I Was Wrong About Play Dates

Last week, I walked into the preschool room to pick up the kid. Kiddo greeted me at the door and asked me, "Please, Momma, can my friend come over today? What time can my friend come today?"

"Sure," I said, "let's ask. Where's your friend?"

We walked over to the friend and friend's mother. I introduced myself and asked if they would like to come over and play. "Being an only child," I explained, "the kiddo gets kind of lonely. We really would love to have you come to our house or we could go to the pool at the park in our neighborhood."

The mother looked stunned for a moment and said, "No one has ever asked my child for a play date." She seemed surprised since no one had ever asked them to play. Her kiddo has special needs.

At their preschool all the classes have a blend of children with typical needs as well as those with special needs. All the children do their thing, learning to work with what's happening. They interact and treat each other with kindness and respect. They are happy.

I wanted that for kiddo. We look different, but we're all the same. I want my child to see the person, what we share as beings, instead of his or her disability or whatever seems to separate us.

I looked at her and thought, I know how it feels not to be included. I also know how it feels to think you are going to be left out and then you get an invitation anyway. It's tender, the feeling of the heart opening, just as it is about to close.

"Oh, well, we have swings or we have a sandbox and pool in the backyard. What does your child like to do?"

Meanwhile, the kiddo was bouncing up and down my leg and saying, "Today, Mommy, can my friend come today? Today Mommy?"

They had plans on that day, but we agreed to speak later and work out the details.

Our new friends left. The teachers stared at my kid with big moist eyes, smiled and told me that the kiddo had approached the mom before I got there and told her, "[Your kid] really likes me, can you come play at my house today?" They told me that the mom just kept saying no one ever asked her before.

I squeezed my kiddo, my child of the light, and cried on the way home. God put this strong desire on the heart of a 4 year old and the love touched open our hearts.

We are all children of the light. We transmit grace and our hearts are healed.

I was wrong about play dates. I thought they were for the kids. Turns out, they are for the parents.

Bored in Minneapolis

My whole philosophy about boredom is that if you feel bored, you must be boring. Most of the time, I can think of tons of stuff to do. I consider rest an appropriate action as well.

I also thought that boring was the opposite of stimulated. Again, there is much in my world that I find interesting. My preferred type of stimulation is usually mental, emotional or spiritual. Conversations about emotions or spiritual things when there is a sense of shared adventure rate highest, but I also love books, TV and movies. Most recently, I discovered the miniseries, John Adams. I also find the AMC channel's Mad Men compelling. In both cases, the characters are complicated with flaws and ego demands. I can relate. It's fascinating to watch my inner experience outside of myself.

Stuff that has obvious meaning is most interesting to me. Activities such as weeding and housework mostly have little meaning for me; thus, I don't like doing them. I am still praying to experience the meaning in these things.

I have fought the idea that mothering and homemaking is boring because thinking of my jobs in those terms seems unbearable. Why would I spend my day doing something that in the end is just boring?

Yes, I know that raising a healthy, functional grown-up who is spiritually aware is important, but I find it hard to maintain this attitude in moments say, when the kid calls out, "Mommy, wipe my bottom, please." The larger intention gets muddied.

In my search for meaning in my relatively new job, I started this blog. Writing about the adventure of being a mindful mother who is seeking unconditional serenity helps keep my focus on what it means to be of service in this job. When I start to think that I work for the kid, I can return to the truth that my true boss is a loving God. God thought I was up for the job so I was hired.

A few nights ago, we joined some friends for dinner. I realized, this stuff is boring, truly mundane. It's not them, it's the stuff. So, now I have to admit that yes, I feel bored; therefore, I must be boring. I really don't find typical discussions of helpful hints for child rearing interesting. I mean, I could get those answers from a number of sources at the library or the internet.

I want to know, how does it feel to be a mom? What is it like for you at 3:00 a.m. when the kid wakes up? How do you know when you need to take a break? How do you take care of yourself? How do you show up as an example for your family? How do you nurture your marriage in the middle of all the to do's?

My favorite part of the entire dinner conversation had to do with sex toys. I have some knowledge of the such things. Quality is essential. The cheap ones are made with the same unregulated, toxic plastic that they make fake worm fishing lures. Those worms turn into a ball of melted chemicals after a while and so do the cheap sex toys. We don't want that poison in any environment.

When the topic of sex came up, I perked up. Sex is interesting and important. Staying satisfied as a human being at all levels is crucial for this mom. This topic feels a little edgier than the merits of stainless steel v. plastic water containers.

