sick day is no longer something to fear!  (Achoo!)

Recuperation Day

The day after a big project is over (like VBS), I usually give our little family a "day off"--a Recuperation Day, I call it.  The funny thing about Recuperation Days is that they're usually worse than whatever you're trying to recover from!

There are some legitimate reasons for this.  First is the energy letdown.  After exerting so much energy into any activity, it is natural for the body to crash.  Mine crashes hard.  Same with my kids.

The second is the catching up that faces you: groceries, laundry, dishes.  Everything that got pushed to the side suddenly shows up right in front of you and seems overwhelming all at once.  

Today had a special trial: I've lost my bracelet.  My special bracelet.  The one I've written about and love dearly.  Have no idea what happened to it.  I had it Sunday, put it on the kitchen counter when I replaced the piston in my washer, seem to remember one of my kids coming up to me with it, telling them to put it back . . . gone. 

I have come up with two possible solutions.  Either I threw it away with the recycling, which is hard to believe, but the only thing I can imagine, or whichever kid had it put it somewhere odd and it's waiting for Mommy to stumble upon it sometime in the future. 

I was a little worked up about it, to say the least.  Finally, I sat in my room and practiced a form of self-accupuncture my counselors introduced me to last week.  It worked.  The wild emotions went away. 

I was still sad and frustrated--mostly with myself--but I was calm.  I sat down with my kids and let them know that, as much as I loved my bracelet, what was most important was what it represented: them.  I have them, and that's what matters.  We "hugged it out," as my sister says. 

We slogged through the day as best as we could and finished up with an after-supper swim (my solution to all the troubles in my world!). 

I'd like to take a second to say my little boy is a fish!  At four, he is swimming underwater, doing both the crawl and the breast stroke underwater.  His frog kick is a little wonky, but he just started this week!  I am totally impressed.  I KNOW I did not swim that well at 4. 

And his sister is determined to keep up with him.  She is practicing holding her breath and "swimming" under my outstretched arms.  It's more like she dunks under the water and I move my arms so she thinks she did it, but I'm proud of her all the same.  Talented kids, those kids of mine!

And now it is time to sleep . . . to recuperate from Recuperation Day!

Songs for the Weary

It's 7:30 on Friday night.  The kids are in bed.  I'm in my pj's.  We just finished up a very long, very fun, very energetic week of Deep Sea Discovery VBS.  My ex confirmed my suspicion that he'll be taking his girlfriend to our honeymoon location next weekend.  It's 87 degrees F in my little house, my amazingly messy little house.  (Give me a break . . . I haven't been home all week!) 

What do I do? 

I think about lullabies. 

I think it's nothing short of a travesty that lullabies are considered little more than ways to coerce infants into sleeping.  They are one of the purest forms of comfort.  So here are some of my favorites . . . the ones I turn to over and over again for my kids . . . and sometimes myself!

1.  Frère Jacques (I always sing it to my kids in French . . .)

2.  Lullabies and Nightsongs Set I by Wilder, Arr. Lang  (I looked for a recording . . . used to have one from when I performed it in a choir as a teenager . . . sheet music for most of it was the best I could do.  If you ever find a recording, buy it.)  

3.  Brahm's "Lullaby"  (I always sing this to my kids in German . . . just seems like the right thing to do!)

4.  Desert Lullaby (First heard this on Pandora . . . makes me want to cry every time I hear/sing it.) 

5. Hush, Little Baby (I change the words indiscriminately!) 

6.  Songs I made up for my kids, generally in Spanish, but in English, too.

7.  Summertime (I know . . . not a lullaby . . . I sing it like one, though!) 

8.  The Old Rugged Cross (Also not a lullaby . . . but it always makes me feel good . . . them, too!) 

9.  All the Pretty Horses (Fell in love with during master class at Wheaton when one of my classmates sang it!)   

10.  All Through the Night (You HAVE to listen to this version . . . gorgeous voice!) 

  

I do NOT sing Rock-a-Bye Baby.  Babies falling out of trees?  Really?  When my son insists--others sang it to him!--I change the words.  Makes me feel better!  

Good night, sleep tight, friends.  Don't let the bed bugs bite! (Is that better than cradles falling . . .?!)

Cracked Mirrors

In my counseling session last night, my therapist said something that has been tumbling around in my head like tennis shoes in a dryer: "I don't want to see myself through a cracked mirror." 

Her comment came as I processed the messages of worthlessness I internalize from the behavior of those around me. 

(But not all those around me, mind you.  Why is it that the one person who treats me like refuse is so much easier to believe than the dozens who treat me like a diamond, even if a diamond in the rough?) 

Sitting at the keyboard tonight, her words remind me of I Corinthians 13 which my High Road leaders had us memorize.  (Thank you, Anita and Kathy!)  Verse 12 reads, "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." 

It has been my habit, I think, to believe that those around me see me "face to face."  I am a pretty transparent individual, after all.  There isn't much mystery here!  So when my honesty and openness is met with derision, confusion, rejection, betrayal, or just plain disdain, I believe that to be a fair and accurate evaluation of my self and my character. 

What I never take into account is the fact that the other person is a cracked mirror. 

Well, almost never. 

If my sister tells me I'm pretty, I discount her words as those of a too-kind best friend and sibling.  If someone in church compliments my trumpet playing, I tell myself they have not heard many trumpeters.  If someone tells me I'm a good writer, I quickly remind myself of my stack of rejection slips. 

Why do I dismiss these people?  It is because I believe them to be, in some way, a cracked mirror.  But my critics?  Somehow I give them credit for complete honesty, perfect vision, infallible judgment. 

