Wrapped In You

It's no secret that for most of my childhood I could be found raiding the dress-up box, carefully coordinating outfits fit for a movie star...or a mommy...or the high powered executive we proudly referred to as "office girl". But there was a draw far beyond creating a character that would entertain the next door neighbor, because our dress-up box was special. It contained more than just oversized work shirts and old dance costumes...it carried pieces of you. Underneath the pile of leotards, a wonderful story unfolded. A life lived way before me that spoke of adventure, risk and whimsy. I wrapped myself in your history and dreamed of a future equally as rich.




A bright chartreuse party dress glowed with your love of fashion and practicality- both of which led you to skillfully sew your entire teen wardrobe. Your leather headband with the dangling feathers whispered of a time when you shared the Oregon State Fair stage with a group of musicians- your finest "Anne Murray" bouncing off the metal bleachers. A bold plaid trench and Sassoon wig giggled about your college adventures...especially the time when a fierce wind spun your trendy wig around backwards, leaving it a tangled mess right before class. The crisp Austrian dirndl leaped through lush fields high on German mountaintops and blushed at the unexpected crush she flew thousands of miles to meet- even though he was in her own backyard from the start. Worn aprons held round faced babies on their hips and claimed colorful splotches of paint from dozens of artistic creations- not to mention stains from the hundreds of meals you prepared for any and everyone who might be in need of a welcoming dinner table.




I've spent most of my life trying on these pieces of you, in awe of the beauty they possess. Most of them I'm still willing myself to fit into, because there is nothing I want more than a life as complete, as brave and as faithful as yours. Your example has encouraged all of us to design a life that would fill our own dress-up trunk to the brim. We strive to add to the great work created by you. Your strength, courage and wisdom map out the master pattern. Your golden heart and unyielding compassion, the tools. Thank you, Mama- for a lifetime of wonder, for loving me (inspite of me)
and for showing me the way.

The Good Fight

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sound of our sneakers hitting the gravel was only slightly louder than our panting and wheezing. We slowed to a stop and let the cool morning air fill our lungs. Our burning calves screamed out for a break, but the thrill of conquering such a steep incline left us feeling triumphant. We picked up our pace knowing that the worst of our hike was over.

I glanced behind me, taking inventory of the grueling path that had lead us to this point, high on a mountain top. We smiled and pumped our fists, humming the Rocky anthem as we rounded a blind corner.

It was all downhill from here.

As the trail leveled out, we relaxed into an easy pace. Our concentrated "huffing and puffing" was replaced with silly chatter. Laughter bounced off of the hundreds of large rocks jetting out from the ground and echoed through the canyon. It seemed the audience of stone was entertained by our early morning antics.

Quite suddenly, a hiss rose up from the ground, confusing our ears and halting our hike. I froze, frightened by the unfamiliar sound.

My heart quickened as the hiss rolled into a terrifying rattle.

"Snake!!" 

My sweet friend protectively reached for my arm, warning me not to move. But it was too late.

I leaped into the air, dust flying behind me. My body seemed to flip the auto-pilot switch and carry me, full speed ahead, to the other side of the mountain. Blood rushed to my head, the thump-thump of my heart blocking out the screams of my friend.

"Stop, Christy!"

I did eventually stop, but only after I had managed to put a good 50 some odd feet between me and what I now recognized to be a giant rattlesnake.

"Oh my gosh! That snake was this close to biting you!"  My friend held up her shaky thumb and index finger with a mere inch in between. "Why did you run, silly girl? Don't you know you're supposed to freeze when you hear a rattler?"

At that moment I didn't know much of anything. My face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and overexertion.

"Well, I guess we can say I fall into the 'flight' category, eh?" I yelled back with a self conscience laugh, unwilling to leave the comfort of the snake-free ridge I was now perched on .

She giggled and a few minutes later (after our slimy friend had slithered a few yards down the mountain) she managed to muster up enough courage to cross to the other side of the trail where I waited, terrified.

The rest of our hike was riddled with spontaneous shudders and fits of laughter at the mere mention of  the "s" word. And of course, at least a hundred dramatic retellings of our brush with death to any passerby that would listen, each one ending with the humorous reenactment of me fleeing the scene.

Because I was "Flight."

And as I compared our entertaining story to the actions of my everyday life, that made sense to me. Try though I did, I'd never been known to have much "Fight" in me. More often than not, my tendency was to recoil and run the other way at the mere sight of opposition.

Especially if I didn't see it coming....

When we walked out of the adoption agency my head was spinning. I'd never felt such conflicting emotions: joy and terror, hope and overwhelming anxiety. I held tightly to the overstuffed folder with the smiling baby on the cover that they had handed us before we left. I squinted, trying to recall the exact purpose of every form peeking out from the navy blue binder.  I had glanced at the contents for a moment, but the papers began to blur together thanks to a fresh stream of  nervous tears.

I couldn't focus.

I couldn't breathe.

I was drowning in information.

My husband reached for my trembling hands and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

"We can do this. We'll just take it one step at a time."

It was so simple. So logical. I knew he was right. More than that, I knew that despite being in the throws of an anxiety attack, we could never deny the overwhelming feeling of purpose we experienced when walking through the agency doors. This was exactly where we were supposed to be. This was where we would find our baby. This was how we would complete our family. 

