I fell in love with my husband a little bit more deeply the other night.
Four more days until I have to go back to work. Just when I think I've gotten to the point of being okay with it, of feeling like the situation we've got set up is an ideal scenario in a less than ideal situation, I get a wave of sadness pass through me, knocking me off my feet and making my head spin. Then, I dig my feet into the ground, stubbornly refusing to believe it's actually happening. And then I realize that the arrangement we have is a very good one, considering the fact that I have to go back to work at all, and I'm thankful for it.
But two nights ago, I was hit hard with the realization that this is really happening, that I'm really going back to work, and I really will be taking Addie to daycare. It's not that I have anything against daycare; it's necessary for so many people, and I know there are some amazingly wonderful folks who spend their lives caring for children such as mine. But it breaks my heart that I won't be the one to care for, nurture, and play with Addie. It's watching the death of my lifelong dream, in some ways.
And as I rocked my little girl to sleep, tears began to pour down my cheeks. Her little eyes locked on mine, smiling at me just moments before, suddenly looked worried, like she knew something was wrong with me. Where did your smiles go, Mama? I could hear her asking through those deep blue eyes. And in those deep blue eyes I saw my sadness welled up, as if my tears collected in them like little puddles on the sidewalk.
Perhaps my preoccupation was contagious that night; Addie wouldn't go to sleep easily, her quizzical look frozen on her face as I swayed back and forth beside her crib. My back began to ache, so I pulled myself together, wiped my tears onto the shoulder of my sweatshirt, and went out to the living room to rock her in the rocking chair. I sat down, feeling my body fold within itself, trying to keep the tears from bubbling up to the surface again. Joey asked if I was ok, to which I responded that I didn't want to talk about it right then. Tears feel private to me, and my dad and brother were in the room just then. And yet, Joey knew.
A few minutes later, the tears wouldn't wait. I excused myself to our room, Addie in tow, and broke down as soon as I was behind the safety of our door. Silent tears are the most intense for me, and a silent cry it was. Moments later I felt Joey behind me; he put his hands on my shoulders and asked if I was upset about Monday, the day I'd have to go back to work. All I did was nod and cry just a little bit harder as I swayed back and forth, rocking my baby to sleep.
He rubbed my shoulders, let me cry, and somehow made me feel a little bit better, just by being there with me. Nothing changed. Nothing will change. But in that moment, I felt seen, and I felt like my feelings were recognized. Sometimes Joey's had the attitude of "we've got to make the best of it, even though it sucks." It's true, and I've been trying to do just that. But there's a deep sadness that makes my bones ache, a sadness that I'm not sure he understood before now. He may not feel exactly the way I feel, but that night told me that he understands how real it is to me. And that's enough, for now.
He pulled me close when we went to bed that night, stroked my hair as I laid on his chest, tears silently sliding down my nose and cheeks. Sometimes saying nothing is better than saying something. Sometimes just holding someone close and letting them cry validates their feelings better than words ever could. It says, I see you, and how you feel matters. I don't know how to fix it, but I will be here with you while your heart hurts like this. I will comfort and protect you.
Nothing changed that night. My heart didn't change, the situation didn't change, my outlook didn't change. I'm still sad, a kind of sad I've never known before. But somehow, I know it'll be ok. Somehow.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Buying, renting, relocating and restlessness
Joey and I always said we wouldn't move away from California for a house. It'd have to be something much bigger, much more than just that. That's still the case; a house alone does not equal a life, so leaving California for a house seems empty to me, especially since we have a life in California. It's the house part that's missing.
We're eight months into a year long commitment to living with my parents. It's been a blessing and a struggle all at the same time. Living here has its perks, but at the end of the day, I miss having our own home. A place for us, where we can create our life together, and not feel like we're waiting for our life to start. (Granted, I do understand those are just feelings and that every day our life is laid out before us waiting to be lived, but still. The feelings are real.)
In the past couple of weeks we've been starting to think about what we're going to do when our year is up. The deal was we'd live here so we could save money for a house of our own. In the past couple of weeks, we've been starting to take a peek at the sorts of things we can afford, but on our budget, in California, our dollars don't go very far. We can afford beautiful and tiny, or outdated/ugly and a fair amount of space. There doesn't seem to be much in-between. We've been a bit...discouraged.