The rest of the conversation was pretty forgettable. The saving grace was that we were together. Somehow, the boring stuff is workable when it is shared. Working in the yard, cleaning the house, tending to that which needs care is best shared. When I feel I have to do it all myself, want to run screaming.

Finding a way to do these chores with love may be the answer. When I start to feel like this maxed out Swamp Mother, I have lost perspective. I need a break.

The kid's grandparents are taking her to the zoo on Thursday. God bless grandparents and anyone who is willing to love my kid enough to give me a chance to catch my breath and gain some perspective. I bet the same old will seem a lot less boring.

I have a feeling I just getting started on working with boredom.

There Is No Such Thing as Balance

I hate when these moms talk about balancing their lives, like we ever do. Just when I get into a nice groove, the seasons change or my grocery deliver service closes. Or, I get excited about writing and stay up too late blogging.

I think balance is too strong a word. At it's most centered, my life is a plane. It goes up or down, and then seeks to level off. Whenever I fly, be it in a small engine plane or a large passenger plane, I usually fall asleep on take off. I can't help it. Usually, by the time I get to the plane, I am so exhausted from planning and packing for the trip that I just pass out as soon as we start to taxi.

Perhaps I have body memories of my hours on the commuter trains in Southeastern Pennsylvania. The R5 would rock me to sleep in less than 10 minutes. I always checked to made sure there were no greasy head prints on the window from earlier passengers. Once the window checked out, I'd wedge my bag between me and the side of the train as a softer arm rest, and zonk out for an hour. I am all in favor of public transportation.

Another reason that I sleep on takeoff is that I find it really stressful. I dont' like to surrender my liberty of movement. Being plastered against the seat barely able to move my head or my arms with ears popping during the thrust of liftoff is just too much for this control freak. Further, the thought of being hurled off of the big, blue marble in space makes a blackout seem very attractive. Finally, the plane is too loud and I always end up on the wing.

I used to create chemically induced blackouts, but I had even less control over that state of being than flying. Blackouts whilst flying are a sure introduction to the air marshall. It's easier to clutch the armrests and pray, until sleep overtakes me.

I always come to when I feel the plane start to level off to it's cruising altitude. Flying becomes civilized with drinks and snacks, even if I have to bring my own. I find it incredibly reassuring to have a bathroom available to me within a few steps.

Same is true for my life. When in the process of change, I start grasping at tangibles. For this reason, keeping the kid in same preschool schedule during the week is crucial for both of us. We otherwise have general schedule with flexibility. We do it in one or two hour blocks. Meals and snacks usually break it up.
Oddly enough, every major change in my life has yielded terrific results, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Yet, I am trembling during takeoff thinking, this change is going to launch me into a state from which I shall never return and it's going to be bad. If I don't acknowledge this line of thinking in the presence of a sane friend, it gets louder and louder. Eventually, the fear seems like absolute truth.

I have seen this drama more than the sum total of episodes of the Monkees, Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch and Bewitched put together. I never seem to tire of any of these.

Somehow, every time things begin to level off, I remember the truth. Oh yeah, all is well. I forgot. Again.

I suspect the kid is going to have this same drama. I hope I can be more patient and reassuring for her than I usually am with myself.

The only reason "fasten yourself in you're in for a bumpy ride" is at all comforting is knowing that the other passengers are sitting right with you. Usually, there is at least one person on the plane who has kept the peace for the rest of us. Occasionally, that person is me. But not, as yet, today. Luckily, I have six workable hours left.

My House is Just Fine, June

My new barometer for cleanliness and order in the home is "as long as there is no trash lying around it's fine." I am quoting a very sensible friend of mine who has an extraordinary gift for not giving a rip what anyone thinks of her. I covet this attitude. Since I have very little experience with this way of being in the world, I will throw little scenarios by her just to hear how a sane person would respond.

For example, I said, "You know, I don't know one mother who is comfortable with the state of her home. It's like we all think our homes should look exactly how our friends homes look when they are having a party. It's just impossible. I mean, if you are at home, it's just gonna be a mess. My husband calls me the hurricane."

Instead of giving me tips about organization or describing how her house was worse, she served up the aforementioned ideal.

I love this. House fine.

I have spent years making a mental house scorecard. Actually, it's more like a list of reasons why I suck as a homemaker. Of course, the homemaker's main function is to create a perfect environment for a family to enjoy their being. I will walk through my home on the lookout for any home detail that doesn't meet the "ready for an open house" standard. Each infraction is carefully logged in my brain.

The end result is that I feel totally overwhelmed, and, perform thusly. I don't do anything. I feel victimized by my own home. I have occasionally allowed this morbid reflection to escalate to the point that the only solution available to me is to move. But then you have to really clean. There is no escape to this insanity. It's an infinite loop of unkindness toward self.

