"And when I can't stand, you are where I land..."

He is goofy and quirky. When he passes gas he tells anyone in earshot he is 'Tooty McFarlin'.  It has no reference whatsoever which is why it is all the more precious and him.

He is always in another world, winning wars and saving whole societies. His art makes me want to cry it is so precious and free and he can sing so beautifully. This morning he was singing "Home Means Nevada" but to a new tune. It was better than the original, more pep. I asked him where he learned it and he said he didn't like the old way so he made a new way up. I'm still trying to pick my jaw up off the floor.

 

 

 

Did I mention someone is two?

 

It's pretty amazing, building this family, day by day together.

 

                              

A Week of Recovery. Or Damage.

We are back from the hospital. We went to Shriner's in Sacramento last Sunday afternoon, the first of three or four surgeries to reconstruct Ethan's little ear.
I was expecting to come home Wednesday but Ethan didn't get released until Friday morning.
We're home and doing normal things, things like taking a shower in my own bathroom and putting product in my hair and driving my car, which all seem really really special.
Ethan was a trooper despite waking up from surgery with surgical soap in his left eye. Apart from having his cartilage scraped off his ribs and then implanted in his head, his real problem was not being able to open his eye, which was swollen and purple on the outside and red and terrifyingly opaque on the inside. As his mother I kinda wanted to kill someone, like maybe the person who didn't shield his eyes from the surgical soap, which the nurse said was "anti-bacterial soap times a hundred."
I thought I was handling things pretty well until Wednesday night. After two days of his eye not getting any better and his demeanor getting worse due to the ongoing pain and irritation of his eye (his ribs and ear didn't seem to bother him at all)  I was at my own ropes end. Joey went home Monday to be with Noah, so I was by myself, just me and grumpy Ethan, surrounded by the the green and pink walls of the hospital, the beep beep beep of all the little machines, and the sirens of all the ambulances bringing people to the UC Davis Emergency room across the street at all hours of the day and night.
I think what was getting to me more than anything-besides not getting any adequate explanation for Ethan's eye and no remedy for it either-was the lack of privacy. The constant publicity of being in a hospital, the shuffling of feet outside the door, the wails of other patients next door at two in the morning, the constant use of a public bathroom since the one in our room was "FOR PATIENTS ONLY".  The latter was especially frustrating because Ethan could not get out of bed to use it. So it just sat there, empty, clean, private, while I made my way down the hall and around the corner three or four times a day to a stall. Showering was even more irritating and I only did it once in the hospital due to the fact I kept thinking about all the disgusting little germs everywhere (it was a public shower as well) and what if the lock didn't work and the shower curtain just gave me the creeps. At least I got clean, but it was nothing like a hot twenty minute shower in my own bathroom. Plus, I forgot my shampoo (I can't go anywhere without forgetting something) and what was supplied in the bathroom was a small yellow bottle of Johnson and Johnson's baby shampoo, which doesn't really clean your hair it just sorta separates it.  Anyway, when my hair dried it didn't look any different then before the shower.
Wednesday afternoon the "toy" lady came, a pleasant woman named Melissa who was supposed to make things fun for the kids, bring them toys and movies and portable PlayStation's on wheels. Ethan didn't really want to have anything to do with her since number one he couldn't open his eye to see anything anyway and number two he couldn't open his eye to see anything anyway. Oh, and did I mention his eye kinda looked like someone had doused it with antibacterial soap, times a hundred, and then let it sit there for eight hours? The only pain he complained of was his eye.
Melissa, the toy lady, said his demeanour was "concerning" as most kids want to play with something. I started crying and Melissa suggested I get out of the hospital for awhile-she'd stay with Ethan.
I knew this was probably a good idea; I had only been there three days but I was starting to feel like I was in prison. They only trips out of our hospital room I was taking were to the bathroom; I was barely making it down to the cafeteria in the morning for coffee because I was surviving off the left overs on Ethan's meal trays (another reason why I was feeling like I was in prison).
Reluctantly (Ethan teared up when I told him I was going out for a bit) I grabbed my purse and headed toward the elevators. Outside the fresh air felt heavenly, the sun warm and alive on my cheeks. I walked a block down to a local coffee shop run by christian Asians; they had a picture of who I can only assume to be Jesus, laughing, in a cheap frame and a one page calender that at the bottom read, Revival Christian Fellowship.
I ordered a chai which was too sweet but comforting anyways and sat looking out the window. I can't remember what I thought about, maybe nothing, and then I got up and walked back to the hospital. Melissa was sitting by Ethan, her toys unopened. Ethan was awake and quiet on the bed.
That afternoon we got a roommate.
His name was Lawrence and he was six years old but looked like he could have been four. He had warm brown skin and his dark hair was curly and stood up all over his head. He was pleasant and friendly, having just came from surgery on his hand to correct his thumb which bent unusually backward, making it hard for him to learn how to write although his PlayStation skills were extraordinary.
His hand was the least of his problems, though, as he was born with no rectum, no genitalia. He has to wear a diaper and a colostomy bag all the time. The diaper is never dry because he has no control to hold his pee; it just leaks out like a faucet all day long. To top it off, he has an advanced stage of liver failure.
Grandma though, was the real paradigm. He called her "Gaga" (like the Lady) and she called him "JuJu". I don't think they were actually related by blood as she was white, and I later learned he was half mexican half black, but she definitely had the role of caregiver in his life. She talked to both mom and dad on the phone but JuJu seemed totally disinterested in speaking with them.
"Gaga" was on the phone a lot, coordinating what seemed to be a house filled with a lot of kids, making sure the dogs were taken out and the dishes were being done.
The dish conversation was the first of many that perked my ears and made me thankful we don't usually have to be paired with strangers, especially ones where we are both confined to the same room twenty four hours a day. In the middle of what seemed like a very normal conversation on making sure chores were being done, Gaga says, "Yeah, there's not a clean dish in the house....I was thinking of paying [whoevershesaid] twenty bucks to do them-it's been over a week...well, if you do them, make sure you use some bleach and Ajax to kill all the maggots, we don't want to be getting sick..."
Yeah, take a moment to process that one.
Then in the middle of the night, while holding JuJu who had started to whimper or say something, she says to him in a loud whisper, "SHUT UP JUJU! IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP I'M GOING TO CALL THE FUCKING NURSE IN HERE TO GIVE YOU A SHOT!" This was even more disturbing as I heard her tell the nurse earlier that day the only thing he was afraid of was shots.
I was relieved to see Ethan was still sleeping soundly. I, on the other hand, was seriously damaged. And poor JuJu...although they seemed to have a very loving relationship otherwise. He wanted to sleep with her and they cuddled a lot. She cared for him, changed his diapers constantly, even through the night.
Thankfully he only had to stay for one night as things came to a head twenty minutes before they were supposed to be released. Gaga wanted JuJu to be able to watch a movie but there was only one TV and Ethan wanted it off so he could sleep. Joey was back by this time and soon the tension in the air was palpable. Joey turned the volume of Shrek 2 all the way down to zero. Lawrence didn't really seem to care, but the next time Gaga was on the phone she says, "This guy over here, he's something else!"
As they left I wished Lawrence well and said a silent prayer to never ever have to meet Grandma Gaga again.
Thursday was better, having the room back to ourselves and Ethan's eye showing signs of improving for the first time since Monday. Also, Joey was with us so I could leave to the Ronald McDonald house and zone out in the shower for twenty minutes.
I was disappointed when the doctor wouldn't let us go home Thursday afternoon, but I managed to get through one more night on Old Betsy (the roll away vinyl mattress I had been sleeping on all week which made an incredible amount of almost fart like noised every time I moved, which didn't matter anyway because I always ended up back in the sunken middle, the sides folding up all around me like it was about to swallow me up) knowing that we were probably going to be released in the morning. 
The next morning as we headed out I felt as happy as if it were Christmas. For the first time in my life I knew the feeling of walking away from something and having no desire to look back on it.  Just leave it all there; all the tubes, all the cold bedding, all the drafty windows, the sirens.
And if by chance, you are wondering about Ethan, he's fine. Children are extremely resilient, as they say, and he can't wait to go back. They have PlayStation! Mama, on the other hand, may take a couple of weeks to recover, and heal.