Last night we watched an episode of House Hunters (a show we're addicted to on HGTV), and there was this newlywed couple looking for a starter home in Overland Park, KS. The homes were gorgeous--and lower in cost than our current budget for a house. It was a bit, uh, well, infuriating. Disheartening. Frustrating.
The thing is, I know that there's life to be had in Kansas; I don't doubt that. I know that we could move there, start over, and be fine--good, even. But we've started this life here, and moving away from it would be painfully difficult, I think. For me, at least. And to move for the sake of a nice home? Again, doesn't really feel right.
There are other factors to consider outside of just buying a house, factors that together make up the bigger picture of our lives--where do we want to raise kids? What sort of life do we want for them? Do we really want the normalcy of a suburban life, or do we want to do something a little different? Do we want our kids growing up in California? Do we want our kids going to California schools? Why or why not? Do we want to leave our church, our jobs, our community, or my side of the family?
These questions apply to us anyway, whether we're talking about buying a house or not. And the truth is that Kansas isn't the only place where homes are more affordable. I guess the big question is this: what's more important? Are we willing to risk leaving where we're comfortable and semi-established for a new life somewhere else? Or are we willing to live differently here (buy a small, outdated house, or live in a rental house, or whatever...) in order to stick around where we've started putting down roots?
I'm not looking for an answer, really. And I'm also not saying we're even really considering relocation. We're just . . . restless. And being restless is exhausting.
We're eight months into a year long commitment to living with my parents. It's been a blessing and a struggle all at the same time. Living here has its perks, but at the end of the day, I miss having our own home. A place for us, where we can create our life together, and not feel like we're waiting for our life to start. (Granted, I do understand those are just feelings and that every day our life is laid out before us waiting to be lived, but still. The feelings are real.)
In the past couple of weeks we've been starting to think about what we're going to do when our year is up. The deal was we'd live here so we could save money for a house of our own. In the past couple of weeks, we've been starting to take a peek at the sorts of things we can afford, but on our budget, in California, our dollars don't go very far. We can afford beautiful and tiny, or outdated/ugly and a fair amount of space. There doesn't seem to be much in-between. We've been a bit...discouraged.
Last night we watched an episode of House Hunters (a show we're addicted to on HGTV), and there was this newlywed couple looking for a starter home in Overland Park, KS. The homes were gorgeous--and lower in cost than our current budget for a house. It was a bit, uh, well, infuriating. Disheartening. Frustrating.
The thing is, I know that there's life to be had in Kansas; I don't doubt that. I know that we could move there, start over, and be fine--good, even. But we've started this life here, and moving away from it would be painfully difficult, I think. For me, at least. And to move for the sake of a nice home? Again, doesn't really feel right.
There are other factors to consider outside of just buying a house, factors that together make up the bigger picture of our lives--where do we want to raise kids? What sort of life do we want for them? Do we really want the normalcy of a suburban life, or do we want to do something a little different? Do we want our kids growing up in California? Do we want our kids going to California schools? Why or why not? Do we want to leave our church, our jobs, our community, or my side of the family?
These questions apply to us anyway, whether we're talking about buying a house or not. And the truth is that Kansas isn't the only place where homes are more affordable. I guess the big question is this: what's more important? Are we willing to risk leaving where we're comfortable and semi-established for a new life somewhere else? Or are we willing to live differently here (buy a small, outdated house, or live in a rental house, or whatever...) in order to stick around where we've started putting down roots?
I'm not looking for an answer, really. And I'm also not saying we're even really considering relocation. We're just . . . restless. And being restless is exhausting.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
On Making Christmas Fudge
I made fudge last night. It was the quickest, easiest Christmas treat I could think of, something that I knew I could probably make while the baby slept or while Joey held her or something. I ended up making it while I cooked dinner last night. And I think the first batch turned out gloppy and thick, but the second batch seemed to be smooth and perfect. The frustrating part? I can't taste it. I'm not eating chocolate right now because it seems to upset Addie's stomach. But I digress.