You know what the kicker is?  The people in my life that I respect the most, the ones I most want to emulate, the ones who have proven themselves to be faithful and true in every aspect of their lives, those are the ones whose opinions I find so hard to trust.  I think they are just being kind because, for some unfathomable reason, they love me. 

There is something to that.  Love does cover a multitude of sins, allowing us to forgive foibles . . . even ignore them . . . in those most valuable to us. 

It is also true that all of us, in our own unique ways, are cracked.  All of us see but dimly at times. 

However, there's a difference between a mirror with a hairline fracture along the outside edge and one with a spiderweb radiating from the center and reaching to the outermost edges.  The first may distort a couple details; the second will render an image virtually unrecognizable from the original object. 

I am finished with the spiderweb reflection.  With God's grace, I am going to look deeply into the reflections I receive from my family (most of the time!), my dearest friends, my spiritual mentors (who are often my dearest friends as well) and trust their images, as I know I can trust their character. 

Most importantly, I am going to trust the words of the One who knows me better than anyone, the One who made me, the One who redeemed me.  He says I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  He says I am a princess: the child of the King of Kings, the younger sister to the Prince of Peace.  He promises that He has plans to prosper me and not to harm me, plans to give me a hope and a future. 

I am tempted to doubt.  It is so easy to doubt.  BUT, my God cannot lie.  It is against His nature to do so.  He could not lie even to cover up my sin and spare the life of his beloved Son. 

So who am I going to believe?  The Creator?  Or the Destroyer?  The Truth and the Light?  Or the Father of Lies and the Prince of Darkness?  The One who Forgives?  Or the One who Condemns? 

This night, who are YOU going to believe? 

Props for Publisher

Warning!  My graphic design peeps are going to hate this post!

Although I am by no means a graphic designer, I have had to do quite a bit of basic graphic design.  Postcards, newspaper ads, websites, that kind of thing.  Because I am virtually self-taught--and not an Apple user!--I have found Microsoft Publisher to be a lifesaver. 

Why do I like Publisher?  Ahh, where to start?!

1.  I like the fact that I can set my page size quickly and easily. 
2.  I like that you can print multiple copies of the same page (think postcard) on a larger page (think 8.5"x11") with the click of one button.  (I dare you to do it in Word . . . even the hacks didn't work for me!) 
3.  Grouping, ordering, and arranging text boxes, photos, clip art, etc. is EASY!!!! 

In short, Publisher is my friend. 

Why, then, you might ask, did I futz around with Word for an hour and a half today on a postcard only to finally give up and return to Publisher?  Well, the last time I used Publisher, it kept crashing.  As soon as I opened the file I wanted to work on, POOF!  One of my not-so-friendly error messages appeared--Microsoft has encountered a problem . . . blah, blah, blah--and the program shut down. 

I have since run several recovery sessions, but I didn't want to frustrate myself (ha!), so I used Word.  BAD CHOICE!

I was able to design the thing easily, but getting four copies to print on one page proved to be nigh impossible.  I adjusted page size.  I designed 4 on one page.  I even tried converting to PDFs.  Nope.  Did not want to work for me. 

Out of desperation, I returned to the old standby.  Five minutes later--literally--I have 16 gorgeous full-color postcards on glossy photo paper ready for tomorrow. 

I have only one complaint about Publisher (aside from its strange crashing experience a few months back): the lack of a free Android app version.  Microsoft has them for Excel, Word, and a few other programs I have no interest in even exploring.  What's the deal with my Publisher?  I've experimented with the "free" trial version of the entire Microsoft Office and hated it.  Is it really so hard to make my Publisher mobile? 

I would like to think they'll come around and realize that the world needs Publisher for tablet, but  I fear they never will.  At least I have it on my laptop . . . at least until my next Microsoft Meltdown!

It's in the Bag

I have been struggling mightily with "doing" forgiveness, particularly in showing kindness to my ex.  To be honest, I haven't been kind at all.  "Frigid" is probably closer to the mark.  I have made a commitment to forgive, so my unforgiving behavior has been weighing on me.  It is one thing to decide to do something; it is altogether different to actually do it.  And wanting to do it?  Different planets!

Anyway, in Sunday School this week we were studying 1 John 1.  Verses 6-8 read, "If we claim to have fellowship with [God] yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live by the truth.  But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.  If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us." 

Ugh. 

(You know God loves you when you simply cannot go to church without having Him speak directly to a sin in your life!  I am very loved by God!) 

I'd been making all kinds of excuses for myself.  Forgiveness takes time.  This has been a deep, personal betrayal.  Don't expect so much from yourself. 

They're nice excuses.  Plausible excuses.  Universal excuses.  In reality, however, they come down to two pernicious lies.  1.  It's okay to hold onto a little bitterness, anger, and even hatred if the hurt is of sufficient magnitude.  2.  His sins are worse than mine. 

God's truth doesn't say that.  He says to get rid of wrath and hatred and anger.  He says all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.  Period. 

By the time we got halfway through class, I knew I had to apologize to my ex when he picked the kids up for Daddy Day.  Galling?  A little.  Purifying?  A lot. 

After the kids left with him, I loaded the dishwasher and talked to God.  I told Him, for the first time in my life, "I feel like I see the woman You're making me to be, and I like her.  I don't like who I am right now, but I like who I'm going to be." 

I shared that sentiment with a dear college roommate, and she said I was "marinating."  How I love that image!  Like a tough cut of venison, God is soaking me in a bag filled with all kinds of acidic, caustic substances designed to soften the rigid muscles (heart of flesh, anyone?!), add flavor, and transform second-rate stew beef into a gourmet meal. 

By the time I'm done, I'll be a meal fit for a King! 

Excel Headache

I hate Excel. 

Okay, so I really love Excel, but not at this particular moment.  Last night I spent hours creating beautiful, functional spreadsheets for my VBS that started today.  I had registration charts, badge data sheets, schedules . . . all kinds of things.  I printed them all out.  Gorgeous. 