If I am really gone mentally, I'll decide that this critical voice in my head sounds a remarkably lot like whomever. Whomever is anyone who might have made one critical comment to me that I have played over and over in my head until I have convinced myself that whomever never, ever said anything nice to me. Therefore, whomever is to blame for my low self-esteem. It's their fault I have messy home.

For the last two days, I scan my home and repeat the question, "Is there any trash laying around?" No? House fine.

It is rarely that simple. What is trash exactly? I have had to define trash as anything that belongs in the garbage, that is, something I won't need later.

Scattered library books are not trash unless they have been read or overdue.

Opened mail is not trash if I think I might need it later, but the envelopes from which the mail came, that's always trash.

Is a half drunk glass of water trash? Not if it is in the kitchen by the sink. I might use it to take a vitamin or something. If it is in the living room, well, that is disgusting.

I am puzzled over how to categorize the kid's "bug home." A bug home is a styrofoam cup filled with old, dead leaves and decorated with foam art and glitter. Evidently, this setup is the bug home is the insect equivalent of the Taj Mahal. Okay, it's not trash - my baby made it - but do I really want to encourage bugs to settle in and enjoy the view from the coffee table?

You'd think this new low standard I have set for my home would otherwise be easily met. Alas, just one hour ago, I sat down to write, gazed out my front window and noticed two mood rings in the shade of happy and relaxed. Then I realized they were two grapes, half eaten, and deposited by the kid. No, really. It wasn't me.

I used this discovery as a teachable moment. I told the kid to throw them out. I am so proud. I am teaching the kiddo the meaning of House fine.

There certainly are some kinks to this new way of taking the cleanliness temperature of my home, but so far the best thing is how quickly I can return to acceptable status. Grapes on the window sill? Throw them out. House fine. Junk mail on the table? Toss it. House fine.

I like this kinder, gentler way of relating to my home and my homemaker status. House fine. What a concept. Take that Mrs. Cleaver. There is a new homemaker in town, and her house is just fine.

I Don't Have Erectile Dysfunction

If I had erectile dysfunction, all of my medical problems would be solved. Doesn't it seem that the medical community nipped that whole mess in the bud while other public health concerns go unattended. Makes you wonder what the priorities are.

For years I have held the naive belief that if you didn't feel good, you could go to the doctor and they would fix it. Not so much.

A while back, I had unexplained, chronic low-grade fevers for a year. I dragged myself to doctor's offices alternately dripping with sweat or trembling with chills. I went to specialist after specialist. They would read my questionnaire, look at my throat and listen to my heart and say, "We can't help you. It must be your mental illness."

Finally, in desperation, I went to see the doctor who took care of me when I was 7 years old. When I met him, he was the young hotshot just out of Yale. He had kids younger than me. Now he is bald and his kids are out of college. He looked at all of my labs and said, "You have too much thyroid hormone. Your body has corrected the thyroid problem and you no longer need to take it. Stop the synthroid. That should take care of it."

It did.

After 1 year of all these genius specialists telling me that the problem was in my head, a simple General Practitioner got it - without blaming me.

I wish that experience had been isolated, but no.

I went to see another sleep doctor today. I had really hoped that she would shed some light on my situation and offer me some alternatives. She didn't. Instead, she stomped out of the room. When she returned, she sketched a simple chart for me, which she wrote upside down, of what the possible causes of my fatigue could be. You don't have this or that or that or that. She basically told me how wrong I was because I didn't fit into her lab normal diagnostic tools. Plus, she didn't come close to listing all the possible causes of fatigue that I know about.

I got the distinct impression that she felt powerless to help me so she blamed me for it. She also blamed my doctor for not knowing how to help me and then, in her opinion, pushing me off onto her. She said that all of my future sleep needs should be addressed with my psychiatrist. The one she just said doesn't know how to help me.

Once when I was upset with someone else's behavior, a wise person asked me, "Why did you pick up the lizard?" He explained. A person has a lizard, a really heavy, stinky one. Not a nice lizard. She looks around, asking herself, "Who could I get to take this lizard so I don't have to deal with it?"

She approaches her target. "I have this horrible lizard. I can't take it. I don't know what to do. Here, you take it."

Or she says, "Would you hold this lizard for me please?"

Another variation: "This lizard is so great, I couldn't possibly share it with you."

The target takes the lizard. She doesn't know she has a choice. She picks up the lizard because she thinks that if someone offers you a stinky lizard, you always have to take it.