Saturday.

Well things have been going swimmingly since the truck incident. Days like that make you in love with ordinary days, days when nothing completely shitty happens.
Joey's been trying to sleep off a cold, especially in light of Ethan's first ear surgery on Monday. I've been trying to stay away from my husband, which is unusual for me; usually even if he's sick his nearness is more important and I'll sacrifice being sick too for some lov'in. But this time Ethan's surgery, and my ability to be there with him, wins out.
I have no idea what he's going to look like after this first surgery. I guess I am picturing a lump, or bulge, behind his little ear. Anyhow, I know it's not going to be pretty. He's strong though, and if anyone has to go through it God gave him the characteristics to make it easier: he gave his class a whole presentation on it, and can't wait to go back and give them the follow up after the surgery.
I'm a little anxious over what the heck I will be doing down there, seeing as they won't let both of us stay in the room, so Joey has decided to come home in between. I need a good book.
I am excited for the holidays, excited to be with family. We are planning on going up to Graeagle too; the thought of the big trees and clean air quiets me, makes me want to take a walk.
I miss my sister, the older one, terribly. She's so. far. away. I miss the little one too, and her girls. If I can't make it to SA, at least I may be able to make a trip to SD work...
Tonight Joey and I get to go out with friends. I'm looking forward to a big glass of wine, or two. I'm also hoping to get a run in this weekend, despite looking out the window and getting the chills from the trees blowing in the wind, the white clouds covering the sky. Winter has arrived and now it's time to bunker down, gather up every grace I have with in me, and wait it out.  Things that I have found help: running, even in the cold, laying in a tanning bed and coming out brown, and going on a weekend get-a-way to somewhere where the tentacles of winter can't reach, like Vegas. The last option is especially a luxury, but one I hope we get to do again sometime in February or March, when the winter seems like it will never end. Visiting somewhere warm is a reminder things change.
It's a perfect Saturday. Still. Time to go curl up in bed, and rest.