I pressed save. 

I forgot something, so I immediately went back to reopen it when . . . UNBELIEVABLE!  Only one sheet existed in my file of formerly many.  Could the big data sheet have survived?  Nope.  Of course not.  All I got was some piddling list of first names with nothing else.  Virtually useless. 

Because I was doing this at midnight, I blamed operator error.  I had been copying and pasting like a fiend, so perhaps I had inadvertently copied the useless sheet onto the useful sheet before saving. 

Tonight I am convinced that is not the case because . . . if you can believe it . . . it happened AGAIN!!!!  Only worse because I had more data entered.  Oh yeah, I lost all the data from last night (that I had to re-enter) PLUS new data from today!  PLUS my fancy formatting, which everyone knows is really the biggest thing.  Data entry goes pretty quickly. 

I was really careful this time, too.  I literally saved after every little change.  And really, it's not even 10:30pm.  It is practically the middle of the day compared to the hours I have been working.  This should not have occurred. 

The kicker is that I use Excel all the time and have never had anything like this happen.  I have financial records dating back 4 years all in the same file.  (With color-coded tabs for active/inactive!) I used to simultaneously manage 6 grants at one time using ONE Excel file.  This is NOT rocket science. 

There is only one thing I can figure might have happened.  Both times the documents actually originated from an on-line source.  (You know the type: online forms that collect your data and have an option to "download as an Excel spreadsheet."  Usually works like a charm.)  When saving them, they gave a pesky little warning about saving in a different form because of different versions of Excel, blah blah blah. 

I usually ignore that warning because, frankly, I don't care if the yellow on my screen is the same yellow on the printed page or if Times New Roman prints more like Calibri.  I use older versions of Excel with 2007 all the time without difficulty. 

As I think back, however, I think this warning was a little different.  I seem to remember something about "comma delimited" something or other.  Hmmm.  I know that refers to how the program recognizes breaks in data, etc.  I thought is was a superficial formatting thing; I didn't think it would preclude saving multiple sheets. 

I have to say, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.  Why let me create the additional sheets in the first place if I can't keep them both?  Why not make an annoying dinging sound and give me a pop-up that says, "Hey, Dopey, this file format does not accommodate multiple pages.  Please save as a different format before trying to create additional sheets." 

Oh wait a minute . . . I guess maybe it did . . .

Paradise Regained . . . Momentarily!

Last night I ended my blog with a heart-felt longing for a plain, old "good" day.  Today, I got it.  It wasn't perfect . . . I was there, after all! . . . but it was "perfect enough," as my counselors would say. 

We didn't do anything too spectacular.  The kids finished watching Finding Nemo that we started almost a week ago and didn't finish.  (They don't like the shark part . . . or the angler fish part . . . or the whale part . . . too scary . . . so tell me again why they insist on watching the movie???) 

Then we went to WalMart to get last-minute supplies for VBS.  (Naturally, I forgot the sticky tack . . . looks like a trip to the Dollar Store before Monday!)  We ran into my cousin whom I haven't seen since before my daughter was born, so that was very fun!

I put the air conditioner in the kids' room before nap time.  I must say that I, personally, do not like air conditioners, the exception being when I was pregnant.  (Women really are taken over by aliens at that time, and I implore every soon-to-be-father to be patient with the poor mother-to-be, regardless of how many times she may or may not have done it before.  She really has no control over anything at that time, particularly her susceptibility to heat, smells, broken finger nails, bad hair days, Law & Order SVU episodes, and puppy pictures.  PLEASE give her a break.) 

On the topic of air conditioners, though, my kids take after their father in this respect and suffer greatly in the heat.  Last night little Chinchita could not sleep, and when I finally tucked her in around midnight, she was drenched in sweat and looked miserable.  I vowed I'd get the air conditioner in for them today. 

Mind you, I've never installed a window air conditioner before and approached this task with trepidation.  It took a little muttering, a little opening, closing, re-opening of the window, and a final smack to close the corner again, but I did it.  Coolness for the kids! 

In their now-comfortable room we read Curious George.  Chinchita napped.  Ranita and I did a Thomas puzzle for the first time in weeks. 

We played in the pool. 

I love our pool.  It has a leak I can't locate in the air ring around the top, so I blow it up a minimum of once every day.  The pump and filter are too small, so I have to clean that daily and replace weekly. 

It is the best purchase I have ever made.  (I say "I" because my husband at the time did not think we needed a pool.  He didn't . . . we did!) 

In the pool, we laugh.  We frolic.  We sing.  We relax.  We are free of email, texts, phone calls, Facebook updates, and even the radio.  It is just we three.  It is heavenly. 

My son swam underwater for the first time today.  My daughter, not to be outdone, learned how to blow bubbles underwater without inhaling half the pool. 

I, for a moment, pitied my ex and felt that I did indeed get the best end of our divorce.  It is true that he will forever be the "fun" parent, the one who shows up for semi-weekly Daddy Days and whisks them off to dinner at Applebee's and jaunts in the park and hikes along the bike path.  He will forever be spared the day-to-day grind of broken glasses and before-bed toy pick-ups and being tired of being so darn responsible all the time. 

But he'll never have an ordinary magical summer of day-after-day pool times.  He'll never know just how remarkable it is to slog through the unending tedium and monotony of parenthood and get rewarded with an hour of perfection, right outside your back door, no traveling required.  I really am the lucky one. 

To top it all off, tonight my son picked up his toys.  No fighting.  I admit this resulted from a moment of brilliance on my part.  (Don't be too impressed . . . my brilliance was preceded by one of my less-than-brilliant moments earlier in the evening . . . I pray they all balance out in the end!)