I took a deep breath, ever grateful for my level headed partner and returned to the blue folder. We were counseled to tackle the most difficult tasks first: fingerprinting, letters of recommendation, medical exams, etc. There were dozens of steps, each one time consuming and extremely important to the process. My fingers slid across each application and questionnaire, pausing only to skim the headings, until one in particular stopped me short.

"Documentation of Infertility"

The cold, black script showed no signs of sympathy.

They had explained the new policy to us. This particular adoption program was for those who struggled to have successful pregnancies. I knew this form would need to be filled out by our doctor, I just didn't expect it to hurt so much when I held it in my hands.

I moved the paper to the front of the folder and let my head rest against the cool glass of the passenger side window. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to prepare myself for the phone call I was about to make.   Before we could fully engage in our new journey, I had to say goodbye to the dreams of the past.

But I am Flight.

And the flight in me didn't want to revisit those tall glass doors that housed hundreds of women with knowing smiles and large swollen bellies.

For weeks now I had relished in the joy of our decision to adopt. Worry and pain had been replaced with excitement and gratitude, "have-nots" replaced with "get-tos."  Everything was possible again. And I feared that walking out of the office where I had struggled and cried and fought for our family for so long, with that paper, would be a declaration of defeat....

....and it would break me.

I managed to get through the 2 hour wait in the lobby with very little emotion. My eyes stayed glued to the flat screen TV in the corner and the monotone of the midday news carried me to some far off place. It  took the booming voice of a nice lady in scrubs to shake me from my numbed state.

"Christy High-nik-ler?" (Uh.....okay. Close enough.)

An army of butterflies immediately seized my stomach.

The dreaded form was my only anchor to reality as I followed the army green scrubs back to an empty exam room. 

"Just hand him the paper, he'll sign it and we can move forward," I chanted.

My left leg shook uncontrollably as I waited for my bearded, shaggy haired doctor.

Three light taps on the door announced his arrival. He bounded in and greeted me with a warm "hello." His fast paced chatter slowed for a minute as he acknowledge my latest loss.

"I'm so sorry about that.....but we'll keep trying, right?"

I winced.

Normally, his optimistic attitude was comforting. It's what pushed me forward and brought us our two little miracles. I'm not sure if it was my heightened state of sensitivity due to the document in my hands or the fact that I was so desperately seeking closure, but his response had me panicked.

His eyes rested on the paper I was now nervously twisting in my hands. This was my opening. I willed myself not to cry.

"I-I don't think I can do this anymore." I stammered, with way less conviction than I had hoped for. I stood up and handed him the form. 

"My husband and I have spent these last couple months weighing our options, discussing the toll these 9 plus years have had on us- on me- and we feel very strongly that our new path should be adoption."

I was gathering steam. Saying those words aloud had renewed my sense of purpose. Dr.F glanced at the form and immediately handed it back to me.

"No. This isn't what you want!"

I was right back on that mountain. His words cut through me like the hiss of a hidden predator.

"Two successful pregnancies out of twelve is not hopeless! We should keep trying. Eventually, something may work again!"

I could barely hear him over the frenzied pounding of my heart. The rattle of his response had me yearning to bolt.

"B-But, my body has grown resistant to the medication. It hasn't worked the last two times. What else can you do for me?"

He reached up and smoothed out a stray whisker.

"Well...there isn't much by way of  testing or fertility drugs. That's not an option for you. We could try, but I doubt we'll have success that way. For you, it's about beating the odds and hanging in there. It could take another 5-10 losses before one sticks again."

The thought of ten more years of pain, depression and heartache pierced my heart and burned like venom. But more than that, his ease in using the word "we" confused me.

Because what it came down to was

My will.

My strength.

My loss.

I sat there, my resolve threatening to crumble under the veiled accusations of a man I had grown to respect. My worst fear had come true. I was thought weak, and uncapable. A stronger woman would be able to move forward, giving of herself until there was nothing left. That's what it would take to do it his way.

I am Flight.

But that day, in one of the many rooms I have hoped and cried and gradually excepted the fate of loss after loss, I heard a baby cry.

I'm sure it was the cry of a freshly delivered newborn accompanying her mother's post partum check-up, but right then, it's soft sobbs wafting through the walls carried with them a message that I had almost forgotten.

I'm here!  I'm waiting.

The sweet cries lit me up inside and spoke a reassurance to my soul.

Our baby was out there.

And she needed me to fight.

I waited for a break in Dr.F's soliloquy.

"I know how badly you want this for us. I do. The good news is that we will have a baby. And we're going to adopt her. I'm so grateful for everything you've done for us. You've helped us build our family. But we have to do what we feel is right. This is what's right for our family." I said, handing him the paper. 

He stared at me for a moment. He looked defeated.

"I'll have Angie fill it out."

And he did.

I drove all the way home with that big, bold type staring back at me.

"Suffers from Secondary Infertility."

"Fifteen percent chance of a successful pregnancy."

And I cried.

But the hurt from the diagnosis was nothing compared to the unbelievable feeling of fighting for our family...for our baby.

Everything is possible again.

I am Fight.