Warming up the Truck.

It started at five AM when my phone went off, telling me to get out of bed even though my body said, "No, please, God, no..." I pushed the boundaries and didn't actually get out of bed until five thirty, stumbling into the bathroom and fumbling until I was in a hot shower, where I stood, for another ten or fifteen minutes or so before I remembered I was supposed to actually do something in there, like wash my hair.
Getting ready went smoothly despite the anticipation and stress of having to get to FOUR different locations (pick up Joey, drop of Noah, drop of Ethan, pick up a car for me) before my meeting at eight thirty. We were down to one vehicle because mine was getting fixed in the shop--someone slammed their door into mine a couple of weeks ago.
It's been getting colder so I thought I'd go out before hand and start the truck, warm it up for my two little spaz attacks.
I went back inside to grab them and all our gear: hats, jackets, diaper bags, lunch bags, work bags, purses...and we tromped outside to the waiting truck, humming lowly in the quiet morning air. I reached for the handle to open the door and it didn't open.
I tugged on it again. Nothing. So I tugged on it ten more times, before running around to the other three handles only to find the same thing: the truck was locked.
And this is when my heart dropped into my shoes and I wanted to scream.
The truck was locked. Running. And the spare key was with my subaru, at the shop. And Joey was at work, without a vehicle. And there was no way I was going to make my meeting.
And did I mention the truck was running?
We ended up waiting over an hour before Joey finally came home with my spare key, after borrowing a car, going down to the shop to get it, and then driving all the way back home. I sat on the couch and had a mental breakdown while the boys played in the living room, still with their beanies on. Every once in a while I'd get up and go look at the truck, the exhaust filling the now bright morning, and want to kick something really, really, hard.
Fourteen hours later I still need a massage and acupuncture to undo the stress build up in my neck.

The Eyes of Jesus.

I felt blessed today, talking to five different women in my church. We are all such cute little things. Our smiles, our sweetness, our bright eyes, despite the unexpected life has rolled our way.
Behind those eyes are commitments to marriages and children, education  and work, friendships and even strangers. Behind those eyes are hearts searching for their Creator, hearts who want to love like He loves, serve like He serves.
It's a blessing to be surrounded by such women, to know I am in such amazing company. I love how open I can be with every one of them, how accepting they are of me.
I found grace this morning, sufficient for the hour, in the eyes of five different women at church. It was as if Jesus was looking right back at me.

The Present.