I left the sleep doc's office pretty shaken up. Here we go again. I was about to jump off of the ledge of sanity into my own litany of blame and unfairness. I reached inside myself to look for the lizard that lives inside of me.

Then I thought about it. Even though the information was presented in a way which I found condescending and rude, the news was good. Most of Western medicine seeks to rule things out. I don't have narcolepsy, or restless leg syndrome. I don't have hepatitis. I don't have AIDS. I don't have chicken pox. I don't have tuberculosis. I don't have halitosis. I don't have ring-worm. I don't have athlete's foot. I don't have lice. I don't have mange. I don't have erectile dysfunction.What a relief. What a blessing to not have those things. I don't need to pull a lizard out of my butt and carry it around all weekend.

Nor do I have to pick up a lizard from anyone else. That doctor was carrying the lizard of frustration over her own powerlessness. She obviously doesn't deal well with not knowing what to do. She tried to hand her powerlessness, frustration and pain over to me.

I will not carry it. I do not have to pick up that smelly, heavy lizard she drags around to throw at folks that she says she can't help - folks who are already hurting.

I will deal with my own sense of powerlessness and frustration. God has given me all the tools necessary to sit with not knowing. I don't have to like it, but I don't need to force a solution, even though I sometimes wish I could.

On the drive home, I called a friend. She listened. It didn't take away the discomfort, but I knew I wasn't alone. I got home, took a nap, and made dinner. Then the family headed out to Liberty Custard for dessert. I had black cherry Italian ice which turned my tongue black, no foolin'. I hit a couple really solid line drives in the back yard with my husband. Hit a couple foul balls into the neighbor's yard too.

I reviewed a couple things that I do know.

Specialists are great and even necessary, but, the body doesn't know that it's systems are separate and specialized. A girl's got to have someone who can see the big picture too, like my wise old doc from elementary school.

I know that prayer and meditation sustain me even when I can't sleep. I can be serene and happy even when I don't feel good.

I know that my current supplements have allowed me to be productive all day long. What proof? I'm writing at 11:00 at night.

Exercise makes me feel strong and confident. It also clears my mind.

I feel more rested when I use my oral appliance at night.

Writing works. Friends help.

God loves me like I am an only child. God loves everybody else as if they were only children too.

I don't know why I never feel truly rested and refreshed. But I do know I don't have erectile dysfunction, and neither does my husband. We are richly blessed indeed.

Slurring My Words

I had a smallish car accident yesterday. A spacey 20-year old hit me in the dietician's parking lot. Kiddo wasn't in the car, thank God. My back is sore so I am taking a muscle relaxant for a few days plus ice and physical therapy.

Due to the medicine, I am prone to unplanned naps and slurring S's. My goal is to have enough clarity tomorrow to write.

I am told that if I can't clean the house in 8 days, the insurance company will send someone over here to help me. This idea had never occurred to me. Have a car accident = someone to clean my house. Blessings abound.

You Can't Save Your Face & Your Ass at the Same Time

We were running late for my then 2 year old's movement class at the community center.
We ran out the door, and I tossed the kid into the car seat. I couldn't wear gloves because you can't secure the car seat with gloves. It takes too long. Better to freeze your hand for a couple minutes than stand in the cold for several.

I slipped around to the driver's side, and flung open the door. I turned my back to the car. In a move carefully choreographed by my physical therapist, I fell backside first into the seat, and scissor-stepped over the ice that had caked under the door of the car.

As my body made contact with the seat, I heard a squeak. What was that? I asked myself. The car seat must be frozen.

I surfed through the snow drifts that had yet to be cleared from our neighborhood streets until I got to the community center parking lot. I got out of the car, grabbing the kid. We skated into the main area of the building to wait for class to start. I took off our coats, hats, and the kid's gloves, and set them on a sofa.

As we walked around the crowded room, I pointed out what was going on. "Oh look! The big kids are playing foosball. Do you want to watch?" In a few minutes, the teacher showed up and let us into the classroom. We took off boots and put on dance shoes. I encouraged kiddo to stand next to the teacher until the rest of the class arrived.

I confidently nodded and smiled at the other parents as I found my seat on the sofa next to the crowded foosball table.

I was ready for some adult conversation. I was about to say hello to one of the mom's when I felt something scratchy on my seat. I was wearing my favorite jeans. These were the only ones that fit me since having the kid so they were soft and comfy, almost like sweatpants.

I reached around to my left side. I felt a slit. I thought I should assess the damage before I blacked out, so I just barely leaned over to follow the length of the tear. I continued to lean farther and farther as my fingers traced the split down to my leg. Then, I backtracked all the way up to the bottom of my pocket.