Leap

Before the sunlight had a chance to seep into the puffy slits of my eyes, I felt them.

Their constant, determined flow rivaled the most sophisticated of drip systems. Even while I slumbered they were there, faithfully carrying on.

Each tear a solitary reminder of the deep sorrow and despair that would eventually pull me from the sweet release of sleep and force me into the reality that came with the morning sun...


We lost another baby.


The searing pain from our previous loss had only recently quieted down to a dull ache when within months, we were hit with a second.


My sobs for both possibilities swirled together, mourning the two as one.


I reached mechanically for the pile of crumpled  tissues next to my bed and ran the "gently used" Kleenex across my face. The effort seemed pointless as a slew of salty escapees quickly replaced those that had just been absorbed.

I felt myself stiffen as I opened the bedroom door and adjusted to the sights and sounds of a world still in motion.


The flicks of dust dancing in the sunbeams that poured through the patio door.

The hum of the neighbor's lawn mower as it cheerfully cut the freshly sprouted winter grass.

The giggles of my two little girls as they munched on cereal and impersonated the antics of Saturday morning cartoon characters.



My girls.


The sight of my sandy-haired angels broke down any resolve I had made to try and "keep it together". A flood of tears sent me running into the bathroom, so as not to disturb my little ones who had witnessed far too many days of Mommy "not feeling well" in the last several months.


I huddled in the bathroom. A wad of toilet paper acted as a muffler while I wept in the darkness.



My husband's gentle knock announced his arrival and a beat later I felt his strong, comforting arms around me. His whispered guarantees that, "everything would be alright" magnified my growing guilt.

Because I couldn't see how it ever could be.



I found myself wandering back through childhood memories,soothed by the promise of simpler times. My thoughts turned to the dozens of vinyl records my sister and I used to play on my parents old record player. We poured over the colorful sleeves and laughed at the unattractive hairdo's sported by the "all too serious" musicians on the covers. We worked our way through each one, carefully placing the shiny black discs on the ancient music player. We were giddy with anticipation as the speakers crackled and popped, preparing us for the wealth of sound that would soon fill the room and beg us to dance.

But every so often, right in the middle of an enthusiastic twirl, a record would screech to a halt and stutter- doomed to repeat the same four notes until one of us mercifully removed the poor soul and placed it back in it's protective jacket on the shelf.

And there it stayed, never able to reach the beautiful crescendo that was so masterfully created by it's gifted composer.



And so here was my heart,

my soul,

my plans for expanding our beautiful family.

Placed in a protective jacket, high on a seemingly unreachable shelf, for fear that I would stumble and stutter and screech to a halt once again. Doomed to repeat the losses that had now reached double digits. A number that invoked winces from seasoned medical professionals.





I resolved to throw myself into the holidays. To soak up every inch of my beloved daughters. To hold hands and kiss and fall deeper in love with my husband. To belly laugh until I cried with my sweet girlfriends.


And as I did these things, the enormity of what I did have far outweighed the bitterness I had developed for what I didn't.


Our prayers became more meaningful as we sought direction for our family. And while the answer didn't come right away, we were blessed with peace and the knowledge that it would come.



The hustle and bustle of Christmas gatherings and New Year's parties were a welcome distraction from any serious discussions about "babies" and "trying again".  It was almost blissful, having a moment away from what had become a nearly 10 year worry. But soon the Christmas decor was put away and the remnants of uneaten holiday leftovers, thrown out. With the new year came new worries as the desire to grow our family returned.


And as we pondered and prayed and weighed every option, the answer became clear.


We, as a family,

I, as a Mother,

my broken body,

my broken heart,



could not take one more loss.



We needed to make peace with the fact that this part of our journey should come to an end.



I tried desperately to reconcile the fact that I knew this answer to be true with the unmistakable feeling that our family was not quite complete.


It was only weeks ago that the final piece of the puzzle presented itself.



Though we had circled the idea many times over the course of our journey to build a family, it suddenly washed over me with the warmth and light of a determined ray of sun beaming through a cloud covered sky.


"I think we are supposed to adopt!"  I blurted out, before my husband had a chance to set his keys on the table or kiss us "hello" after a long day's work.


I fully expected him to hurriedly kiss my cheek and placate me with a noncommittal, "That's definitely something we can discuss...."


But that isn't what happened at all.


His eyes filled with tears and he pulled me close. I seemed to disappear into his embrace.

"Okay, babe. Then that's what we'll do."

Though his response seemed casual, his moistened cheeks spoke of his great understanding. He felt it too. I wouldn't doubt that he had  had a knowledge of this path for awhile now. That he had been patiently waiting for me to catch up.


He's pretty amazing that way.



Slowly but surely, our eyes were opened to a slew of tiny miracles that led us to this point. It doesn't feel like a "plan b" or a consolation prize, but a wonderful new path meant specifically for our little family.


What I'm learning is that when we finally let go, when we stop trying to force the hand of God to give us what we think we need,

when we close our eyes

and  leap,

we will be shown a path filled with more grace and goodness than we ever could've imagined possible for ourselves.



We'll sprout wings.



And on the days when our doubts and fears return and they threaten to send us tumbling from the sky?

That's when the real miracles occur.



