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!