Anyway, Ranita is in a bellicose place right now, and tonight he "couldn't" clean up because he was protecting us from "bad guys" with a drumstick in one hand and a chainsaw in the other.  I looked at him and said, "I know!  Let's pretend all the toys in the living room are bad guys and you need to protect us by taking them all to jail!" 

He went for it!  So much so, that he even put the toys in the right places because some had to go to maximum security prison and some were only minimum security.  The living room looks amazing! 

A good day, indeed. 

Happy Anniversary?

Yesterday, on the one-week anniversary of my divorce, I:

• Scheduled an emergency trip to the eye doctor after my son bent the arm of his glasses by slamming a book on them
• Took two dogs and two children to the vet (all without shoes because the ones who should have been wearing them left the house without them after I told them to put them on 3 times, and I refused to turn around and let them put them on . . . lesson learned?)  
• Held my dogs for the vet, each quiet during their own examination but howling like dervishes during the other's exam . . . can't tell you why, can only say it is VERY annoying!
• Spent $400 dollars on canine wellness visits, flea/tick preventative, rabies shots, and the like...nearly swooned at the bill.  
• Came home and actually went in the pool--first time this season--long enough for black clouds to move in and begin pelting us with rain.  
• Let the kids watch National Velvet while I made lunch.  
• Served lunch, only to have my son refuse to eat and choose bed instead.  
• Read kids "princess" story (a Cinderella knock-off about the "perfect wedding" . . . can I just say it took everything within me not to gag?!).  
• Gave up on naps after an hour and dragged kids to Wal-Mart for essentials like Pull-Ups, watermelon, and color ink cartridges.  
• Earned 50 cents on Ibotta for the watermelon and was entered to win a shopping spree on Checkout 51. 
• Went to the eye doctor.  Read Stellaluna to my kids for the dozenth time.  Eye doctor managed to salvage eye glasses...for the moment.  Was informed that the backup pair I ordered from Zenni has a 50% chance of arriving with the wrong prescription.  Yippee.  (Wish I could have seen into the future and known the child would rip the arm off his repaired pair today . . . I would have just given in and bought the several hundred-dollar pair of pretzel glasses...first thing Monday morning . . . !)  
• Came home and rush-prepared for my final VBS meeting before the actual event.  
• Barely spoke to ex when he came for Daddy Day.  Am struggling with the whole being cordial thing . . . life is a bit overwhelming right now, and I confess I blame much of it on him.  
• Sobbed like crazy the entire 45-minute car ride to VBS meeting.  Can't imagine what other drivers were thinking.  Don't really care.  
• Ran VBS meeting . . . started to panic . . . it'll be okay . . . won't it?
• Listened to VBS music on the way home, felt guilty about the raging hatred I feel for my ex.  Prayed.  
• Came in slightly less hateful.  
• Thought about writing this blog, and just couldn't do it.  Read a book instead and went to bed.  

Am praying for one sunrise-to-sunset GOOD day . . . with play and fun and happiness and without stress and tantrums and work . . . I seem to think I used to have those once upon a time . . . 

Top Ten Temper Tantrum Topics

No, this blog is not about my temper tantrums!  I throw them, but "it's not about me" right now!

It's about my kids. 

They are expert tantrum throwers.  After a week of surviving said tantrums, I thought I'd list the top ten tantrum topics . . . the things that will set my kids into orbit faster than any other. 

1. Being told, "We're not watching TV."  (It's not like they live on it, but they are little addicts like their Mama . . . )
2. Being sent to bed without a Bible story.  (Gotta say, kinda proud of that one!  Doesn't happen often, but when it does you know we had a BAD day . . . !)  
3. Having to brush with "big kids' toothpaste" rather than "baby toothpaste."  (Can't figure this one out . . . it's the one time they're allowed to spit!)  
4. Having a toy taken away because it was used as a weapon.  (Well, duh...)
5. Being told they cannot wear a down coat when it's 85 degrees F outside.  (Again . . . really?)
6. Having a toy taken away because it was deliberately disassembled when it was most assuredly not a construction toy (i.e. the hamburgers in "Pop the Pig" . . . how DID he get them apart, anyway?!)
7. Any form of discipline that arises after inflicting damage to one's glasses.  (Oh, yeah . . . Mommy will be taking an unscheduled trip to the eye doctor AGAIN tomorrow to try to repair the arm on his specs . . . I cannot WAIT until his Zenni pair arrives . . . I hope they fit!!)
8. Being put in the bathtub due to an accident.  (Do they really WANT excrement all over them?)
9. Being asked to consume leftovers.  Even though they loved the original the night before.  Go figure.  
10. Alternately: getting hugs/kisses from Mommy, not getting hugs/kisses from Mommy.  (This applies most particularly to my daughter, but my son is not immune.  I think my kids are turning into cats: they want what they want when they want it and will not be cajoled, forced, or otherwise persuaded to do anything else at any time or for any reason.)  

So there they are.  There are more, but these are the most common ones.

If your kid has a favorite tantrum trigger, put it in the comments.  The other moms and dads out there have been there!

The Water Bottle Battle

Looking back, if I had taken a page out of my parents' book of Parenting 101, the incident never would have occurred.  The object in question would have been nowhere within reach, and the subsequent chain of events would have ended before they began.  I didn't, however, and the rest (as they say) is history. 

The object in question?  A Ninja Turtles water bottle.  The incident?  My son throwing it at my head (and hitting the mark, I might add!) while I was driving Cebu the Subaru.  The chain of events?  Mommy spotting two empty recycling containers at the end of someone's driveway, pulling over, throwing the offending object into one of them, and driving away while my son alternately screamed and cried in the back seat until he succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep. 