So there I was, stirring my Nonie's recipe for Magic French Fudge when I realized that this was Nonie's recipe. Why did I choose to make my Nonie's fudge? Well, it's good. It's easy. And It used to be that Christmas wasn't complete without it. But this year? It wasn't because I wanted to relive any particular memory or moment with my Nonie. Stirring the fudge didn't remind me of a time when I made it with her, nor did it make me miss her. And that's what made me sad.
Recipes, to me, are a sort of heirloom, a connection between those who came before me and those who will follow. Some of my favorite keepsakes from my extended family are their recipes; it's a way for me to warmly remember particular moments in time with them, to relive those memories with my senses one more time.
But really, right now there aren't any memories I want to relive. I guess I'm still upset about what happened, or hurt, more likely. See, my Nonie doesn't speak to me anymore. And to be fair, I don't really speak to her either. When I called to share the news that I was engaged (almost two years ago now), she responded with ire. She was completely unsupportive, angry over hurt feelings from the previous Christmas and upset she hadn't been consulted before I agreed to marry my husband. Later on, she told my dad that I told her I hated her during that conversation, something which told me the truth of the whole thing: Nonie didn't really know me. If she did, she would know that I would never say such a thing to her. She would know that I really loved her. She would know that by calling her, I was including her in my life and my decisions. Clearly, she doesn't know me. Perhaps she never really did.
Making fudge should have brought back warm memories of Christmases past with my Nonie and Grandpa Guzman. It should have put me in a merry mood, one that was contagious and festive. Instead, it made me frustrated with my kitchen and indifferent about the history of the recipe or the memories it holds.
And here I go, packaging it up and giving it to some folks to wish them a merry christmas. Perhaps I need to adjust my attitude a bit before I give it away? I think yes. I'm just not sure how to do it.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Thoughts on (New) Motherhood
I won't spend the majority of my posts gushing about my precious baby girl is (although I could), but I decided it was high time I wrote something about her. She is, after all, amazing. I may be biased because she's mine, but it really is true.
Adeline Grace Maier--she's a gift straight from heaven to our home. When I look at her, I am flooded with awe, still find myself in a state of disbelief that she's mine, and am amazed that my love for her is growing just as fast as she is growing. I easily get lost in her eyes--she's so alert now, and it's such fun to just enjoy locking eyes with this little person who grew inside me. (Which, by the way, is still mind-boggling).
I'm finding that motherhood is just what I thought it would be in many ways, but it truly is harder than I thought. I was prepared for difficult. I'm not naive, you know (well, not all the time at least). The things that I expected to be hard are hard, and the things I expected to be easy are easy. It's the things I didn't know would be difficult that makes transitioning into the role of mother so frustrating, tiring, and sometimes bewildering.
That's not to say I don't like it. I love it. It brings out a new me, the me that's been praying and waiting for this moment since I was a little girl dreaming about being a mommy.
So what didn't I expect? I didn't expect to feel so devoid of affection. Here I am giving tons of it to the sweetest little thing on earth, but since she's too little to give it back, I feel like I'm giving and giving, but not getting anything back. I know she's a tiny little infant and isn't capable of affection like I am just yet, but it's still how I feel. You'd think that getting affection from my husband would help--and it does, when I get it. But we're so busy trying to juggle the baby, trying to keep her happy, that I think we forget to make time for each other. Either that, or we just don't know how to yet. Sometimes we go days without hugging each other, not for lack of wanting to, but because we just can't figure out how to, I guess, what with trying to keep up with the baby. But I need them. So much, especially now.
Hugs communicate more to me, sometimes. They say "You're not alone," and "I'm glad we're in this together," and "I know it's hard, but we'll get through it." Quick smootches don't really say that. Sure, they say "I love you," but sometimes that's not enough. Is that scandalous to say?
I know Joey loves me. I don't doubt it for a second. And I don't doubt that my little girl will soon be returning my smiles and will be big enough to give me hugs back. But for now, in this in-between time, I'm trying to remember that this is not the way it'll always be. Our life is turned upside down for now, but eventually it'll set itself right again (won't it?).
