Ever So Short

I must, somewhere in my subconscious, believe that my most attractive features are my ears.  I must, because every morning in spite of my current hair cut or style, I sweep my hair back and tuck it neatly behind my ears.

Or unneatly, as the case may be.  And today as I sat and watched the faces of a televised choir flash before me I realized that most of them had no ears, but hair that framed their faces perfectly. 

Perfectly, with no ears.  And I sat and wondered, how do they do it?  and then it occurred to me that maybe I have a vain fascination with my ears that they obviously must lack for their own.  Pity, really.  I'll bet they have such attractive ears.

Mending

I have to wonder if it's worth it at all - this old quilt.  Stained, faded, disintegrating with every wash, it continues to dress my bed.  The space where one solid diamond meets floral diamond gapes for want of attention.  There are many of such rips and separations.  I've watched them happen.  One by one by one.  And I've embarrassed myself a number of times, straightening and smoothing it in the morning, or after it's been laundered, accidentally poking my fingers up one of the holes and thinking "I really should do something about this".

A gift from my mother-in-law, this department store quilt has graced our bed for over 10 years as the sole bed spread.  Because I love it?  I like it fine.  But more to the point, I didn't buy it and if the shoe fits. . . 

Even though only a queen, it was draped across our california king-size mattress, barely falling 2" over the sides, for all those years until this recent move when we gave our king to the boys and downsized to a double.  And it still covers our bed except this time we can tuck it in at the foot of the bed meaning that in the middle of the night it stays equally shared between Drew and I.

I've taken moments to find other quilts but being unable to find the one I might have envisioned in my mind, refusing what I didn't immediately love, and unwilling to pay the price for what I may have wanted, I just continued to use the one I had, washing it again and again and again, making the bed and noticing the disrepair, and then leaving the room never to take thought again for the day.

But as the holes get bigger the guilt of my neglect either to repair or replace has also increased and today I began to sew.  An hour and a half later, one and a half podcasts of "This American Life" later, and I'm not even done with a third of the quilt.  I'm noticing as I go that the material itself is thin and wearing holes where seams don't even meet meaning it won't be long before tactful patches or careful embroidery will have to be employed and at that point, at this point, is this quilt worth it?  Is it worth my time to salvage a thin, non-heirloom quilt?

I remember visiting with my grandmother once about the amount of time and money spent on canning salsas and tomato juice.  I had believed her to be a proponent of canning and food storage, after all, she'd canned and gardened her whole child-bearing life, until she said to me "It's not worth it.  What, with the price for a can at the store these days?  Just go buy it!"  I can hear her saying it to me about this quilt.  "Just go buy it!"

I guess I'm just not ready to throw it out yet - deeming it worthless - and I can't very well give it away with all the holes.  So here I'll be for the next few nights, catching up on missed podcasts, and sewing - in and out, up and down, over and through - wondering, 'when I am all done, how much time will all this work/time buy me with this old quilt? and, do I really want it for that much longer?  Really?'

(and, i don't even love it.  i like it alright but. . . )

Oh, the Drama

I used to romantically hope that I'd get to stay overnight at a hospital.  Something wonderfully tragic and terribly dramatic, like, say, appendicitis, would land me the opportunity to lay upon my death bed while family, friends, my unrequited love, . . . they would come to me, hold my hand, wipe my forehead, and tell me, that they loved me.  A scene from Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, and any number of other stories I may or may not have read but was familiar with.  My girlfriend and I in high school would secretly pine for the opportunity that would magically place us, still beautifully intact and without too much pain, on an overnight trip in the hospital.  We dreamed of this while flexing our legs' calf muscles and asking the other if we did not think they were shapely and cut.

My sister will also attest to the fact that I could and tended to be. . . dramatic.  "Like the time," she begins, "you sat on the bed and cried for no reason.  What was up with that?"  And, I wasn't crying for no reason.  I sat there happy and thought of reasons to cry - all the negative, woe-is-me I could dig up - and then I cried.  My mistake was to let her watch the process.  It seems a mite absurd of anyone to do it.  But I did.  And my sister seems to have remembered it, and the absurdity of the moment.

Good thing we all get a chance to grow-up.  Silly me for ever wanting an overnight stay at a hospital.  (After 4 overnight stays for having a baby, I actually opted to stay home with the fifth delivery.)  And, along with that, I try not to bring attention to my calves - they are not cut.