When our nerves are shot from worrying and wondering about the unknown path that lies ahead, that will be the day that you are in the right place at the right time.


That will be the day that a stranger "doesn't mean to interrupt, but she couldn't help but overhear" as you relay your concerns about your new path of adoption to your sister-in-law.

That will be the day this angel  opens up to you, when there is no reason she should have, and tells you about the wonderful journey she's been on while adopting her two daughters- a story so familiar, it's eerie.

That will be the day you cry with a stranger and your sister-in-law in the middle of the mall because you realize this moment was designed to happen  just like this on the eve of your first ever adoptive couple's class.


It was the day I needed a whisper of encouragement,

and He gave me a shout.



And while I can't help but fear an inevitable stumble and stutter, I'm ready to come off the shelf, shed my protective cover and finally hear what The Composer has in store for us.


Perhaps we are building to a beautiful crescendo all our own....

*************

Trying (Part 3: Begin Again)

I don't remember much about my toddler years. Most of my recollections are fuzzy snap shots placed far back in the album of my mind. I know that I was a willful child (but not unruly), slightly bossy and extremely sensitive.There are a few humorous stories of me clinging to grocery carts crying out for a Barbie that had to be pried from my tiny hands.

Apart from the typical "terrible twos" tantrum, I learned fairly early on how to push down my frustrations and repress my disappointments in favor of  keeping the peace. It was a natural occurrence. Typical middle child psychology (see: a deep seeded desire to be liked and accepted.) Confrontation was the enemy. (Minus a few knock down drag outs with my little sister of course.)


But every so often, no matter how docile the host, the happenings of  life will awaken a fury of emotions....



I wasn't more than 8 years old. I can still see the plush shag carpeting as I huffed and puffed my way up the stairs and slammed the door behind me. The reason for the banishment has long since faded from my memory, but the physical and emotional  reactions to my punishment are still within reach.

A tightness in my chest.

A lump in my throat.

My fists clenched tight.

Wiping the white-hot tears from my face.


I remember an overwhelming feeling that I hadn't been heard. I swallowed hard. Suddenly, the remedy to my plight became crystal clear.

I would make them hear me.


I needed to scream.


The lump in my throat seemed more like a boulder as I carefully unlocked the second story windows in my bedroom. The wet, sticky air filled my lungs and fueled my "noble" mission. With every ounce of courage I could muster, I opened my mouth and began to shout.

At first my rant consisted of the wrongdoings I had suffered during the "battle" with my parents earlier that night. That is until I noticed,


I could almost breathe again.


The mild scolding from my parents (which I'm certain I deserved) over some minor disobedience was no longer important. It had become something much more pressing. I dug deep into my diaphragm and loudly began to purge all of the problems that could possibly plague an 8-or-so year old girl. (You'd be surprised. It can be rough out there.)  Screams of frustration mixed with tears of liberation.

I had a voice.


It didn't take long before I heard a frantic knock at the door followed by an aggravated, "Christine Elizabeth! You stop that right now! The whole neighborhood can hear you!"


That was the point.


Of course I knew, as soon as the next day, that my flare-up was not the way to express myself. I wasn't brought up that way and I would never again involve the neighborhood in one of my "performances".

As wrong as it was, I haven't forgotten the freedom I felt in being able to lose myself and my hurt in a desperate, passionate, no holds barred, borderline-hysterical, temper tantrum.

In fact, there have been days, some very recent, where I have felt it-

The tightness in my chest.

The lump in my throat.


White-hot tears pouring down my face.


The desperation to be heard.



And  the once hidden urge begs to be released......

*******

I've walked the same path so many times (both literally and figuratively) to those mirrored double doors, behind which house dozens of women in every stage of fertility, that I'm certain you could blindfold me and spin me 'til I'm dizzy and I would still find my way in record time.



Here we go again.



I fully expected a Cheers greeting ("Hi Norm!") as I walked up to counter of my OB's office and fudged my arrival time, shaving off 10 minutes (as if that would get me seen any sooner.) The familiar faces merely nodded and smiled a generic welcome, waving me over to the row of empty waiting room seats. I chose one near the back, a perfect post for people watching.


The room was a buzz with new mothers quietly consoling their newborns, heavily pregnant mothers not-so-quietly consoling their rowdy toddlers and clusters of couples huddled together pouring over their freshly taken ultra sound pictures. I protectively rested my hand on my belly and smiled thinking that those moments might not be too far off.


The minutes ticked away until it was finally my turn to venture behind the swinging door. An ultrasound first, then Dr.F- the reason for my 2 little success stories. It seemed surreal to be starting this process all over again.

The ultrasound showed we were right on target for our newly discovered pregnancy- just over 4 weeks. The size of a sesame seed.


It's quite amazing that you can fall in love so deeply with something the size of a sesame seed.


And yet, mothers do it everyday.


When the mighty Dr.F entered the room he gave me even more reassurance that "The Seed" and I would have a successful journey together.


"I know you're scared given your history, but we've done this twice now," he said excitedly bobbing his head up and down, "there's no reason this won't work a third time."


No reason.


I carried his words with me and held tightly to them, convincing myself that we had found the answers. That this time would be different.