Taking the good with the bad, the easy and the difficult, it's like eating bittersweet chocolate. It's good, very good, but it's not all sweet. There's enough sweet in it to make it palatable--intoxicatingly good, even. But it's not all sweet. It's earthy and complex, has a tinge of power to it, and isn't something to be taken lightly. Appreciating both the components of bitter and sweet is the only way to enjoy it. And that's how I feel about being a mother. There's difficulty to it, things that I've had to let go of and things I'm getting used to, but there's so much good, such awe and wonder that comes along with it that I can't think of anything but good things to say about it. I love it, and I love my little Addie.
Adeline Grace Maier--she's a gift straight from heaven to our home. When I look at her, I am flooded with awe, still find myself in a state of disbelief that she's mine, and am amazed that my love for her is growing just as fast as she is growing. I easily get lost in her eyes--she's so alert now, and it's such fun to just enjoy locking eyes with this little person who grew inside me. (Which, by the way, is still mind-boggling).
I'm finding that motherhood is just what I thought it would be in many ways, but it truly is harder than I thought. I was prepared for difficult. I'm not naive, you know (well, not all the time at least). The things that I expected to be hard are hard, and the things I expected to be easy are easy. It's the things I didn't know would be difficult that makes transitioning into the role of mother so frustrating, tiring, and sometimes bewildering.
That's not to say I don't like it. I love it. It brings out a new me, the me that's been praying and waiting for this moment since I was a little girl dreaming about being a mommy.
So what didn't I expect? I didn't expect to feel so devoid of affection. Here I am giving tons of it to the sweetest little thing on earth, but since she's too little to give it back, I feel like I'm giving and giving, but not getting anything back. I know she's a tiny little infant and isn't capable of affection like I am just yet, but it's still how I feel. You'd think that getting affection from my husband would help--and it does, when I get it. But we're so busy trying to juggle the baby, trying to keep her happy, that I think we forget to make time for each other. Either that, or we just don't know how to yet. Sometimes we go days without hugging each other, not for lack of wanting to, but because we just can't figure out how to, I guess, what with trying to keep up with the baby. But I need them. So much, especially now.
Hugs communicate more to me, sometimes. They say "You're not alone," and "I'm glad we're in this together," and "I know it's hard, but we'll get through it." Quick smootches don't really say that. Sure, they say "I love you," but sometimes that's not enough. Is that scandalous to say?
I know Joey loves me. I don't doubt it for a second. And I don't doubt that my little girl will soon be returning my smiles and will be big enough to give me hugs back. But for now, in this in-between time, I'm trying to remember that this is not the way it'll always be. Our life is turned upside down for now, but eventually it'll set itself right again (won't it?).
Taking the good with the bad, the easy and the difficult, it's like eating bittersweet chocolate. It's good, very good, but it's not all sweet. There's enough sweet in it to make it palatable--intoxicatingly good, even. But it's not all sweet. It's earthy and complex, has a tinge of power to it, and isn't something to be taken lightly. Appreciating both the components of bitter and sweet is the only way to enjoy it. And that's how I feel about being a mother. There's difficulty to it, things that I've had to let go of and things I'm getting used to, but there's so much good, such awe and wonder that comes along with it that I can't think of anything but good things to say about it. I love it, and I love my little Addie.
It's a Miracle - December 11, 2010
It's a Saturday morning, a gloomy one, which to me is the best kind of Saturday morning there is. The baby's sleeping, my husband is off to drama practice at church, and I'm sitting in the living room, steaming cup of coffee in hand, enjoying the quiet and taking a moment to attempt to sort out the many thoughts swirling around inside my head.
It's these moments that I've come to miss. The ones in which I've got time and space to explore my thought-life, sort through it, make sense of it. And I miss my hot cup of coffee. Oh, how I miss my hot cup of coffee.
The trade off is amazing, though. Having a five week old is a miracle on so many levels. For one, there's the sheer fact that I actually believed having children would not be possible for me. I had no medical basis for this crazy idea, just my own insecurities, hurts, and scars that taunted me whenever I paid my dream attention for even a moment. And yet, here she is. It's a miracle that she's healthy. It's a miracle that I'mhealthy. It's a miracle to watch my dreams come true, to literally watch the Lord answer my prayers in a tangible way, to see his blessings, to feel his approval and pleasure.