 We took both the boys to swim lessons this morning.  Trying to keep Noah occupied for forty five minutes after his lesson so Ethan could have his was not one of my finer moments as a parent. He simply makes me mad. He's stubborn and loud and unsafe. I find myself just wishing the time away until he's five and can handle himself a little better.
I came home and opened a new book by Kathleen Norris. She is a life saver for me, amongst other honest and funny writers who look at life square in the face and find beauty in the middle of it's ordinariness. Or anger-ness. Or depression-ess. Or whatever it is that fills it, they find beauty there. They remind me to believe, to look for the grace that is available to me at any given place and time, including  a loud swimming pool with an ornery two year old on Saturday morning.
My heart wasn't in a state to find it this morning at the pool, although I'm sure it was there...a prayer away. Where I did find it was out on our patio, four hours later, the fall sun hot on my cheeks despite the light chill in the air. Noah was still down for his nap and Joey and Ethan were in the front. I listened to Ethan's voice, riding his bike, effortlessly happy in the present moment, drifting back to me over the house.
Just minutes before I had forced myself to get out of bed, even though I didn't want to. I wanted to sleep, but even when I tried I couldn't sleep soundly. My heart lately has felt like fingers are squeezing it, making my chest hurt.
I'm not sure what was luring me to stay in that bed, although the one word that came to mind was fear. I am afraid. Afraid to get up and feel the same monotony, the same blahness in every act I do. The children make it worse because not only do I feel nothing when I think I should be enjoying them, guilt follows suit, adding to the onslaught. It's much easier to stay in bed.
Maybe pride, ("I'm not going to be that woman!"), maybe grace; whatever it was something got me to swing my legs out of bed, grab my journal, a pen and Norris' book, and head outside.
Norris writes largely about monastic life and for whatever reason it has always grabbed me, pulled me in. I've never had quite the direct and explainable connection to it like she has, but as I get older I am beginning to see more how the monastic life is so similar to my own. Maybe that's what drew me in even when I couldn't begin to explain it.
Norris writes about the similarities of a monastic vow and a marriage vow, and I am beginning to see how the parallels jump over to parenting as well.
For a large part parenting is repetition, doing the same thing, over and over. Bedtime routines. Morning routines. Reminding them over and over and over again to pick this up or don't spill that or stop saying that! Now! Damn it!
It easily becomes so boring and tedious you just want to jump out the window. This is how I feel most days. And then I read this afternoon, "A generation that cannot endure boredom will be a generation of little men...unduly divorced from the slow processes of nature, in whom every vital impulse withers..." Noah is definitely a "slow process of nature" and I was convicted at how easily "divorced" I become to my children, with their constant demands. My eyes glaze over and my heart feels like a piece of dry wood but I get them dinner! and clean their messes! and sing them songs before kissing them goodnite, almost running out of the room to peace and quiet, only to be left alone with my dry heart.
 It's the dryness, my heart's true state, that's enough to keep me under the covers, wanting to sleep it away on a beautiful three day weekend when Joey is home and we are all in excellent health.
After reading and writing a bit, looking at the sky, really seeing it, for the first time in a while, I could joke with Joey. Laughing almost hurt, but it happened and then I was able to grab my stuff and head inside to my two and five year old, my life, and the present moment in all it's messiness and pain and see the edge of God's arms, open and waiting for me to jump in.

Writing, I've Missed You.

I don't have time to write anymore. But I think about it quite often, and I still get out my personal journal whenever I can.
So today, the lazy Sunday afternoon that it is, I had prepared to take a nap, to try and catch up on the sleep I feel so deprived of during the week. I took my contacts out, took my jewelry off, my boots, and climbed into bed with Joey who is napping before he goes into work all night. But lying there all I could think about was if sleeping was really what I wanted to do with this time, this precious, rare time, when the house is quiet--mostly; both the boys are talking to themselves in their beds, supposed to be napping. (Does any mother not feel like their chest is going to explode from the anxiety of their children not sleeping when they are supposed to? I've learned this is not going away; I just recognize it now as something I cannot control, like, um, everything really, and then I pray for some grace in the moment to stop from morphing into complete lunatic and breath things out instead.)
Anyway, there I was lying in my bed, thinking about my poor, neglected blog, dreaming about writing in a quiet house with a cup of hot chai on a crisp, fall day...and I just had to throw the covers back and get out here to write. And it really is wonderful, transferring these thoughts onto the screen...if only Noah would shut up and my chest would release that feeling of wanting to explode.
I've often (OK, not often. Like one or two times) been asked if I have ever thought of writing a book, and the answer is yes, but then not long after is followed by why?
I've got my blog! And it's so easy to "publish" whenever I damn well please! And there is no accountability per say, nobody telling me it sucks and they won't publish it.
Isn't that the most pitiful thing you've ever heard? But it's true.
Through the blog I get to write, get to quench that need of mine to articulate in words what I see going on around me and inside of me. I think I've said it before and I will say it again: I feel the best when I am writing, and when I am writing well I may as well be flying. Writing well is like putting the perfect outfit together, like the feeling of summer turning to fall with a cup of chai in your hands, like the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon with a Christmas tree twinkling in the background. A good, honest sentence is like the love of your life kissing you outside in the cool night and your whole body being flooded with warmth. It's that good.
And I don't know when but at some point in the last recent years I came to think of myself as a writer, not because I have ever or will ever be published, but because I can't live without doing it. I take that back, I can, but writing helps me live everyday, ordinary life better, richer. When I write about my life, suddenly what is normally black and white turns to vivid colors, reds, oranges, yellows. Writing helps me stop and recognize little tid bits of meaning in all this non stop madness; of all the go go go, tying shoes, wiping bottoms, blow drying hair, applying eyeliner, and washing undies that is my life.
Writing can release the hold of the fingers of whatever is gripping my heart; be it control (like today), or fear of not being good enough (most days), or loneliness (Sundays through Thursdays, when Joey works).
As dumb as it sounds, writing is like a friend. A very close, intimate friend who lets me be as honest as I need to, helps me to sort out the things inside that feel like a tight twisted knot, and who never ever ever judges me.
I didn't necessarily plan on getting up just so I could come out here and write and entire blog on writing. If anything though it's a reminder to me how what precious thing it is to be able to have the time to write about life and how much I enjoy it.