My ability to create reasons to be upset has only marginally matured though.  And if I need a reason to beat myself up for being a woman all I have to do is dwell on periods.  And bleeding.   And then I go to the Old Testament and validate my feeling of "less" and "unclean".  And that gets me thinking about labor and that men don't really get it.  And I wonder why I have to do it.  'Cuz I'm certain I didn't and wouldn't have chosen it.  Which sends me on a trip to place blame on somebody.  And I start to thinking that there had to be another way to get kids here and therefore God is punishing us because he put this burden upon us.  And that takes me to Eve.  And how relatively scott free Adam got off.  Which takes me to Drew and how he has no real clue as to what I suffer, having sacrificed my aspirations for societal greatness to be a mother of all these young children, and suffering my monthly ailments.  And then, if I've done my mental part well, my husband will come home from work, prance through the door with a lilt in his step and a smile on his face, having been lauded by his boss for good work and maybe even taken out to lunch.  He'll grab a bite to eat, change his clothes and zip away in the evening to serve merrily in his church calling, leaving me with kids - again - and alone to wallow in the muck I've created for myself.  And I get discouraged and upset and my thoughts spiral lower and lower until I wake up one day and "get over it". 

And that's how it's done, people.  In it's irrational entirety, that's how I do it.  Or how it would and used to have been done.

Oh, how much I've come to learn in the last few years.  What burdens I've begun to lay down.  What truths I've found.  If nothing else, I've come to accept that some of the things I think I understand, I've actually misunderstood.  That, and the whole process, is really quite absurd and too dramatic of me.

Periods.

My period just ended.

In past lives, my periods were light, lasted 3-5 days, and occurred every 14 days.  One of the two I experienced each month had to have been break through bleeding but I couldn't say since there was never any difference in amount of blood loss, bloating, or emotions from one to the next. For a long time I thought I must have been ovulating that frequently. And actually, I can't say for sure that I wasn't. I do know that if I missed a "period", the next one would be severe in contrast. They would come hard and heavy, were physically and mentally exhausting and came accompanied by headaches.  I hate headaches.  (Listen to me complain, aye? My heart goes out to those of you who have them worse. God bless you.)

This is what I figure: if I'd lived in ancient Israel, I'd be deemed "unclean" for 7 days because of my "issue". Then, after my days of separation, I'd number another 7 days, and on the eighth day (or the 15th day - depending on how you count it) I'd take my sacrifice to the priest and be clean, just in time for my next period to start (or the break-through bleeding to commence) and I'm back to the red tent. If I was "lucky", I'd get a day or two of "clean" days in there. And on rare occasions, I'd get a longer break to gear up for the deluge to come.  (based on Leviticus 15.)

Instead, I groaned and moaned as I realized my period was back after a 13 month hiatus (from having Marie).  I went through dollars worth in tampons and pads, watched the clock and made a trip to the bathroom every two hours for the first 2 days, took Aleve for my headaches, slept, casually brushed my hand against my bottom every time I stood up to make sure there was no bloody show, experienced more than once that erroneous near-to-crying lump-in-the-throat without just cause, broke out in puberty's acne, and, lived to tell the story.   On the up-side, the bloating is over - til next time.

From Mowing to Ladies

Today, was a good day.

I mowed the front lawn.  I like to mow the lawn.  I can do different patterns and still get the job done and I imagine anyone watching me do it probably thinks I'm crazy.  I go around the edge.  Then I go diagonal until I get bored with diagonal, and then I go perpendicular to the house.  When I see missed blades of grass popping up then it's time to go around the lawn in a clockwise direction and then switch direction and go the other way.  Then I notice that the blades of the lawn mower create enough dust to temporarily cover the holes of the innumerable, and large - meaning the ants are very large and intimidating and I am wearing sandals and they seem to be everywhere where the grass is scant  - very large, ant hills, so I return to the diagonal up and back but spend a little extra time in the parts where the mower is over the hills, and less time when my feet are over the hills.  Then, I see more blades poking up that appear to have been missed, so I divert and go to get them, making a bee line path in whichever direction will get me there the quickest.  And so it goes, until I'm done and I take the mower around back to mow down the weeds that Dru didn't think was worth his time when he mowed the back lawn.

I also picked-up the living room and vacuumed and wiped off the piano and tv and also the pencil drawings on the window ledge that I didn't know existed until I was over there looking at it today.  And, tonight, it is still in order. 

And, I played the piano.  For a bit.  For me.  Because I had ordered the next books in the piano curriculum from which I teach my children.

Plus, I went with my children to a city forest and watched them catch the tiniest of frogs.  And Ally held my hand.  And Lil Miss ran alongside them boys.  And she cried a sad cry when she couldn't hold both of her frogs at the same time.  And I had to count when it was time to let them go again. 