Oh my God. There was a spit in my pants big enough to put my head through.

Worse, since I was in a rush to get to class, I had traded the pajamas that I had been wearing all day for the sweatpant-like jeans. I had forgotten my underwear.

A woman approached me and said, "I think there is something wrong with your pants."

"I know," I said, cell phone in hand.

I called my friend and whispered, "I just mooned the entire community center, including 10 teenagers, countless adults, and 2 babies."

He howled loud and long. I laughed so hard that I cried.

After class, I put my coat on seated. I walked into the classroom, and helped the kid switch the dance shoes for boots without bending over. I casually mentioned to the teacher, as if I was in on the joke, "I split my pants."

"I know," she said.

I had mooned not only every parent and teenager in the community center, but also twelve 2 year olds and their dance teacher. The humiliation was complete.

After that, the kid switched to circus class in St. Paul.


This story was answer to today's class assignment: tell a story about something that evoked a strong reaction in you. I did work on some fiction, but that's not ready yet.

Puking Cheap Drama

Gather enough cheap drama and puke it on the page. This has been my approach to living the writer's life for the last 30 years. To give myself credibility, I fully committed myself to living intensely with as many people as possible. Then I'd understand myself and others and really write some juicy stuff. Tomorrow I will write the way I want.

But I have to write. It just has to come out. I gathered all of these memories, bits of dialog, threads of stories and kept them in my head. I was waiting until I was ready. But stuff would slip out. I wasted some of my most inspired material in long conversations with people who didn't get it. I created a test. If my friends and family didn't think I was funny, clever, etc. Why would strangers?

When they wouldn't get it, I would use this evidence to reinforce my frightened story. Since I wasn't writing stuff down, I started writing a story in my head about not writing. It was a long and elaborate tale, a story that had neither a beginning nor an end.

For example, I told myself that I didn't write anything down because I didn't want to waste it, a writer's version of pre-ejaculation. Tomorrow I will write.

I believed it was arrogant to think that I had something to say in my 20's. Who am I to think I know anything? In this drama, I'm unworthy, worthless. Tomorrow I will write.

The reverse was also true. I also thought I had to be recognized as the best at whatever I am doing. So, I usually didn't do what I really wanted to do. When I tried, the fear gripped me. I just couldn't deal with being a mediocre writer. It would kill me. What if I really can't write? What if God gave me passion to do something and then I sucked at it? I'll write tomorrow.

Enough. I could spend the next 50 years working with my fear and never write a word that really meant something to me.

The thought occurred to me, maybe if I could write fiction, I wouldn't have to create such an intense life. I could just make it up and not go through all of the exhaustion of actually living the whole thing. Maybe I could stop writing this awfully boring story about my writing career that was going to being tomorrow.

On Saturday morning, I will be attending a writer's workshop for beginning fiction. Even though I know I can make up a story about not writing, I don't know if I can create a story that does not revolve around me. Tomorrow will soon be today.

I'm writing this blog to empty my mind. Maybe God has something else to say. I want to find out. My plan is to be a new student. I'm gonna be a 2nd grader. I plan to show up the way my friend the 2nd grade teacher tells his class every morning, "Sharpen your pencils and use the bathroom so we can get to work."

Dear Gentle Readers

I am so grateful to you for taking time out of your busy day to read my blog. I changed my settings so you can leave a comment anonymously, whenever you like.

jodysatva

Quantity Time in the Swampy Marsh

Everybody talks about having quality time with their kids. When Al Franken talks about his childhood, he says that he didn't have quality time with his dad, he had quantity time. They did everything together. They did nothing together. His point was that he didn't have ski trips or any elaborately planned quality time with his dad. He and his dad did stuff like watching comedians on TV. No big plans. Just time together. Being together. A lot.

I liked that when I heard it. First, you never know when your kid is going to want to actually talk to you. He might not want to talk during quality time. But, eventually, with quantity time, he'll have to talk to you.

I also like the idea that parents don't have to create a festival of stimulation every day. Seems like kids don't get much time seeing dragons in the clouds. I think everybody has to figure out their own answer to realization, I'm bored.

Okay. That's the theory.

In the last few weeks, my husband, kiddo and I have spent 11 glorious, quantity time days which included a 9 hour one way trip to a lovely wedding. When not with relatives, we were together, just the 3 of us, all weekend and then 9 hours home in the car, all day long.

Yes, quantity time.

After that, kiddo had preschool for 4 hours and the remaining 6 days were, you guessed it, quantity time. Just the three of us, with no real plans. 6 days of virtually unstructured time with a preschooler.