During the remaining drive, I thought quite a bit about this incident.  The first thing was, "Was life better for moms before it became mandatory for children to have a beverage in their personal cup holder every time they left for a ride over 5 minutes in length?"  Perhaps.  I never threw things at my mom in the car because I never had anything to throw!  There is, of course, the pesky, "Mom, I'm thirsty" when you're on a wooded country road 30 minutes from your destination  . . . okay, keep the bottles. 

The second was, "Am I being too hard on my boy?  Are there underlying issues driving this?  Should I have used a little psychology instead?"  This one's a little trickier.  Are there other issues at play?  Probably.  Would psychology have been helpful?  Maybe. 

Was I being too harsh? 

I don't think so.  For one thing, we've been through this before with other objects: a shoe, a hat, a sippy cup full of water.  Each time I've yelled, explained, rationalized.  Today I didn't yell.  I processed for a few moments and almost threw the bottle out my window . . . but I have a visceral aversion to littering.  The recycling bins seemed like divine intervention!

For another thing, there is a safety issue in play, for me, for him, for his sister, and for anyone else unfortunate enough to be on the road if I unexpectedly get hit in the head and swerve into oncoming traffic.  Not a pretty thought.  And the truth is that my kid has a heck of an arm on him.  He throws HARD.  An injury is more probable than you might think. 

Finally, and arguably most importantly, is the fact that you DO NOT THROW things at people . . . ESPECIALLY not your MOTHER!!!  There is a respect for people that needs to become internalized. 

As my son "processed" this event, naturally he accused me of 1. Not liking him and 2.  Not wanting him to have special things.  I affirmed that I definitely liked and loved him, though I was most definitely not a fan of the current behavior. 

I also reminded him that I was the one who gave him the bottle in the car to begin with, so obviously I wanted him to have special things.  He, on the other hand, was the one who threw it away, signalling to me that it was not important to him.  I also suggested that next time he might consider keeping his bottle in the back seat where it belonged if he cared about it so much. 

So, straw poll time.  Right decision?  Wrong decision?  I think it was a reasonable and justified decision.  Right?  Who really knows?  Wrong . . . I wouldn't go that far.  Painful?  YES . . . for all involved! 

I just hope Donatello, Michelangelo, Raphael, and Leonardo keep their shells where they belong next time! 

Sacred Sunday

I want to celebrate the Sabbath.  I grew up being taught that Sunday is a special day, a set apart day, a day of rest.  In my childhood, it was also a family day, the one day that "lunch" was called "dinner" and the entire family ate it in my grandmother's dining room with the good china and the silverware from the hutch rather than the kitchen drawer.  

I like that version of Sunday.

For the past several months--and for the foreseeable future--Sunday has become something else: "Daddy Day."  Daddy Days are the exact opposite of my cherished Sabbath.  Daddy Days are the times I do things I can't do with children.  They are my mow-the-lawn days.  My go-to-a-meeting-without-having-to-find-a-babysitter days.  My catch-up-on-writing-article days. 

Daddy Days are supposed to be down times, but they really end up being work-extra-hard days.  I have had to reconcile myself to this new approach, but I admit that it is difficult.  I know Jesus said, "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath."  I know that all days are both equally holy and equally mundane.  I know that my Sunday hang-ups are probably more cultural than biblical. 

Having said that, there is a place for the Sabbath being the Sabbath of my childhood.  Yesterday, I took an "old-fashioned" day of rest, and it was the best thing I ever could have done!

I felt crummy yesterday, from 4:30 in the morning until 9:30 went I went to sleep.  Whether the cause was physical or mental exhaustion, stress, bad clams, or a combination of the above I can't say.  It doesn't really matter.  I felt yucky. 

I dragged my kids and myself to church, sent them off to Daddy Day, and decided to watch TV for an hour before starting on my chores: mow the lawn, write an article, clean the pool filter, buy Roundup and kill the weeds making my stone driveway look like my house is uninhabited. 

After my hour, I gave myself another one.  Somewhere along the line I realized that I really just needed a day to rest.  It had been at least 2 weeks since I last had time alone without the kids and without working.  I'd spent a week in Maine--fun, but tiring.  I'd finally been divorced.  I was done in. 

So aside from taking one hour to attend choir rehearsal at church, I vegged out in front of the TV discovering sci-fi shows I didn't know existed and basically frying my brain.  I felt a little guilty, but I'm learning to live with a little guilt now and then! 

When I awoke this morning, my grass was a little longer.  My driveway was a little more ragged.  My pool filter was a little dirtier.  I was a little behind on my jobs. 

BUT...my headache was gone.  My stomach felt better.  I got out of bed ready to face the day.  I cleaned my house, made home-made chocolate pudding, entertained my pastor's wife (my friend!), read to my kids, watched a movie with my kids, wrote an article, wrote a blog, and contacted all my people for Job #4. 

Not a bad day! 

I guess the point is, I could have forced myself to be "productive" yesterday.  At one time, maybe I would have.  I may have gotten more done that day, but I can pretty much guarantee I would have gotten less done today. 

Sometimes maybe a day of rest is worth the price of a shaggy lawn. 

Remembering Harry

A few years ago, my Uncle Harry died of colon cancer.  (Get the colonoscopy, boys and girls!  I've done it . . . you may throw up a little from the Gatorade, but honestly, what's a bigger deal?  I can attest that slowly dying as cancer metastasizes throughout your body is much worse!) 

For the past several years, my parents and Harry's family/friends have hosted a "Harry's Harvest and Family Fun Day" at the family farm.  This year there was a 5K walk, wagon ride, butterfly release, brunch, raffle, and steak fry dinner.  The proceeds benefit Harry's widow and children, who decided to further donate a portion of the proceeds to a charity chosen by the kids. 