And, finally, the night ended with two wonderful ladies coming over to see how I was doing.  And we chatted.  And we laughed.  And we learned and were enriched. 

And now, it's late.  It was a good day.

Shaving Happiness

I was growing out the hairs in my armpits because I'd shaved my legs with a disposable single-blade razor that shaved a huge swath of skin off at the shin bone of which the scab is still very noticeable 3 weeks later and so what's the good of that? 

That razor had been purchased back when our income was less than our expenses and so I'd carefully priced my options that day in Wal-Mart and fatefully concluded that said razor would be what my precious penny would go toward as opposed to my usual triple-bladed cartridge head with moisturizing strip and pivoting action.  And, I'd actually managed to avoid using those bargain razors, even after buying them, so that after we moved here, and now had an income that could support my heftier desires, I still had a number of these single-bladed razors.  And so, I concluded once again that they needed to be used before I go out and buy something more. . . safe. 

So, in one near fatal swipe, I'd not only managed to gouge myself and purge my body of any excess blood, but I also began to wonder why it was I had committed myself to this shaving ritual anyway.  And found that I was the product of society and that it, as a whole, was a product of good marketing - which is absolutely scandalous in my opinion.  So, with that, I determined I wouldn't shave again.  I would be an adult with adult, mature, features that included pubic hairs (including the armpit and groin hairs).  And then I went about finding a swimsuit that might modestly cover those hairs.

My sister happened to call me "progressive" during one of our visits on the phone during this time and, though I hadn't told her that I'd laid my razors to rest, I felt dangerously progressive. 

Then, on Saturday, I went to my boys' soccer game and I couldn't help feel embarrassed that my leg hairs were as long as they were and I was uncomfortably aware that a lift of my arm could reveal the empowered fruits of two weeks but that nobody else would see it as such.  They would just see hair growing out of a woman who also had in tow 6 kids.  And drove a suburban.  And also sat and watched as her 2 year old drank the pools of water from off the picnic tables and then spit it back out - never swallowing it, mind you.  And all that just compiles into "letting oneself go" which denotes an all-around negative connotation in our otherwise ad-fed society. 

So, Saturday afternoon, I shaved.  I got out my nice razor with the triple-blade, the moisturizing strip, and the pivoting action, and I shaved my armpits.  And I shaved my legs.  And I did not shave my bikini line because there was no need to.  And that night, Dru and I got a babysitter and went to a church meeting for adults.  And the day had gone well but I felt like I was going to explode with sad emotion but I couldn't figure out why I was feeling sad.  My day had gone well.  I was feeling well.  The meeting was fine.  Life was good.  But I was on the verge of tears and as the meeting closed and others gathered for the dinner that was being served, I asked Dru to take me somewhere else 'cuz I was going to cry.  We drove to a more quiet place for dinner and I tried to assess the day and week and why it was I was feeling the way I was and the only good reason I could come up with is that, like Samson and his strength, I'd managed to shave my happiness off in those armpit hairs.  And that's the ever lovin' truth of the matter, I tell you.

Ally

Not too rainy, Dru and I found ourselves taking the girl's to a local forest today.  It boasted tree-houses.  And, Dru didn't have to go into work today, so, how could we not? 

After showing our membership card to the desk personnel, we followed the girls out the doors and into the woods.  While exploring, we found a pond with 3 turtles sunning themselves, spotted a big ol' frog tending tons of jellied eggs, and watched a pair of geese take off into the air right before our noses.  Ally was a ball of excitement and to see her skipper-dee-doo down a wooded path - red mary jane's, purple socks, pink skirt and white shirt, her dark hair cropped to a short bob at the chin line, red highlights glinting in the sunlight that trickles down through the forest canopy - I just can't help but be grateful that I get to be a part of her wonder and learning.

Bread

I have just been e-mailed a document about Eve that I'm thrilled to have in my possession and I'll share it with you just as soon as I digest it.  I actually have a number of articles which I plan to share.  They are wonderfully insightful and enlightening.   But, first, a story.

Dru went to 5 1/2 years of grad school during which we lived in a row townhouse in the university's Family Housing.  Right off the bat, I fell into a friendship with a lady and her husband who were master bakers of everything really, but mostly, bread.  They made bread of all kinds and watched shows on bread and read books on bread and on our early morning walks together she would share with me what new things they were trying to be able to make the perfect loaf of bread.  For Christmas one year, they delivered - I don't know how many - some-odd number of 3 loaves bundled to represent the gifts of the 3 wise men in the Christmas story.  Each loaf was a different kind of rustic bread.  That's a tremendous amount of lovin' goodness.  For our monthly game nights, they would bring homemade baguettes and challah.  After they moved on, they made a beautiful loaf for an auction to benefit the youth of their congregation.  It went for a pretty penny for being bread.