This quantity time sounded really great in theory. Time to do whatever we wanted. Time to enjoy ourselves, relax after the trip. Be tourists in our own town.

By day 8.5, I started to smell a swamp or what we would call in Minnesota, a marsh. In the summer, not too deep water that stands around in the sun with stuff growing in it, starts to smell. More fuzzy stuff grows. You can't drink this water. Nothing moves but the birds and the bugs, maybe a fish. If you get near the marsh, grateful, blood-starved mosquitos will feast on your flesh through your clothes. Fresh water might get added, but nothing is taken away. It just sits there, cooking like a stew in the hot summer sun.

I never understood why Minnesotans would call a swamp, a marsh, and think it was cool. They study them, watch the sun rise and set over them. We even have a fancy health club called The Marsh.

I assume the swamp, I mean marsh, becomes an important body of water when the ocean is half way across the country, either direction. For Minnesotans, marsh is the glass half full version of swamp.

We do have Lake Superior which is the largest lake in the world. You can't see across it so it feels like the ocean. However, the rest of the lakes and swamps have that same water standing around problem, if you ask me. Here, also, the mosquito issue.

So, my life is starting to smell like swamp. Things are getting added, but nothing is circulating. We are all just together most of the time. We did some fun things, and I think this sort of schedule is really terrific when you are vacation or staying somewhere different, a new pond. But, when you are going back to the same old marsh, day after day, even though you got a break, you're still going home to the place where this is nothing really circulating, the old swamp.

This is why God invented grandparents or babysitters or cousins. Crucial ecosystem stimulation to make quantity time, better quality.

Stay at home moms need to get out by themselves, even if it's just to go to the gas station. I forgot. I was having a lot of distracting feelings. I just forgot. For a week.

I didn't really just forget. All of the grandparents were out of town. All of the babysitters were out of town. Everyone went to visit someone else, somewhere else. I was grieving. I didn't really want to be in a crowd. I didn't realize it, but all of the conditions were right for seriously stinky swamp water. This was no marsh.

Today, kid and I went to visit the cousins. We had a ball, not doing anything special. Quantity time with some healthy supplements. We laughed, hugged, and kissed. The cousins rode bikes. I showed them my "Around the World" trick with the yo-yo. We told stories from when my brothers and I were growing up. My kid got to play with some different toys. At one point, kiddo dressed up like a priest in a white pillowcase and vestments and offered us all communion. Body of Christ, Mommy?

Amen.

Discouraged

Today I felt discouraged. When I sat with it, the discouraging feelings came straight from my heart, heavy and warm. Oh, that's what discouraged feels like. I am learning a lot about what different emotions feel like in my body, since I am not distracting myself with busyness.

What was kind of cool is that I wasn't trying to make it go away or figure it out. I just noticed that when I felt discouraged and I cried, my exhale was long and hot.

So, the next time I feel my heart heavy and my exhale long and hot, I'll think: oh, this. Yes.

One day last spring I was receiving a massage. I felt this wave feelings pass over me. I thought, oh, this is sadness. I wasn't trying not to feel. It was more like savoring. Oh yes, this is sadness. I have felt this before. Be with it.

After I felt discouraged, I remembered that I often feel discouraged right before something inside shifts. Maybe discouraged is an element of surrender. I hope so.

It's time for a change of mind.

Keeping Up with the Jones's

We are surrounded by Jones'. When we moved into our home, our side of the street was lined with one-level bungalows built in the 1950's. Every house on the block was a two bedroom, walk-up, and yet each was distinct, some with shutters, or bricks, and painted all different colors and only one was beige. Ours was painted the color of gangrene, most likely lead-based. We painted it.

The seedling trees planted when the homes were built now tower over high above, shading the roofs and housing tons of fat Minnesota squirrels and birds. We found out that the roots of our tree were pushing in the cement wall of our basement. One day, before we moved in, a toothless tree-murderer, chopped down our tree, but left the stump. It looks like the severed legs of a grown man plunged right between our house and the neighbor's.

Our neighbors had grown kids. Their children rode their bikes up and down the sidewalks when they were straight and flat. I almost launched our child out of the stroller when we hit a huge crack in the sidewalk from the roots of the now huge trees that line the street.

I prayed. I had faith the block would turn. The older couples would downsize. I just knew that God would send us neighbors with young families so that the kiddo would have playmates. They would learn to ride bikes, and walk to school together. Later, they would play kick the can and spin the bottle. We got the neighbors. See earlier posts: No Put Downs, Just Put Ups and The Witch is Dead.