I can't remember when it was, exactly, but a few weeks ago I was sitting in bed watching the Today Show while I nursed Addie. It was during a particularly painful time of adjusting to breastfeeding, the time when it feels like you'd rather go through labor and delivery again instead of endure the constant (and seemingly unending) pain of nursing. I was frustrated because I thought that after giving birth, I'd feel so much better. No more acid reflux, no more feeling bloated and disgusting, no more sharp pains or difficulty breathing. But what I learned is that just when one difficulty is over, a new one presents itself.
There I was, the baby latched on and eating well, and me feeling like I wanted to give up, but feeling bad that I felt that way (because it was selfish of me, wasn't it?) when a segment about some male ice skater came on. I don't remember his name, I don't remember why he was being featured on the show, and I don't remember who sang the song he skated to. What I do remember is that he skated to "The Climb"--not the Miley Cyrus version, but a version sung by some other man. Anyway, tears started spilling down my face as I listened to it. The words rang true to my frustrated, exhausted heart. Isn't that the way of life? That there isn't just one trial, one hardship, one difficult season. There may be some relief in between them, but there's always going to be another one, right? And I don't say that to suggest that life is all terrible hardships, either. There are moments of brilliance shining among the dreary, difficult moments. There's the bitter, and the sweet, which when taken together make something complex and interesting--and truly wonderful.
As I sat there with a tear-stained face, I began to enjoy the sweet moment that was quickly slipping away. It was a miracle I was holding, one that I'd prayed for for years, one that I knew would soon be too old to nurse, one that would eventually go on to face her own share of hardships and heartbreaks. But for that one moment, there was just the two of us, learning to master this particular difficulty together.
And now I can see the fruit of our labors--she's growing so much, so fast. Just like my heart is for her. It's such a miracle.
It's these moments that I've come to miss. The ones in which I've got time and space to explore my thought-life, sort through it, make sense of it. And I miss my hot cup of coffee. Oh, how I miss my hot cup of coffee.
The trade off is amazing, though. Having a five week old is a miracle on so many levels. For one, there's the sheer fact that I actually believed having children would not be possible for me. I had no medical basis for this crazy idea, just my own insecurities, hurts, and scars that taunted me whenever I paid my dream attention for even a moment. And yet, here she is. It's a miracle that she's healthy. It's a miracle that I'mhealthy. It's a miracle to watch my dreams come true, to literally watch the Lord answer my prayers in a tangible way, to see his blessings, to feel his approval and pleasure.
I can't remember when it was, exactly, but a few weeks ago I was sitting in bed watching the Today Show while I nursed Addie. It was during a particularly painful time of adjusting to breastfeeding, the time when it feels like you'd rather go through labor and delivery again instead of endure the constant (and seemingly unending) pain of nursing. I was frustrated because I thought that after giving birth, I'd feel so much better. No more acid reflux, no more feeling bloated and disgusting, no more sharp pains or difficulty breathing. But what I learned is that just when one difficulty is over, a new one presents itself.
There I was, the baby latched on and eating well, and me feeling like I wanted to give up, but feeling bad that I felt that way (because it was selfish of me, wasn't it?) when a segment about some male ice skater came on. I don't remember his name, I don't remember why he was being featured on the show, and I don't remember who sang the song he skated to. What I do remember is that he skated to "The Climb"--not the Miley Cyrus version, but a version sung by some other man. Anyway, tears started spilling down my face as I listened to it. The words rang true to my frustrated, exhausted heart. Isn't that the way of life? That there isn't just one trial, one hardship, one difficult season. There may be some relief in between them, but there's always going to be another one, right? And I don't say that to suggest that life is all terrible hardships, either. There are moments of brilliance shining among the dreary, difficult moments. There's the bitter, and the sweet, which when taken together make something complex and interesting--and truly wonderful.