My mother baked bread about 3 times a week during the school year while I was growing up and I would watch her knead the bread and taste it as it was rising and smell it as it was baking and slather on the butter and gobble it right up when it was fresh from the oven, so bread making was not a foreign craft to me.  I just chose not to learn and do it.  (Actually, I was waiting until I had a KitchenAid or Bosch and 12 years of marriage later, I still don't have one.)

Loving this good friend's bread, I asked to be the recipient of their hard work and was thenceforth treated to a fresh loaf of bread weekly.  It was always warm.  It was never regular white.  Each loaf was a dessert of wholesome goodness that I deliciously consumed, with butter.

Didn't take long for word of their breadmaking know-how to get out among our community, and they were asked to do a class on how to make bread.  I was encouraged to come and learn myself but, silly, I still didn't have myself a Bosch, just a hand-mixer, so, you know - my time hadn't come.  Yet.

Come the time when my husband is out of employment and we're trying not to spend what we don't have and what I do have is a whole bunch of wheat down in my basement, in large 5 gallon buckets, so I start to make bread.  With no wheat grinder, I'd take my wheat to a friend's home and spend time visiting over the loud din of the grinder.  Then, I'd take that wheat flour home and with just a hand-mixer, I'd mix me up some bread dough and then I'd put my shoulder to the wheel, and I'd knead and knead and knead the dough, then bake it up for my family.  Always a cheerleader, my friend posted for me her magical ever-lovin' bread recipe and I've been a bread-makin' fool ever since.  (And did I mention, I still don't have a Bosch.)

And my family loves it.

But, and here's, why I share this with you.  There is information all over out there.  A lot to be had.  It's not foreign to us; it's not kept secret to us but we have to want it bad enough to either jump in and find it or ask someone to help us find it.  It's like havin' tons of bread at the store ready made and friends and parents that make it for us and no need to learn for ourselves so we don't ever bother to find out.  And then, something happens that gets us to needin' to know how it is made and we make it a point to find out and even go as far as makin' ourselves a loaf.

When I first started learning more about Eve and finding these documents I started wondering who already knew but hadn't told me.  Why hadn't anyone shared this information with me?  Why had I been in the dark for so long?   I was saddened to know I'd been floundering for so long.  But, truth is, the information had always been available, but until I started asking my own questions and having a desire, even an urgent desire, to know, I'm not sure I really cared that it was out there.  It's not, after all, daily conversational material.  Now, I'm ready and excited and wanting to share it just as my friends and mother did to share their bread with me.  Enjoy the feast.

Self-Portrait

Putting up a profile picture of myself is akin to the calling forth of all my inner demons.  I scrutinized over it peoples - spending way too much time trying to decide how I wanted you to see me.  And, craziness, you probably don't really even care just so long as you can put a name to a face.  But I worried about it just the same.

Then, as I'm reading Tiffani's blog - which I love - and through a series of clicks, I happen upon a beautiful and confident self-portrait of herself which then takes me to her first self-portrait and the following caption:

In my entire flickr collection, there are only a handful of pictures of me. It's not that I'm the only one taking pictures, but truthfully? I crop myself out of them. When I see myself in pictures, there's a lot I don't like and not much I do. I think I'm getting a little too old for that kind of self doubt. I love the self portraits people take...confident, happy, accepting. So this year? It's my year.

No more cropping out. No more 'bad hair days'. Just me. It will be hard, but I want my kids to know how happy their mom was living this life with them.

I stared at my screen and read and reread her caption.  (The timliness of this find is fortuitous.) 

I want my kids to know how happy I am, too.  I want people to know that I was happy.   And confident, and accepting.  Because, I am trying to be those things.  Because, in general, I am.  I am.

Does that mean I'll change out my profile pic?  Probably not.  But it may mean that my eyes will be open in a few more family photos.  And that's a good thing.

Blogging

At the end of the day, it's apparent I didn't really accomplish a whole heapin' lot, or much at all.  I do what needs to be done and maybe that's enough but, maybe I could do so much more. 

I've decided that many women run faster through their day than I do.  "I [tend to] have two speeds and if you don't like this one, [it's a guarantee] you won't like the other one." 