We are blessed that 5 new families have moved onto our block. Young, energetic families who want to make the homes that they purchased their own. The young couple next door transformed their bungalow into a two-story McMansion. I used to breakfast while gazing at the clouds and blue sky. Now I enjoy my breakfast while meditating on an HD Direct TV Dish.

When they told us that they were adding a second level to their home, I responded, "Oh, you are our Jones'."

Tonight, I had the pleasure of touring another neighbors home. They have transformed it from a smoke-saturated, shag-carpeted cave into an Ikea-inspired, comfortable home. I am happy for them. Really.

My husband and I had all of these fantasies. It's a starter home. We'll fix it up. We'll sell it and get something bigger. These ideas were fantasies because neither one of us really wants to fix anything up. We want to come home to something finished. We don't want to spend the weekend remodeling the kitchen. We want to spend the weekend riding bikes and hanging out with my brother's and their families.

So, as I toured the neighbor's lovely home, with a forced, smile. I had to ask myself, "Is this the green-eyed monster?" Am I jealous of what they have worked for or is this odd, empty feeling "house shame?"

I heard recently that if you want to have a truly joyous life, be happy for the successes of others. This is the flip side of jealousy. Be happy for them. You know what, I am. They have worked for exactly what they wanted. Good for them.

But is this what I want? No, well, yes, but not here. I want a finished home, not in the city. I want to open my kitchen door without being able to spit in the neighbors kitchen. Not that I have actually spat on their kitchen, but we are so close that with practice, I probably could do a big spit-take and sprinkle their windows.

This house matched who we thought we were and what we wanted, but we learned more about ourselves. Sometimes I am disappointed that we aren't the Jones', but it is what it is.

And so, we'll change enough to move on. As Dr. Phil says, "We have to earn our way out of this house." Until then, God bless the Jones'.

Choices

I kicked off the day by losing my credit card somewhere between the gas station and home. I was already a stressed because I tried to make physical therapy appointments for the month, wash breakfast dishes, empty the trash, speak with the central air repair man, encourage kiddo to get dressed, compare my purse and kitchen calendars, and listen to the radio from 8:30 a.m.-8:45 a.m.

The kid and I had plans to take the High Speed Rail Line into Downtown Minneapolis for the Farmer's Market. Part of me was thinking, abort, abort. Go home.

I was so upset last week that I was sort of bossy with the kid. I wanted us to have some fun. Kiddo did not want to go. I said, "In all the times that I have told you we were going to do something that was going to be fun, did any of those times ever turn out not fun?"

"No."

"Then let's roll."

Sometimes, road blocks pop up making it clear to me that the current plans need to be aborted. I will often pray for roadblocks to help me discern God's will for me in a situation.

But today, I decided to lead with the assumption: just because things are hard or inconvenient, doesn't mean the original decision was wrong. I figured, if things continue to devolve, then I'll know that I should have gone with the abort plan.

Plus, today the temperature was 70 degrees with no humidity. If this field trip to the Farmer's Market was going to work, today was the day. Meandering through the lunch crowds on Nicollet Avenue when it is beastly hot is not fun for 4 year olds or their mothers.

How nice it is to have a choice other than black or white. I used to think things had to be a Mardi Gras or they weren't worth doing. We had a nice lunch. We bought some homegrown strawberries & sugar snap peas, flavored honey, and a mint chocolate chip gelato. I left with some money in my pocket.

I had the choice to withdraw. I had the choice to start over. I had the choice to make the whole thing a big deal. At any given point today, I had a ton of choices. Remembering that I had choices made the all the inconveniences workable.

Later, I spent 20 minutes with the neighbors. I was very peaceful; I didn't talk much. Mostly, I realized that even though they hadn't really changed, offering unsolicited advice, etc. I have. So, it worked. A miraculous change of mind. They don't have to change. I'll be serene in their company when I change. Still, I can't see us having a barbeque tomorrow.

The Veteran, part 3

When I think of that Marine and the evening we spent wandering around the Mall, I am struck at how much we had in common. We were both trying to recover from a war. His was obvious, as he had just returned from Iraq. Mine was recovering from the effects of alcoholism, eating disorder, and the suicide of my father.

We both found ourselves in very rigid circumstances which were very stifling. Yet, we both had made choices that led us to look for security and stability outside of ourselves.

For me, our brief meeting was an oasis. It allowed me to have perspective. I was stuck in me, me, me. My whole focus had been on proving myself and becoming a success in the worldly sense so that I would feel safe no matter what. I was looking for something tangible in which to place my faith. I didn't know that I was building my life and faith on sand. In time, I began to see that the answers are never outside of myself; the answers come from within.