I thought it was a good time to say a few words about Harry.  My mother's youngest brother, Harry was only about 10 years older than me.  He spent a summer on our farm, so he has always had a special place in my heart . . . the place only an older-brother figure can have for a little girl with no older brother! 

My favorite memories of Harry include him:

• Sporting blue hair to support Scituate soccer.
• Cruising in his wood-grain station wagon ("The Chick Magnet") and holding half of a corded phone in one hand, pretending he had a car phone (a la Miami Vice).
• Counting corn money at coffee break.  (He LOVED counting money!)  He'd count it forwards, backwards, like a banker, like a mobster, singly, in piles of tens, twenties, hundreds . . . any way you can count money, he'd do it!
• Letting my siblings and me put barrettes in his hair during an incredibly long, boring Princess House party my mother hosted in our tiny attic apartment over my grandparents' house.  
• Singing along with garage band heroes.  "The Boss," The Cars, Elvis Costello, The Red Hot Chili Peppers . . . I can't hear any of them without thinking of Harry.
• Attending Aunt Sara's baby shower . . . the entire thing . . . and managing to fit in.  I don't know another man who could or would pull that off.  
• Playing soccer.  Hard.  Ferociously.  Joyously.  
• Cracking jokes.  Harry brought laughter with him wherever he went.  His humor was infectious.  I don't know if he just found the world funny or whether he enjoyed being the center of rapt attention or both, but Harry was the one to invite if you wanted a good time.  

There are other stories that approach the level of family legend and yet are not politically-correct enough to record here.  (Some things you've just gotta be there for!) 

Suffice it to say I was blessed to have him for an uncle. 

And did I mention to get your *@!&* colonoscopy?

The Dishwasher Devotional

I had to clean my dishwasher today.  If you have never undertaken this task, count yourself lucky.  It is a dirty, back-breaking, thankless chore that always takes longer than I think it will (or should) and usually ends with near-cussing, especially when I realize that--once again--I put the longest screws in the wrong place only after having ratcheted them completely into place. 

(You are asking two questions.  1) If you put the screws in wrong each time, why don't you use a system to remember which goes where?  2) How do you even get the long screws into the short screw slots?  The answer to the first: I do use a system . . . I just forget what it was after two hours of scrunching, suctioning, swiping, and sweating.  To the second, I don't know.  I ask myself the same thing every time.) 

Because I detest cleaning the dishwasher, I do it as infrequently as possible.  Unfortunately, my dishwasher is old.  How old, I don't know.  Suffice it to say it looked old when we bought the house 7 years ago . . . and they left it behind, so what does that tell you? 

Anyway, for the past couple years I have been taking it apart every few months because yuckiness starts to show up in cracks and crevices.  I had just been bragging to my sister that I haven't had to do the dirty deed since I switched from liquid detergent to packs when I awoke one morning to half-clean dishes and a half-dissolved pack.  (Pride goeth before a fall.  She who laughs first laughs last.  Etc.)  

Hmmm. 

I hoped it was a fluke and tried again.  Same result.  Bummer.  Then this morning there was a dishpan's worth of water sitting in the drum.  Blah.  Couldn't avoid it any more. 

Funny thing about this time: the dishwasher LOOKED spotless.  Even when I pulled it apart it was weird.  The tops and sides of the pieces were pristine, but underneath . . . what a nightmare.  Goopy.  Sticky.  Hairy.  (You recall my two shaggy dogs, right?!)  I dug out a chopped walnut, the plastic tab from inside a child's water bottle (no wonder it leaks everywhere!), and all kinds of other flotsam and jetsam. 

I also scraped a layer of white scale from inside the trap.  Is that soap scum buildup?  Is it the soft plastic finally decomposing with every rinse?  I don't know.  I'm not sure I want to. 

As I squandered nap time on appliance maintenance, I started thinking how much I am like my dishwasher.  The outside always gives a better impression than the inside.  That's a little scary considering how much dirt I expose in my blog posts, but the truth is that even in my honesty I choose what to be honest about. 

I don't lie in posts . . . or in person, to the best of my knowledge.  But I am not above selectively omitting the things that show my darkest sides and strategically showcasing the things I wish represented my whole being. 

Admit it.  You do it too. 

Perhaps we need to.  Perhaps neither we ourselves or those around us are capable of handling the worst of our grime. 

But there is Someone who is. 

My kids are not able to rip apart the dishwasher, face the true disgustingness within, clean it out, and put it back together so that it runs well again.  But I can. 

As for me, there are many people who are loving me and helping me along this journey, without whom I shudder to think where I would be.  But none of them is able to take me apart, clean out the garbage, repair the crimped hoses, and put me back together so I work better than before. 

Only God can do that.  Only God can do that for you, too. 

I wonder if sometimes God feels like I do crammed into my dishwasher: Why can't you just stay clean?????? 

On one level, I think He does.  I think of Jesus weeping over Jerusalem: How I have longed to take you under my wing as a hen with her chicks, but you would not have it.

On another, not at all.  He knows I am but dust.  He expects it to cling to me from time to time.  And He is already living in the day when I will be spotless like the Lamb . . . I can't wait! 

July 7, 2016

You wake up late--the kids let you sleep in until 7am--and you hurry through the morning routine to make it out the door by 8:15am to leave your kids with your sister-in-law while you go to get your head shrunk.

Your fabulous counselors introduce you to Emotional Freedom Techniques and offer suggestions that sound helpful for both you and your children.  You negotiate a new fee based on your new not-insurance, a Christian Health Share that doesn't cover mental health.

(You vow to send a letter to your Health Share recommending they change their policy, as you believe that mental health care will resolve an enormous amount of physical complaints and save everyone a ton of money.  But what do you know?)