At least that's what I've believed ever since I was given a plaque with that quote on it as a gift.

And the quote may be true.  I do take things at my own pace.  A slow April-kind-of pace.  But even at my slow pace there is still time in the day when I could have done something more than what I've managed to do.

I look back on my day and wonder why I don't do more of the things I'd like to do and it all boils down to fear.  I'm afraid I won't be able to finish what I start so I start nothin'.   I'm afraid what I finish won't be good enough or worth the time and money I put into it so I put no time into it and spend no money on it.  I'm afraid it will get ruined once I start so I never take the chance with anything and kids.  I'm afraid someone else could have done it better or cheaper or more efficient so why try.  I'm afraid I can't do "big" things if I haven't finished the day-to-day things so until I get the dishes and the laundry and the meals and the shopping and the cleaning and the feeding and the bills and all my unsung obligations done, I probably shouldn't start something new.  Which really tends to be quite debilitating when I think of all the things I'd like to do or try.

To begin with, we bought some old school chairs and a desk.  They need to be stripped and sanded and repainted and I'm waiting for Dru to do it because he does everything well and fast and better.  But while I wait I'm thinkin' I could probably do it - it couldn't be that hard.  But they're still sittin' and waitin' 'cuz I'm afraid. 

Then there is the ever accumulation of photo album and scrap book stuff.  It needs sifting and sorting and to be spread out from here to there so I can see, and choose, and place it in its right spot and I'm waiting for endless days when I'll never be distracted or have to pull away, and when nobody will touch the piles.  Ever.  And so the whole mass just keeps building and building.  Proof's in the pudding - I'm a living bundle of fear.

My quilt.  Someday I'll make one.  Heaven knows I've been savin' up material to make one.  And why haven't I?  'Cuz I'm fully aware that it's a big project that I'll start and not finish 'cuz my track record of finishing things is crap.  So then I'll end up with a quilt project that may have time put into it but no huge reward out of it so that equals wasted time.

And I can go on.  I am self defeating.

But a small success on my part will be this blog.  Because everyday I write for it, is another day I've done something I want to do with all the fears attached.  And I'm still doing it.  Day after day. 

Maybe tomorrow I'll start those chairs. . .

Come again some other day

It's raining. 

It's raining hard. 

It's raining a lot. 

And it's been doing it in and out for most of the day. 

And yesterday. 

And the day previous to that. 

And I miss the sun.  And the warmth, and the energy it brings with it. 

I grew up in the high mountain west where winters are cold, spring is cold, summer is warm and mild, and fall is. . . actually, I don't remember how the fall is.  Warm days and chilly nights.  Freezing fingers from early morning marching band practice is really what I remember of the fall.  But before that, I lived in the low valley mountain west where winters are mild, spring is rainy, summer is dry and hot, and fall is . . . I've forgotten fall here too.  Going to school without a coat and nice warm recesses are what I remember.  But both places thrive on sunshine so when the rain would come, I welcomed it.

Rain was a respite from the day after day monotony of sun.  It was exciting or gentle.  It cleansed the air around us and brought much needed water for grass, gardens, and reservoirs.  I'd play in the rain, running as in a game of tag from tree to tree to take cover under their canopies from the water drops that were "it", and then finally, and deliciously, stand beneath the roof's water gutter and let the water pour upon my head.  Open my pants and let it fill my underwear.  If you'd ask me then, I'd have said I loved the rain.  Sun was an everyday thing - rain was magic. 

Now I'm in the midwest where this rain is the reason for the abundant green.  No one talks about a drought or xeriscape or devastatingly low reservoirs.  No one talks about it because it rains about every 3 days.  Or 3 days straight.

Now, if you were to ask me, I'd tell you I love the sunshine.  I love it because gray skies are becoming an everyday thing - sun is magic.

And my boys just came home from walking home in the rain 'cuz I'd have told you a little rain never hurt anybody but the reality is I lost track of time and it didn't even cross my mind to go and rescue their poor souls from the torrential downpour and thunder storm that is outside.  They've come into my bedroom soaked.   Soaked through coat and hat and shoes.  "Mom," they say,  "It's raining a lot."  "Yeah, we were afraid the lightening was going to get us because lightening hits trees and there are a lot of trees out there."  "And the gutters are rivers.  It's really crazy."  I smile at my boys.  "Guess today would have been a good day to have picked you up from school, aye?"  "Yeah.  You totally should have picked us up today."  I look at all my wet boys again.  They've lost their smiles and are looking at me pathetic and sternly.  I turn to Boybee.  He'd been so sad, almost to tears, this morning that there hadn't been enough water running down the gutters to float his little wooden boat.  "Well, I guess now would be a good time to float your boat?"  "No way!" he says.  "It's too wet out there!"  And now I laugh.  'Cuz I love them boys. 