And when things began to fall apart- when I began to feel my body painfully ridding itself of my little seed of a dream, all I could think about was stomping up the stairs to my childhood bedroom. I wanted to throw open the window and let the world know that I have had more than my fair share of this horrible little game of "give and take."



I wanted to scream.


I wanted to be heard.


I wanted this to stop.




The heavy, dark gray clouds that lined the sky reflected my mood as I returned to the office to "officially" hear what I had spent days trying to deny. I laughed bitterly to myself thinking of the black bag overflowing with "new pregnancy" goodies- prenatal vitamins, formula samples, diaper coupons, all of which sat unopened on my dining room table. The generous gift that made me giddy with excitement just one week earlier was now a painful reminder of what wouldn't be.



Was this really happening again?


And not just the miscarriage- but me.


Was I really right back where I started? Scared, angry, my faith shaken and my world turned upside down?


Have I learned nothing?


How could I have gone from a place of such gratitude and contentment- so thankful for the miracle of my two daughters- to this place of  darkness and grief?


When my loss was confirmed and the necessary follow-up appointments were made, I wandered back through the lobby. Though a few tears had begun their escape down my pale cheeks, for some reason I resisted the urge to hurry to the door and instead took my time, scanning the faces of the waiting women. I'm sure now that it was a divine intervention, because just before I reached the exit, my eyes locked with a pair of equally moist, dark brown eyes belonging to a young women sitting in a wheel chair.


I recognized the look of despair and heartache that furrowed her brow and twisted her mouth.


It was only seconds of a stolen glance before she buried her face into a pile of tissues and I ran for the elevators, but the image has stayed with me.


She was a complete stranger and I knew nothing about the trial she was experiencing, but in that moment she helped me remember that I'm not alone. That this anguish isn't reserved solely for me.


Loss touches us all.



And over the next week, without so much as a stomp or howl or declaration from the second story window,


I was heard.


Because 'loss' has an unspoken language all it's own.


And with our individual losses we become better equipped with compassion and charity to comfort those who are suffering from the fresh wounds of an earthly battle lost.


This past week, I have been tenderly cared for by the hands of friends who know the power of a silent hug, a good meal and a "thinking of you" phone call.


I have been  blessed by the thoughtfulness of my beautiful family who continue to give selflessly of themselves to ease my burden.


I have been humbled by the sight of a woman and her teenage daughter standing on my doorstep with an armful of flowers meant for me.  It was only months before that this same woman was laying similar flowers on the grave of her stillborn baby girl, and yet, here she was, concerned for my grief.



We will never escape loss. So many people are struggling to reconcile the anger, confusion, and seemingly endless heartache that accompanies bereavement- and yet they make the decision to carry on, to use the searing pain for good...


....to show up on the doorstep of another in need and offer what's left of their broken heart.


I hope to continually carry these memories and moments with me through this unpredictable journey. I pray for the strength of those who courageously face each day and fight the understandable urge to scream and shout and curse their misfortune.


I long for the bravery of those who choose instead to seek out others who are mourning and help them,


to begin again.
 

Pitch Hitter: Thoughts From the Little Sis

I've had an unexpected week.  A week that I'm still processesing. Luckily my team of superheroes (because that's what my friends/family are- SUPER HEROES!) swooped in to save the day. One of whom is my little sister, Anne, who dropped everything to come stay with me and color my world happy. On top of that she's taking over my blog for this week's Bandit post!

So, without further ado, here is my lil' sister's musings about the things in life that she loves....

"Whence came and whither bound are we?

Holds something still of mystery;

But one grave thought is clear and plain,

We shall not pass this way again.”

~Eliza M. Hickok

I live my life in snapshots.


I love dress shirts on men, and the way their hands look at the end of crisp, white sleeves. I love singing so hard and so loud in the car that the old guy in the blue truck next to me can’t stop laughing at how seriously I’m taking my stop-light rocker-ballad. I love the smell of Mentholateum and the memories it stirs of my mother putting me to bed and rubbing my back---me sick with stuffy nose and achy joints. I love watching my older brother talk, act, sing, tell a story, gesture—a man born with the gift to command a room and deliver anything from a stand-up act to a sermon. I love staring at a full moon and feeling so completely small and like a child.


I love to observe in fine detail so as to greedily indulge myself with it later on. I love memories. I love capturing, extracting, emblazoning, branding, immortalizing the mundane, the sorrowful, the romantic, the entertaining, the bizarre, the uplifting. I do this both literally and figuratively. I write it, scrapbook it, take 38 pictures of it from six different angles. I bundle moments into bright bouquets of experience and hang them upside down in my memory to dry. I must preserve their zest, their color, for what are we, with out our memories? Who are we but a result of all things past?


Who are we, then, if we forget?

This passion to remember “days gone by” undoubtedly contributes to me constantly feeling like an anachronism. Translation: I wish I was born 100 years ago…even 80. I wish I grew up at a time when Hollywood was golden and women wore chiffon. I wish I lived on a farm and had milk delivered to me on my doorstep each morning in clinking, glass bottles. I wish I was that WWII nurse, panty hoes twisted, knees akimbo, caught in a “half-Nelson” half love lock with a celebrating sailor in the middle of Time Square.