You hustle the kids back home, eating McDonald's on the way, and cringing over simultaneously breaking your 3-day-old diet and filling your kids full of junk food.  You rationalize that it's only one meal, and both diets and kids need a splurge every now and again.

You get the mail and find, oh joy!, that your retirement account actually made money last month.  That is a pleasant surprise, as you figured Brexit would have done you in.  You smile.

Your phone connects to the house wi-fi and dings as it collects your emails.  (You are a data-miser and refuse to use mobile data except under extreme circumstances . . . such as submitting articles in Maine or . . . no, that's about it!)

You check your email and get one from your lawyer that reads, "Your divorce is now finalized."  You look at the words and shudder a bit.  You forward the document to your ex (official ex now, not the anticipatory ex he's been for the past six months) and offer him congratulations . . .

The kids want to play in the pool that you set up all by yourself yesterday, but can't for many reasons, one of which is that the inflatable top refuses to stay inflated.  All three of you, and the dogs, go outside.  The dogs torment the neighbors' dogs; the kids play on half of the swing set their dad picked up but has not yet set up; you (once again) blow up the top of the pool and begin searching for leaks with a spray bottle.

You find several and patch them with electrical tape and duck tape.  (Somehow you cannot locate the patches that came with the pool . . . where did they go?) 

You have to prepare for a Vacation Bible School meeting, so back into the house you all troop.  The kids want to watch Wall-E for the hundredth time, so you see this as an opportunity to work undisturbed.

Your ex (Real ex! How weird!) takes the kids for Daddy Day.  You run to your meeting.

Afterwards, you drive home with all the windows open and listen to Tom Petty's Wildflowers album.  The tacky summer air rushes through the car like a hurricane, blowing away thought and leaving nothing but a damp-salty after-ocean feel on your skin.  You drive with the crescent moon gleaming in a cobalt sky.

You feel nothing.  A comfortable kind of nothing. 

You stop at Ocean State Job Lot who miraculously and inexplicably has extended hours this week, staying open tonight until 10am.  You pick up an actual patch kit for the pool--the electrical tape can't last forever--and a container of water test strips.  (The last thing you want is to burn the kids with over-chlorinated pool water.)

You walk in the house humming "To Find a Friend."  You bid a cool good-night to the ex.  You kiss your babies a warm good-night.  You record the day for posterity.  You go to bed, to get some of the rest your counselors declared was essential for physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being.  

You are at peace. 

Parfait Perfection

I wish I could say today was a delight from start to finish, but I would be lying.  There were many delightful moments, but the overall feeling was one of fatigue, angst, and way too much poop. 

(Really . . . both of my kids have apparently forgotten what the white porcelain object in the bathroom is for.  I will spare you all the lurid details, but suffice it to say my floors, shower, and kids got several deep-cleanings today!) 

I'm tired of dwelling on the dirty parts of life, however, so I want to end my day recalling one of the bright moments: supper. 

Suppertime can be a crap shoot in our house.  I try hard to prepare tasty, healthy meals, but there are times when end-of-the-day exhaustion could out-maneuver Julia Child, and I am certainly no Julia Child! 

Tonight was not one of them.  My kids came in the house for supper absolutely miserable.  I had set up the pool today (a month late, but who's keeping track?).  My little water-babies could not understand why they couldn't swim in a pool that a) was not completely full and b) was about 50 degrees Fahrenheit.  Obviously Mommy was out to spoil their fun. 

My original dinner plan was cheeseburger wraps, but the aura of impending mutiny made me suggest something easier and, frankly, yummier:  fruit and yogurt parfaits.  The idea was met with universal approval. 

So, I pulled out my vanilla Chobani Greek yogurt, a banana, an orange, some blueberries and strawberries, a handful of walnuts, a can of whipped cream, a jar of maraschino cherries, and (at Ranita's request) a sprinkling of chocolate chips.  Can we just say Heaven in a Bowl? 

What more can you ask of supper than for it to taste like dessert?! 

Of course, my smart son wanted dessert as well.  ("I ate all my supper, Mommy!")  I obliged with a shortbread Girl Scout cookie.  (They were my least favorite as a kid, but I have to say I've developed an appreciation for their sweet simplicity!) 

Things fell apart again later in the evening, but for about 40 minutes all three of us were happy.  Both of my kids fell all over themselves thanking me for supper and telling me how delicious it was.  (See . . . who needs Julia Child after all?!?) 

I beamed, pleased that I had attained Most Favored Mother status for a few moments. 

A Tale of Three Hotdogs

My son loves hotdogs.  Really loves hotdogs.  Could eat them three meals a day, seven days a week if I'd let him.  (I don't let him!)  I didn't realize hotdogs could become a determiner of inner distress, however, until last week at Camp. 

It was suppertime on Thursday.  Grammy, Pop, the kids, and I had spent a lovely couple of hours fishing on the lake.  The kids had talked to their father on the phone.  Ranita had hooked his first large-mouth bass.  Both Ranita and Chinchita drove the boat (with varying degrees of assistance from Pop).  It had been a great day. 

We were having an easy supper of hotdogs.  Ranita wanted ketchup and mustard on his.  No problem.  I gave him the properly-prepared dog.  As hotdogs will, his rolled around, mussing the condiments.  He started to cry and scream as if someone were sticking hot pokers under his nails. 

Grammy moved in to correct the condiments.  I stopped her and told him he could have it adjusted if he stopped throwing the temper tantrum.  Long story short, the temper tantrum continued and he went to bed having had a glass of milk for supper.  No hotdog. 

Once things calmed down, I talked with my angel-son and reminded him that asking Mommy nicely to fix the condiments would be the appropriate approach in the future.  "Okay, Mommy," he said snuggling against me.  "I'll remember that."  (He can be so darned sweet!) 