As I sat there with a tear-stained face, I began to enjoy the sweet moment that was quickly slipping away. It was a miracle I was holding, one that I'd prayed for for years, one that I knew would soon be too old to nurse, one that would eventually go on to face her own share of hardships and heartbreaks. But for that one moment, there was just the two of us, learning to master this particular difficulty together.
And now I can see the fruit of our labors--she's growing so much, so fast. Just like my heart is for her. It's such a miracle.
I Hate to Complain, But . . . - August 18, 2010
Do you ever have one of those days, the ones where all you want to do is curl up in bed and shut the world outside, but then when you do, nothing seems to get any better? That's my day today.
It all started last night when I essentially didn't sleep. I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping these days. I'm getting more and more uncomfortable as the days go by, and getting discouraged right along with it because I there are three more months of this. Waking up every hour is frustrating, having to switch positions every time I wake up leaves me cranky and feeling like I'm a bother to my husband, and in those moments when I actually do drift off to sleep, I find myself in the middle of the strangest dreams I've ever had, dreams that are usually disturbing or horrifying. It makes for a terrible night sleep and a very sleepy me in the morning.
Last night was worse because my throat felt like it was on fire all night. No amount of water would quell this burn; I thought it was all because we had a fan on last night, but we always have a fan on and this doesn't happen. After I (finally) got up this morning, nothing seemed to help, and my body just felt "off." I've spent my day doing just about nothing, except sleeping, reading, and watching just a little bit of tv. I wish I could say I felt better now that the day's almost over, but I don't. On top of feeling physically crummy, I'm feeling emotionally crummy as well. It's as if I've lost all strength.
I think today I just want to complain, not because it makes anything better, but because sometimes complaining is the only thing that seems to validate my feelings. Does that ever happen to you?
And yet I know that complaining isn't exactly the "right" thing to do. I know deep down (well, not even all that deep down) that complaining often just makes things worse. The problem is, today I can't figure out what would make me feel better.
On top of feeling sick, I feel stuck in so many ways, like I know what I want to do, but am unable to do any of it. I feel like my life is at a standstill.
Oh, it's not all bad. There are lots of good things about life right now. My attitude, however, is what is bad today, and feeling sick makes it all worse. I'm over our life right now. I'm not over Joey, nor am I over the idea that we're going to be parents in three short months. But there are aspects of life I'm over. I'm over being at my parents' house (even though they are being incredibly gracious and generous), I'm over feeling like we are always just barely scraping by financially, I'm over feeling like we're not making any headway whatsoever in our quest to pay down our debt (oh, how I loathe you, student loans!). I'm over being frustrated with where we are in life, I guess.
Most days my attitude is better. Most days I can easily see all the good in our lives and every blessing the Lord has graciously given us. But today, all I want to do is feel normal again. I just don't feel like myself and I'm at a loss to know how to get back to that girl I used to know. I liked her. But this girl? She's sort of a mess.
But I guess in our own ways, we're all messes, aren't we? The encouraging thing is that God loves us in our messiness. He digs it when we tell him how much we need him, doesn't he? And that's the point: we need him. We can't go this alone. Life doesn't work without him. After all, the joy of the Lord is our strength, right? And today, when I feel devoid of all my reserves of the stuff, I need to go back to the source.
It all started last night when I essentially didn't sleep. I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping these days. I'm getting more and more uncomfortable as the days go by, and getting discouraged right along with it because I there are three more months of this. Waking up every hour is frustrating, having to switch positions every time I wake up leaves me cranky and feeling like I'm a bother to my husband, and in those moments when I actually do drift off to sleep, I find myself in the middle of the strangest dreams I've ever had, dreams that are usually disturbing or horrifying. It makes for a terrible night sleep and a very sleepy me in the morning.
Last night was worse because my throat felt like it was on fire all night. No amount of water would quell this burn; I thought it was all because we had a fan on last night, but we always have a fan on and this doesn't happen. After I (finally) got up this morning, nothing seemed to help, and my body just felt "off." I've spent my day doing just about nothing, except sleeping, reading, and watching just a little bit of tv. I wish I could say I felt better now that the day's almost over, but I don't. On top of feeling physically crummy, I'm feeling emotionally crummy as well. It's as if I've lost all strength.