(Anne in her past life.)

I wish I could go back.

I’ve never felt truly a part of the “here and now,” in this time that was designated for me. I don’t belong to the world of iphones, itunes, ieverything. I don’t like it. I don’t “get” it. Why is that?

Answer: I like to think it’s because I’m terribly nostalgic and a hopeless Romantic.

Real Answer: I don’t want to get it. I’m scared to death of what lies ahead.

I love the past because it’s sturdy and real. It's comfortable and worn, like my grandpa’s old flannel shirts. I love what the past made of my grandparents—what it made of most people who survived so much poverty and war: grateful, honorable, heroic. I love the past because the hapless chaos of the Sixties and Seventies made my parents ever so determined to give their children an ordered life complete with chore charts, timeouts, and time together. They gave us loyal love and purpose.

I love the past because it’s already been done. It’s already been battled out, prayed about, lost to, won back, gasped at, grieved about, sung through, laughed over. Lived. And they did it with grace.

I love it because I know how it ends.

For a girl who loves surprises, I’m strangely future-phobic. I don’t like the lack of control that comes from living so quickly, each day smearing into a week, then two months, then a year. All this made possible by anything and everything digital. We go so fast now! And I don’t love where we’re headed. I don’t love having 712 “friends” on Facebook and not knowing what’s going on in the lives of 682 because I never see them. I don’t love how dating and relationships have been reduced to 11pm texts that say, “S’up?” I don’t love the option of downloading a book and reading it on a glowing screen as opposed to holding the musty, dog-eared thing in my hands. I don’t love what robots we’re becoming.

If that’s what Future means, no wonder I dig my heels in and pull back against the tug of “progress.” Maybe I don’t want it. Maybe I don’t know how to handle it. Maybe I’m small-minded and afraid. I admit it. But is that really so terrible? Yes, I run to the Past and my pantry of waiting memories as often as needed. But I promise I don’t live there perpetually.

I promise I’ve managed to move forward and become a healthy, full-functioning adult in the 21st century. But I will always relish those moments when the power goes out and I’m suddenly thrust into the 19th century, candles lit (or flashlights…whatever) and faces of friends or strangers huddled together in the soft glow. I will always drink from the hose any chance I get because that gushing, metallic taste is my childhood, and my childhood was warm, and bright, sweaty, and breathless. I will always stare hard at the photograph of my grandpa Gordon as a young serviceman, trace his Kurt Douglas chin with my finger, and ache to know what it was like to be in his physical presence.

I will never stop loving those silver moments of history, whether my own or the world’s, that make me less afraid of my own future. So I might pick my kids up from school in a hover-craft someday. But if I do, I’ll be sure to tell them about my first car, a red, stick-shift Festiva the size of a can of yams. I’ll tell them how it feels to ride a bike without holding on to the handle bars, about running with my friends to the park. I’ll tell them about slowly walking to school and stooping to collect writhing worms from the previous night’s thunderstorm. I’ll tell them how it feels to stand still and absorb an Arizona sunset—how I always felt compelled to do it in silence out of total awe and respect. And then I might have to explain what silence means. So that evening, I’ll take them outside, tell them to watch, and remember...

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"The Nanners" and Me

I know. I'm holding on tight to her coattails 'cuz I just know they'll get me into heaven!

PS. I haven't picked a topic for Miss Natalie next week.....any ideas?

Walk Beside Me

(Bandit post #2 "My Dad is a Dapper  Man.")

I can still remember the day we found out that we would be leaving our beachy paradise in Southern Florida and heading "half way across the world" to Arizona, the land of- well, dirt. It was quite a shock. My dad had the opportunity to pursue his passion of language and education at Thunderbird Graduate School and that meant packing up and heading out west. When I relayed the news to my friends at school the next day they came at me with a barrage of questions and comments.


"Will you have to live in a tee-pee?"

"I heard it never rains.......EVER."

"What about the beach?! How will you get to the beach??"




I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had the exact same thoughts.





I could count on my pre-teen hand the few things I knew about our home-to-be:

1.The movie "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure" was filmed there.

2. Arizona was home to several Indian reservations.

3. It never rained.......EVER.


It was hard to say goodbye to the jagged rocks that jetted out from the surf where we nicked our toes and sat for hours observing sea creatures as the tide came in. We would miss the marshy fields that welcomed our games of "Ghost in the Graveyard" and "Sardines". We were all a little anxious as we watched the bright greens, brilliant oranges, and hot pinks of our tropical life swirl together in the rear view mirror as we made our way to a new home.

My parents have to be the bravest people to ever walk the planet because they opted to drive the entire family cross country, 4 kids, a minivan and giant moving van in tow. The hijinks that ensued were sitcom worthy but we managed to make it to Arizona in one piece. It was actually pretty fun for an 11 year old. (But I break out into hives just thinking about the nightmare it must've been for my poor parentals.)

It was during the last leg of our trip when I really began to take notice of the drastic change of scenery. Gone was the lush green growth that covered every inch of our Florida neighborhood. There wasn't a swamp or boardwalk in sight.  But there was brown.

Miles and miles of brown.