Grammy accepted the tantrum pretty easily.  She remembers her own episodes with her son growing up.  Pop was shell-shocked.  He did not remember those fits! 

The next afternoon, Ranita again requested hotdogs.  I warned him in advance that there were to be no fits over condiments.  He agreed.  Alas, his hotdog was again imperfect.  He asked me to fix it, reminding me of our conversation the day before.  I added more ketchup and mustard.  The hotdog again rolled, and I said enough was enough with the condiments.  He again threw a tantrum, and he again ended up in bed.  It was quite the scene. 

Pop kept saying, "I can't believe this is all over a hotdog!"

I looked at him and said, "It's not the hotdog.  I don't know what it is, but it's not the hotdog.  He's never done this over a hotdog before." 

When I again talked to Ranita after things calmed down, he mentioned missing Daddy Day.  He had talked to his dad on the phone, but he wanted to see him.  I let him know he'd have Daddy Day when we got back, but I sort of glossed over it.

It wasn't until LATE that night when Grammy and I were girl-talking that it hit me.  Missing Daddy Days was actually the cause of the hotdog hissy fits.  The poor kid knows his days of the week, but he doesn't yet understand the concept of geographical distance. 

He knew he had already missed two Daddy Days.  We went to church Sunday, but he didn't see Daddy afterward.  He talked to Daddy on the phone Thursday, but he didn't see Daddy. 

Like me, he'd never been to Camp without Daddy.  Unlike me, he didn't understand that it was too far to drive from RI to ME for Daddy Day.  He thought that missing Daddy Days in Maine meant he'd never get to have a Daddy Day again. 

To top it all off, the last time he had hotdogs was at the PawSox game with Daddy the week before.

Boy did I feel like a jerk.  Here the poor kid was missing his Dad, and his mom was punishing him for it.  I determined to talk to him first thing in the morning. 

When I brought the subject up with Ranita, it was clear I had (eventually!) hit the nail on the head.  He was feeling rejected by his dad.  I tried explaining distance . . . and told him his dad couldn't come up, not that he didn't want to. 

A couple days later, we went to Bar Harbor.  For lunch, we stopped at a lobster/bbq place.  As I read off the children's menu, Ranita requested a hotdog.  Pop visibly blanched.  "Not another hotdog!" he said. 

"It'll be okay," I replied.  "We solved the hotdog problem."  The food came, and my son gobbled the hotdog down without batting an eye.  Later he ate his sister's as well . . . with no condiments at all. 

Grammy and Pop were astounded.  Having been through a couple of these psychological dramas in the past six months, I was less surprised.  I have, however, learned some valuable lessons from this. 

First, if someone you know well suddenly and "inexplicably" begins fixating on something or behaving out of character, don't ignore it.  Something big is most likely triggering the behavior, and the sooner it's flushed out, the better. 

Second, never underestimate a child's ability to internalize pain and angst . . . or their ability to bounce back once the cause is identified and resolved. 

And last of all, with men of any age, the way to their heart really is through their stomach! 

Independence Day

I love the 4th of July.  I love the historicity, the patriotism, and (for our family) the tradition.  My grandmother has this cute little cottage on a (mostly) private beach.  Some of my favorite childhood memories are of the beach house.  Of them all, my 4th of July memories are the best. 

As an adult, I cling to my 4th of July at the beach house.  I often joke that I cram an entire summer into one day: swimming in the ocean, quahogging (clam digging for my non-Rhode Island readers!), eating freshly-cooked clam chowder, clam cakes, and steamers, playing cribbage with my uncle, and watching fireworks over the water. 

If I'm in Rhode Island for the summer, I spend the 4th at the beach house.  The one exception was the first trip to Maine I made with my ex and his parents eight years ago.  Giving up my special summer day for him was a pretty good indicator of how I felt about him then! 

This year was different. 

The kids and I were exhausted from our fun Maine vacation, having arrived home just last night.  There was the typical squabbling as we simultaneously unpacked from one vacation and packed up for a day at the beach.  By the time we got in the car, I had a headache and a pout.  Actually, I can't remember the last time I started off to the beach house without a headache and a pout! 

The headache lingered off and on all day, but the pout surely did not.  The kids and I spent hours at the beach with their aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.  I thought keeping track of them both on my own would be nerve-wracking, but surprisingly it wasn't.  I was half-way through the day when I actually realized how relaxed I felt. 

Some of it could be the fact that the kids are older and a little more independent.  I let them play with much less interference than usual.  In the water, I definitely had eyes on them at all times, but I also gave them some space to do their own thing.  They had a blast. 

I rather suspect the larger part of it was that there was nobody to please but myself.  That isn't quite true, of course: I did go to the beach a second time because the kids wanted to despite my headache and fatigue.  But there was no wondering if someone else was happy, fearing he wasn't, knowing he wasn't.  I didn't feel guilty staying a little later: everyone in my little nuclear family wanted to stay longer. 

This is not to say I was the life of the party.  I haven't been that in a very long time.  But I don't think I was a downer, either.  I didn't feel down.  It was, I think, one of the first things I've gone to since the divorce began that didn't have a "He should be here" undertone to it.  It was okay that he wasn't.  More than okay. 

It isn't always okay.  Yesterday when I saw him playing with my kids and heard my son repeatedly saying, "I missed Daddy," and smiling as he ran to hug him, I could not keep back the tears.  I wept for what my kids are suffering. 
I am learning that grief and healing are not linear.  They are more like graphs of polynomial functions: marked by irregular dips and rises.  Yesterday was a dip.  Today was a rise. 

Whatever the reason, it was good to have a time of freedom from grief, from guilt, from sadness.  Happy Independence Day!