I took Marie out.  We were tired of being inside and the rain was coming down in a drizzle.  And it wasn't as cold as it had looked from inside.  And it still smelled fresh.  And Marie was enticed by the puddles and babbled happily.  And I was grateful for the rain, and I look forward to the sun.

900 years +

Not long ago, I found myself in the trenches of mothering.

Dru picked up a job contracting for a company 9 hours south of us. He'd drive down Sunday around noon, work for the week, then drive and be back by Friday, late afternoon. I had the option to move down there but made my choice to stay where I was at. Due to this choice, except for 40 of the 168 hours in a week, I found myself a single parent to 5 small children ages 9, 4 (two of them), 3, and 1. Oh, and then one on the way! (We discovered the latter not long after Dru started the commute.)

It was an amazing, hard year.

Dru was convinced this was his break - his chance to follow a dream and, if we stuck with it, a chance to strike it rich as well. The golden carrot was just beyond his reach but if we all persevered, he'd get it by and by. For me, there was no golden carrot, only days with kids and lonely, quiet nights. But, it wasn't impossible and I'll forever fondly refer to that year as "the year of the empowered mother".

Near the end of my pregnancy and having lived through 8 months of this lifestyle, my mother flew out to go to a conference for women with me. (She owed it to me to come. And that's what ya get for playing pass the unleavened bread at a passover meal.) =) One of the speaker's told about being ready to retire and being given the option to continue with his career with some tantalizing perks. He considered it and then said how he had turned the offer down, telling the people that his wife had lovingly supported and stood by him as he chased his dreams and now, it was her turn to chase her dreams.

And I bawled.

I bawled and bawled and bawled. And I tried to shake the tears and calm my shoulders but I didn't do too good a job of it.   I had been holding the fort down fairly well, managed to keep a cheerful attitude, and had tried to be so supportive of Dru and his chase for that carrot but, for as much as I tried, it was wearing me down.  I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I couldn't see when my time would come. 

And then I felt so selfish.  I was sitting next to a woman who had sacrificed a lot of her own dreams and ambitions to raise 8 children on a meager budget.  My mother made us feel like there was nowhere in the world she'd rather be than at home with us, day in and day out.  She supported my dad; continues to support him.  I love her for it!  For being there for us, for loving us.

It's easy to look back on life and not only think "whew, we made it" but also, "that wasn't very long after all" because in reality, a lot of life is really such a short time.  We can do it!  Good grief, if Adam lived to be over 900 years, and who knows how long Eve lived or how many times during her life she was in trenches, and if after all was said and done, she could still say it was worth it, then so can we.  Our time will come.  If not in this life then, certainly, in the next.

Banking

I worked as a teller at a bank.  About, oh, a little over 10 years ago.  It was where I wanted to be.  On a spring day, I walked into the manager of the college-town branch and told him I wanted to work there.  I didn't know who he was and he didn't know who I was but he said yes.  Well, he couldn't hire me quite yet 'cuz I wasn't trained and I was going to live with my parents over the summer, so, I went on in to the branch in my hometown and told them I wanted to work there and they said they didn't want to train me if I was going back to school in the fall so I had them call the first manager and, wah-la, it was a done deal and I became a teller at a bank.  

My life as a teller was fairly posh.  I took people's money and I counted money and I gave out money and if there was no money to take or count or give, then I read or visited with fellow co-workers whilst sitting on a stool behind a nice little counter.  Oh, and I answered the phone and sometimes, I got to open the mail and who doesn't like opening mail.  Plus, and also, I got to give out suckers to the kids and doggy snacks to the dogs.  Money and a sucker.  That just makes for a good day all around.

I considered myself to be a stellar teller.  Since learning customer's names was important, I kept a couple stick-it's behind the counter with the names of frequent customers and something I could remember them by so that when they came in to our branch, I could invite them by name to come on down to my teller window.  Then we'd make small chit chat and I'd finish the transaction and they'd be on their friendly way.  

Favorite day was the payday for a large meat-packing company.  The employees would rush us just before closing so that they could get their check's cashed before the weekend.  Lots of customers, lots of cash, lots of fingerprinting and ID checking, and lots of smiles from hardworking folks - many of whom spoke little English, but I loved their smiles and thank yous just the same.