We had stopped to stretch our legs and refuel on the outskirts of Phoenix, when I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Dust filled my lungs and sent me into a coughing fit. The salty, moist sea air I had come to expect was long gone. This place smelled like...


brown.

It was about this time that I began imagining my new life in an adobe hut, tapping cacti for drinking water.

But as we drew closer to our destination, I began to notice clusters of cheerful (non- mud) houses, brightly painted playgrounds and even a few palm trees to remind me of our southern homestead. I had a strange and sudden peace come over me.


This place with it's many layers of  clay colored dirt and alarmingly dry heat, would be home.

It was quite amazing how quickly we all acclimated to our new life in the desert. In a flash my siblings and I  found our place with friends and activities. There was no time to be homesick. It was as if they had been holding a place for us here all along. We thrived.

My parents jumped into their new life with just as much gusto. Unfortunately, I was just a kid and  didn't notice the extreme sacrifices that were made to give our family this new start.


My father was going from a full time job to being a full time student. My mom was going from a part time student-aid to a full time teacher. Their income was cut considerably (as most of you teachers can imagine) and their time together practically nonexistent. But this is the beauty of my parents.

We didn't feel a thing.


My mom spent 10-12 hours a day wrestling 7th graders, doing anything and everything she could to spark some interest in our nation's history (up to and including staging a "sit in" in the principals office) and then came home to a heap of adolescent drama under her own roof. I'm not sure how she ever resisted the urge to pull a "Marie Osmond" and leave us kids to fend for ourselves, taking off in our minivan down the AZ highway and never looking back. If anything she did the opposite, never making us feel secondary to her pressing demands as a working mother. Whether it was helping us perfect an essay for a DAR scholarship or whipping up a fabulous, themed-out birthday party, we knew we were her number one priority.


And my dapper dad? He somehow managed to juggle school, work, church, husband and daddy duties without even so much as a study hall. He even included us in his education, convincing me to take freshman Japanese so that we could study together since he was taking Japaneses courses as well. (FYI- My dad has the gift of tongues-for reals! He can speak German, Portuguese, Japanese, French, Spanish, and bits and pieces of a whole slew of other languages. Have you heard of "Op Talk?" Yeah, well my dad has, and he can speak it!) It was fun having our own secret language. We could ask each other fun things like, "Where is your closest toilet?" and "Shall we go to karaoke together?" and the rest of the fam was none the wiser. I liked being a part of his world.


My dad worked hard and soaked up every ounce of school. He's one of the smartest men I know. I don't know how a giant corporation didn't scoop him up and put him to work immediately, but they didn't. A lesser man would've have dug his heels in and thrown a tantrum, scoffing at the sub par offers that came his way. He was worth so much more. We all knew it. Even the people offering the jobs knew it. But like my mom, who pushed through her exhaustion to make sure we all had the attention we needed,

my dad put us first.


And when it became apparent that student loans and everyday living expenses of a family of six were becoming a drain on our family budget, he got a second job. On Sunday evenings, after a full day of church responsibilities and helping kids with last minute homework assignments, my dad would kiss us goodbye and head off to work at the post office.

Every so often on my way home from a late night church activity I would see my dad walking home, suit coat draped over his arm, back lit by the flickering street lights. He made that walk alone, to and from work every Sunday all in the name of supporting his beloved family. I searched his face for some trace of bitterness or anger. I was always surprised at the genuine contentment he reflected back.


One day during a conversation with my mom I asked her if he regretted leaving his corporate job in Florida considering the trials they had faced in our new home.

"We've talked about that," she said, resting her hands thoughtfully on her hands. "You know what he always says? That he's certain the reason we came here was to give you guys a better life, and because of that he doesn't regret it for a second."

I thought about our blissful childhood filled with good friends and happy memories. I thought about my husband, who I never would've met if we had stayed in The Sunshine State. I thought about how content I am to be here, in the land of dirt, and how I don't even want to think about leaving.

Contrary to what I believed at the time of our move, my dad had so much more in mind for his family than just his career ambitions. The move was for us.


There's a line in one of my favorite "whenever it's on I have to stop and watch it" movies, Little Women. A fellow teacher, Mr. Mayer, had just complemented Jo March's keen debating skills, stating  that she "should've been a lawyer" to which she replied:

"I should've been a great many things, Mr. Mayer."

My dad should've been a great many things, but instead he chose to sacrifice the glory and splendor of chasing down a high profile career for the opportunity to be great at one thing:

A father.


He has walked down many a road alone without any hope of worldly recognition all in support of the family he cherishes. This was never more apparent to me than at the end of my 17 mile/28 hour relay race last summer.

I was running my last mile. It was raining. I was soaked to the bone and exhausted.

I slowed to a brisk walk, praying that I would find the strength to pick up my legs and continue running, but the only thing running quickly were the tears from the corner of my eyes down my already glistening face.

I couldn't go on.

I had reached a turn in the road leading to the final stretch, when I saw him.


My dad.


Our eyes met and a giant smile spread across his rain soaked face. "Alright Chris!!" he jogged over to meet me holding a "Go Christy" sign above his head. "You're almost there!"

"I-I'm so tired" I sputtered, my sobs swallowing most of my words. "I just need to walk a minute."


Without saying a thing, my dad slowed his pace and walked right beside me.