Further, it was as if the Holy Spirit was saying, you think that the reason you are in Washington, D.C. is to begin your career in the Oil and Gas Industry, but that's not the real reason. Let go of your cheap drama, and jump into the real Drama of life: love and accept someone exactly as he is without any thought of return. Listen respectfully. Make this person believe that they matter.

Isn't that what we are all looking for really? To know we matter.

The Veteran marched in the victory parade and met me, along with some of his friends and some of mine, at a comedy club. We all laughed a lot. Every one of those Marines was respectful and honorable toward us. Maybe not all Marines behave this way, maybe these guys didn't behave this way all the time, but on that night these Marines were gentlemen. We said goodnight, and I never saw him again.

I served my six months at U.S. Marketing and Refining. I did receive a Rehire status from all of my supervisors. I respectfully declined, returned and finished college in a year and a half. Then I began a career in an industry that hadn't even existed while I was working at U.S. Marketing and Refining. I never found the security I craved in my career.

I learned a great many things about myself and about life in the short time I lived in Washington, D.C. which dramatically affected my values today. But, I believe the most important thing I did while I lived there was to look into the eyes of a returning soldier and say, "Thank you. I'm so glad you're home." And meaning it.



Thank you to all my friends who so graciously prayed for my good friend and for me last week. We are both well.

The Veteran, part 2.

He smiled. "Do you have plans tonight? I have to get back to the hotel. They let me go visit my parents in Virginia, but I have to have dinner with the guys. Then I might be able to get away, but I have to be back by 11:00. Could I meet you?"

"Well, I'll be busy for an hour or so. If you want to hang out, meet me outside the building at 8:00."

"Will you meet me?"

"If you are here at 8:00, I'll meet you."

"I just have to go back and tuck the guys in and then I can meet you. Will you be here?"

"I will be here at 8:00."

For an hour, I wondered and hoped that he would show up. I couldn't think of anything else. I was physically sitting in a chair, but inside my mind, it was blastoff. My brain was a giant firecracker bouncing off the walls. Will he? Won't he? Oh my gosh, he was cute.

Finally, it was time to find out. I walked up the darkened steps slowly. I took a deep breath and told myself, if he doesn't show up, you'll be okay. I pushed open the heavy door, and looked up. He smiled.

I smiled. "You made it. I wasn't sure."

"I had to make sure that my guys were covered. They aren't allowed out tonight because of the parade."

"How come you got to leave?"

"Because, believe it or not, they put me and my buddy in charge."

"Why wouldn't I believe it?"

"I started out at art school in New York and I failed out. My parents made me join the Marines."

He reported this information in a very matter of fact way. There was no blame. His parents didn't know we were going to war when they pushed him into the Marines. I suspect he got distracted by parties, and got carried away. I found parties and boys very distracting in my first year of college too. At once, I could see the person that he had been: a handsome, cocky, disrespectful, Animal House fraternity brother-type. But the person who stood before me looked and sounded humbled. He had a right-sizedness about him. He knew who he was and what was important. There was no ego-driven urgency like, I'm going to show them, but I am going to make this work.

We had a moment of quiet understanding. I was struck with a sense of gratitude that I didn't have to go to the Marines to straighten out. Of course, I did end up at U.S. Marketing and Refining.

"I really want to go back to school, as soon as I can. Are you hungry? I have to be back by 11:00 p.m."

I looked at my watch. It was 8:00. The sun was setting. The city was clean and the buildings and statues gleamed underneath sparkling streetlights. I grabbed his hand, "No, I'm not hungry. We don't have any time to waste. Let's go be tourists." We headed for the mall.

I guess I felt like a one woman USO. I wanted him to have fun. We walked through the city, hand in hand, smiling, talking, not talking.

I tried to keep the conversation light. I didn't ask him for any details about what he had seen or done. We talked about stuff we liked to do. I told him about my job. Where I was from.

He told me that he didn't talk to his dad anymore. He had gone to visit his mom in Virginia. His dad wanted to reconnect, but he didn't want that.

We ran up the stairs to the Lincoln Memorial and gazed at the Reflecting Pool and the Washington Monument. Then we walked over to the Tidal Basin overlooking the Jefferson Memorial. He kissed me among the trees. It was a tender and toe-tingling kiss.

And then it was time for him to go.

"Do you have any girlfriends? I have to march in the parade, but I have some friends maybe we could all meet and go out after that."

"I have the cutest girlfriends ever. I'll call them. Why don't you call me after the parade? I live between the Iwo Jima Memorial and Arlington Cemetery. Are you marching by there? I could look for you."

"I have to go. I wish I could take you home first."

"I'll be fine. Call me tomorrow."