Most of the customers were friends - people I enjoyed seeing and serving.  And then there was Lola.  I kid you not her name was Lola and she was straight out of the song "Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. . . " but it was not a favorable getting and we all knew it.  We'd see her heading towards us from down the street and, it was a "dibs not it" for who would get the privilege to help her.   She never had her slips filled out; she always had a lot to do; she was never gracious; she was always rude.  Always.  If it was Lola, you just held your breath and hoped she wouldn't be at your window long - kinda like when you would if you got to help the couple who loved garlic, but at least helping them was pleasant. 

If a customer had a problem or complaint, we tellers, would do our best to help them as long as possible until a "buzz" word was spoken and then we'd get the manager.  I learned "buzz" words could be pretty powerful things in terms of how fast and what kind of service you received.   (Except for Lola.  Lola didn't need a buzz word.  We were more than happy to direct her complaints to higher up.)

Jobs end, but I like to think that I still know the banking business.  It's like I do my mental warmups before going in: smile, have slips filled out, ID ready, smart questions, "buzz" words.  I am living proof that the banking industry has changed faster than I have in the past decade.  I'm pretty sure it was so much less complex back in the day.  And, and, we didn't have fancy machines that spit our money out for us, so we got to count it more. 

I took a couple of checks to the bank to deposit.  My three girls are with me.  It's an errand-running kind of day.  I drove up to the teller drive through and began to fill in my deposit slips and sign my check.  (I always use the drive-up window because (a) I can hide in the car if I come up looking ignorant; (b) I don't have to take all the kids in; (c) I don't have to be prepared; and (d) they give out suckers and if I'm lucky they'll send out an extra one for me.)  I signed the check made out to myself and Dru.  Then I signed Dru's name for him on the other check.  Then I thought about it and figured I may as well sign Dru's name on the joint check as well, even though they were both being deposited into a joint account and no money was being taken out.  It was for a large sum of money and I figured the teller might just check for those signatures.  I connected Dru's "w" and "a" and made sure to put a tiny circle above his "i".  Then I put those checks in the tube and waited for the suckers. 

 "Ma'm?"  

"Yes?"  

"I'm sorry.  The signature on the back of this check for Dru doesn't match the signature we have on record." 

Well, of course it doesn't.  Wait, they checked it against the original?  Crap.  "Yup." 

"We can't deposit this check without his signature, Ma'm." 

Buzz word, buzz word, buzz word.  "Well, it's a joint check going into a joint account so, isn't that ok?" 

"No Ma'm.  He needs to sign it."  Emphasis on the he. 

Shoot.  I'm soooo losing this.  "I'm sending it back to you and you'll need to bring it back another time." 

"Right."  Hot dog.  I didn't want to have to come back again to deposit this check.  My afternoon is ruined in terms of checked to-dos and efficiency.  It's got to get better.   I buzz her again.  "Oh, and can I get 4 suckers? Thank you."  Doesn't get much better than that.

My grace

Nine months following the birth of my twin boys, I was pregnant again - this time with a little girl.  I was still reeling in diapers and bottles and laundry and adjustments.  Many adjustments. 

It was a crazy time.

One day a friend dropped in with a fresh baked pecan pie.  My shades were still drawn and I was still in my red floral nightgown - passed down to me by my great uncle when his wife passed away. . . which, I also have her coat too and once, my brother chided me and asked if a got my coat from a dead person and I had to answer yes, I did, to which he sarcastically laughed and then asked "no seriously" straight faced, to which I restated "no, I really did get it from a dead person", and he made some off comment like, "yah.  It looks like it." and suggested I throw it away.  I still have it - 'cuz it's warm and works.  The red polyester large floraled mu'u mu'u style nightgown was one he'd probably laugh at too, but I have to say that my Asian neighbors liked it and since I was surrounded by Asians, I was right where I belonged with it.)

I was still in my nightgown, the house was less than presentable and I honestly don't remember the condition of my children.  And, it was 11:00 in the morning, quickly approaching afternoon.  My friend just came right on in, we shared pie and visited, and then, after waving goodbye, I crashed on the sofa - mortified.  With infant twins, I was definitely not the competent mother I had been when it was life with just me and Boy.  I felt reminded of this point every day.

Nearing the end of my pregnancy, I was having to go in for non-stress tests to make sure she was still doing ok.  One ultra-sound technician mentioned she thought this little girl would be so lucky.  Lucky? I asked out loud.  I'd never thought of this little baby as being lucky.   To be sure, I was actually sad for her that she was coming to our home at this craziest of crazy times.  "Sure," the tech said.  "I always wanted an older brother so I could meet their guy friends - and she's going to have two."