I think today I just want to complain, not because it makes anything better, but because sometimes complaining is the only thing that seems to validate my feelings. Does that ever happen to you?
And yet I know that complaining isn't exactly the "right" thing to do. I know deep down (well, not even all that deep down) that complaining often just makes things worse. The problem is, today I can't figure out what would make me feel better.
On top of feeling sick, I feel stuck in so many ways, like I know what I want to do, but am unable to do any of it. I feel like my life is at a standstill.
Oh, it's not all bad. There are lots of good things about life right now. My attitude, however, is what is bad today, and feeling sick makes it all worse. I'm over our life right now. I'm not over Joey, nor am I over the idea that we're going to be parents in three short months. But there are aspects of life I'm over. I'm over being at my parents' house (even though they are being incredibly gracious and generous), I'm over feeling like we are always just barely scraping by financially, I'm over feeling like we're not making any headway whatsoever in our quest to pay down our debt (oh, how I loathe you, student loans!). I'm over being frustrated with where we are in life, I guess.
Most days my attitude is better. Most days I can easily see all the good in our lives and every blessing the Lord has graciously given us. But today, all I want to do is feel normal again. I just don't feel like myself and I'm at a loss to know how to get back to that girl I used to know. I liked her. But this girl? She's sort of a mess.
But I guess in our own ways, we're all messes, aren't we? The encouraging thing is that God loves us in our messiness. He digs it when we tell him how much we need him, doesn't he? And that's the point: we need him. We can't go this alone. Life doesn't work without him. After all, the joy of the Lord is our strength, right? And today, when I feel devoid of all my reserves of the stuff, I need to go back to the source.
The Art of Saying Thank You - August 10, 2010
Last week some very generous people from our church gave us a beautiful crib set, the kind that we’d only dream of purchasing ourselves but never would. It was an answer to prayer, a smile from God straight down upon us, the kind of moment that made me realize that not only was this baby not a mistake, she is purposeful in more ways than one. God is using her to teach Joey and I something about gratitude and humility.
Saying thank you is pretty easy, right? Someone gives you something, does a kind favor, treats you well, sheesh, even opens the door for you and the automatic polite response is “Thank you.” It’s proper, it’s expected, and sure, it is nice to hear someone say it. But how often do those words really capture just how grateful a person is?
For me, saying thank you can be difficult for a variety of reasons, really. For one, I usually forget to do it in a meaningful way. I’ll usually just say the obligatory “thank you,” fully intending to do something more, and then not following through with my plan. Why? Well, because I get busy and forget to write the thank you cards, or when I do remember them, everything that I can think of to say sounds trite and seems to defeat the whole purpose. But the truth is that my heart deeply feels the thanks that I am trying to express. Those words—thank you—sometimes don’t capture just how thankful I am. Like when these people gave us the crib set. Eeking out a thank you on the phone seemed like it wasn’t enough. Like it couldn’t possibly express to them how profoundly appreciated their generosity is in our lives.
Then there’s another reason why thank you can be difficult for me. Learning to live within the confines of a strict budget makes other people’s generosity all that much more meaningful. When I can’t pay for something on my own, or aren’t sure how I’ll pay for something on my own, I pray that the Lord will provide for whatever my need is (doesn’t everyone?) and I sit and wait to see what God will do. And when he does something, I’m never surprised (because that’s just who God is, right?), but I’m always taken aback at the way he does it. I’m always humbled, reminded that God sees my needs. All of them—even the needs that seem so small and insignificant. But not only does he see them, he knows my heart, too. He knows my desires.
By having this baby, we’ve set a ball in motion. Our family is started, and knowing that we want more than one child, we’ve been thinking about how we can borrow things from our generous friends without needing to go through the cycle of needing baby stuff the next time around (because of course, our friends could be needing their baby things back by then…). So we held off making a decision on whose “stuff” to borrow. We’d think we made a decision, but then we’d go back on it. It happened a few times. In the end, we decided that we really wanted to have our own baby furniture so that we didn’t have to worry about giving it back. We looked on Craigslist, we scoured sales, and we finally chose something we liked. It was dark wood, which we love, but simple and affordable. It was like the Kia or the Hyundai of the crib industry. Totally functional, but not what we’d have chosen had money not been an issue. Still, we were content with it and thankful we were able to get the money together to purchase it.