Though we walked in silence, his presence warmed my tired soul and filled up what I had lost along my grueling journey. He gave me the endurance I needed to finish the race. My feet picked up and his strength carried me across the finish line.

(Yes. I felt as bad as I looked.)

My dad has been down many a road, ready and waiting if we should ever turn the corner and find ourselves unable to run.

And he has walked beside us, cheering us on when we didn't believe we could take another step.

He moves quietly through life, making sacrifices that go unnoticed by many, so that his children will have the tools to finish the race.

He gave us so much.

He gave us a home.

He is home.

(PS. My Bandit topic for next week: "Touching on a Topic I Love". Hmmmm, is writing about cake appropriate?)

LOVE/HATE

So sorry I don't have a BANDIT post for you today! Natty's sweet Gram passed away which had her traveling last week and our best intentions were foiled by that unpredictable beast we call " Life".   But, you can see her Bandit post on the topic from last week here.

And next Wednesday I will a have post on my new BB topic from Natalie, which is, drum roll please.....


"My Dad is a Dapper Man".


*blink*


Are you imagining my Dad as this guy too?

Isn't he fancy?

Well, rules are rules. Whatever topic I'm given, of that I must write. So get out your top hat and shine up your monocle. We're about to get dapper up in here!

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Since you're already here, and I've warmed up my chair and I have a few of these to keep me company, I wanted to record a few thoughts I've been having, well pangs really, about my little girls.

They've been naughty.

I find myself having to continually give them the same instructions over and over and yet, they completely disregard them. I'm not asking for the moon or my pre-baby body back, just a very simple request:

STOP GROWING.

For some reason they think it's hilarious, dissolving into a fit of giggles,  anytime I make this demand. I don't think they realize that I am quite serious. That I died a little when Mia just couldn't squeeze her feet into her first pair of ballet shoes anymore and  when didn't want me to hold her hand at preschool drop off. That my heart felt like it could very well burst as I watched Ava walking off to first grade, not a speck of concern that I wouldn't be with her the entire day.

I'm trying not to panic. I'm resisting the urge to shout, "Just kidding!" at their teachers and take them immediately home so I won't miss a second of their fleeting childhood. I want to resist the inevitable,

but I also want to enjoy every stage of their lives.

I have what you would call  a love/hate relationship with those little girls getting less and less little.  And I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.

Love: That my girls are getting tall enough to cover most of my flab (caused from having them and maintained by eating these) in pictures. I'm pretty sure in every family picture since Ava reached 3 feet I've "coincidentally"  maneuvered myself to be right behind her, my white knuckles grasping her shoulders, whispering, "Don't move!" through a clenched smile.

Hate: That they're getting tall! Their limbs have quadrupled in size and seem to resist being cradled and rocked at all hours of the day. They much prefer running, jumping, dancing and twirling.......naughty limbs.

Love: That they have their own ideas, thoughts and opinions. That they tell jokes that make no sense to anyone but them, and laugh harder because of it. That they sing at the top of their lungs to a melody only they know.

Hate: That I don't have as much control over what fills those little minds. That they might listen to someone else who may tell them they are "less than", or "not enough". That there is any chance of them losing an ounce of their shine to a "Spindle".

Love: That they are becoming aware of all the fabulous music in the world. That they can sing songs ranging  from ABBA to The Frames, and a dozen musicals in between. I can't help but smile when those sweet voices cut through the music and wander up to the front of the car.

Hate: They are becoming very aware of music. Even the "not so appropriate for their age group" kind. Like, for example, when Mia was asked by her Sunday School teacher what her favorite church song was and she belted out, "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga.

*sigh* 

I blame Glee.

Love: That they are discovering how to build new relationships. Our rides home are filled with chatter about who shared a toy with them, who played with them at recess, who invited them to a birthday party. It's amazing to see them sharpen their social skills and seek out the personalities they are drawn to. And let's be honest, no one wants their kid eating lunch alone, or heaven forbid,  picked last for freeze tag. (Do kids still play freeze tag?) So it does my heart good when I hear little voices cheer and excitedly greet my girls as they walk up to school.

So far we've avoided wedgies and slam books and girls named "Heather" telling them to "Beat it, you Dweeb!"..........so far.   (I just made it sound like my girls go to school in a 1985 Teen Wolff movie, didn't I?)

Hate: Knowing that the drama can't be prevented, especially for girls, and that one day there will be a "Heather".

Love: How one teaches the other.

Mia: "Mom, what does 'creepy' mean?"

Ava: (before I could answer) "Creepy means....like, when you see a Big Foot." (??)

Ava: "Mia, you can tell someone was good when they were little because they are pretty when they are big."

Mia: (her eyes wide, contemplating her 3 years of rascally behavior) "Ohhhhh!"

Ava: "Mommy must've been a really good little girl."

Me: (Not saying a word, just giving Ava the biggest hug EVER!)

Hate: The thought of the little girl magic fading away, leaving them to see how flawed and unfinished I am.

Hate: That Back to the Future wasn't based on a true story. That I can't hop in Doc Brown's time machine and revisit every blessed stage of their sweet lives.

Love: Them.

*picture by the amazing Danielle Paynter