I wouldn't have planned my family any other way.  Really.  Lil' Miss reminded me that I was a competent mother, that I was a good mother.  She was easy, and absolutely just what my heart needed after twins.  My heart still needs her.  Will always need her.  She allowed me grace.  She continues to allow me much needed grace.

But somewhere, I worry she's already gotten lost in our home.  I sense it some days more than others.  She is such a little bundle of self.  Her desire to find a place in our home sometimes leads to days of me reprimanding her more than praising her.  Lil' Miss' soul is so big in her little 4-year old body. 

Shortly after moving here, I stood at my sink grumbling under my breath and huffing - close enough to cursing.  I had cookie sheets I had to scrape and scrub free of oven cleaner - left by someone who had offered to help me with the move and then later complained to me about how terrible the oven had been to clean.  I was not there for the "help",  but my Lil' Miss had been.  Lil' Miss now stood on a chair beside me as I tried to get the awful stuff off my pans.  "Mom," she tenderly said.  "Don't be mad at Lea.  She forgot the pans."  I hadn't said Lea's name but Lil' Miss knew; I imagine Lea having few kind words to say about me or the state of my home as she huffed over my oven, and Lil' Miss would have observed and heard it.  But she knew even Lea needed a little grace.  She reminded me that while I huffed on that I hadn't been given grace, I also wasn't giving enough of it. 

This morning she came to me and in a quiet voice said she had thrown-up last night.  Oh, my Lil' Miss.  I went to her room to assess the situation.  As I looked over her bed, I could hear her hushed sobs of despair.  As gently as I could, I reassured her it would be ok, told her we'd get it cleaned up, gave her a hug and ran a bath for her.   That was this morning.

'Course, by lunch time, she'd already been sent to her room, reprimanded and sad.

Oh, my Lil' Miss.  How. I. love you. 

Wild Flowers

I've been here now, almost 3 months.  I realize that is a short amount of time to be somewhere and to expect great things but I still do.  I walk into my children's school and I'm still not warmly received.  In fact I'd say some of the ladies in the office have it in for me.  Just once, a smile would be nice.  It's never a question of who'll I'll run into at the store, or the park, or, at my mailbox because I won't be running into a familiar face.  And our congregation is very kind and outgoing but it still leaves room for many awkward moments. 
I just returned from an evening for women at church.  A nice evening with mini-classes on how-to fix drain plugs and put out fires and what to do in a city chemical emergency.  A nice evening where I felt very out of place, very much the wild flower up against the wall.  It's where I sit and try not to look out of place -  not wanting to interrupt conversations, afraid to break into standing friendships.   The women must sense my anxiety and they sit down next to me and speak to me and ask me how I'm doing but I couldn't shake the sickening feeling in my gut and the instinct to run: eat the refreshment faster and slip out.

There are days when I wish there was someone I could fall into a conversation with, without first discussing the weather or how I'm liking this town.  Someone who I know a little more than a first name basis, and who knows, me.

Not choosing to be alone, but finding myself uncomfortably alone in a crowd, makes me very aware of just how many dear friends I left behind.  Makes me miss them a little more; ache for the closest ones.  It's one of those "without the pain, wouldn't know the joy" moments in life.  (sigh)

Soft

My Ally is angrily screaming in her room.  She's screaming because I sent her there for playing with water.  She's screaming because it's also bedtime and she's tired.  We joke that she has a feral side about her but it's only funny as a parent - as a bystander it's actually quite the act of defiance and, scary.

And now it's quiet.

And I'm reminded of how gentle she can be.  My Ally loves textures, especially softness.  When she was even smaller than she is now, I would let her crawl into bed with me.  She'd ever so gently touch my hair, stroke my face, press her cheek against mine and gently move across it - back and forth, always soft, always gentle.  She would keep this up long into the night until I'd put her back in her own bed, unable to sleep myself.  She'd carry cotton balls around the house with her, plucking them off of bunny crafts and packing them clutched in her hands and mouth, for hours.  She has a ballerina ornament with a feather/downy tutu that's never on the tree - it's being held up to her face so she can feel it tickle her nose.  At nights, if the cat it to be found, I find her face buried in his belly.  Ally does something with me called "magic makeup" where we pretend to put makeup on the other one.  It's all about soft, gentle touch, on the eyelids, eyebrows, eyelashes, the cheeks, the lips, and, she insists, the chin.  She, is wonderfully soft - when she isn't screaming.