The day after we placed the order, I received a call from some people at our church who were moving out of state. They just happened to be going through their storage unit and stumbled upon their daughter’s nursery furniture. They wanted to just get rid of it, so they were curious if we wanted to take it off their hands. As the woman described it to me, my heart began to beat so hard I was convinced I was going to fall over. She described a dark wood sleigh bed-style crib with a matching changing table. These people aren’t the sort that need to spare any expense, so I knew it would be the Mercedes of the crib world—and they wanted to give it to us, free and clear.
Long story short, we cancelled our crib order and accepted their gift. There was a small part of me that felt a bit humbled, like “great, how wonderful to be that couple that needs to rely on the generosity of others to make ends meet…” but then that thought was washed away in a moment when I realized how God not only saw our need, but he saw our desires, too. A crib that is completely ours in the style that we loved. For free.
And that’s just one of the many times God has answered our prayers through the generosity of our friends lately. My best friend Christy stumbled upon a family who was selling infant girls’ clothes for .25 cents a piece—and she got us a big box full! She also gave us some other things from her own stash of baby gear and never thought twice about it. My friend Molly networked with some of her friends and put the word out that we’d be happy to inherit anything baby they were getting rid of, and a good friend of hers who I’ve never even met gave us a bag full of all sorts of things, from a changing table pad to bath towels.
How do I say thank you to these families? A thank you card seems trivial. A simple thank you over the phone is simply not enough. Expressing how I really feel takes more than that, doesn’t it? Saying thank you to the Lord is much easier for me, I think, because he knows my heart. I don’t have to say much at all for him to know how I feel. But making sure people know how God used them, that their perhaps seemingly small gesture was actually something very big and meaningful, that’s something that I want to make sure they understand. Not because I want to be known as someone who gives the best thank you’s, but because it’s important to me for people to know when and how God has used them. So often we go through life wanting God to use us to touch other people’s lives, but very rarely do we know when we actually are being used.
I’m learning that trusting God to provide usually means learning to graciously accept the kindness of others. Sometimes it’s humbling, sometimes it’s exciting, and sometimes (I admit) I don’t recognize it for what it is. In the end, though, I know that God is teaching me that he sees every need and every desire and is always faithful to me, just like he said he would be. It’s a gift to know people who have the heart and generosity of Jesus. My prayer is that I would have those things, too.
An Early Morning Confession - August 6, 2010
It's after four o'clock in the morning and I'm wide awake. You'd think something profound would be on my mind, or that I was plagued with a bad stomach ache or some sort of miserable something that was preventing me from sleeping. I'm feeling ok-ish...I do have a bit of acid reflux, but it's nothing abnormal these days. No, I'm just awake. And since I'm awake, my mind wanders. And then It starts to play tricks on itself. And then I start to think of things that are absolutely untrue (but are based on some semblance of reality).
Being pregnant makes me feel crazy sometimes. I know it's nothing new and that most women feel that their losing their minds at some point in the process (right?), so I don't pretend to have stumbled upon a new idea here. What I didn't realize was just how "not myself" pregnancy would make me feel. There are certain things, certain convictions, certain choices I made a long time ago about myself, my body, my health that slowly seem to be being laid by the wayside for some reason, like my brain doesn't care what I've chosen before--it's going to take over and reverse all the good I've done for so long. Being healthy, living healthy, are things that have been an integral part of my life for several years now, so much so that it was simply a lifestyle for me. It wasn't a battle--it just was life for me. Making good choices and balancing my nutrient intake was not a problem (most of the time, at least). Sure, I'd have the occasional splurge, but that's just it: it was a splurge.
Today, I splurged. But it's more than that. I mean, I ate crap. Twice. The only veggie I had today was a pathetic little tomato on my burger for dinner. I didn't even have a scrap of fruit. And... I had two servings of french fries today (over the course of two meals, but still...). And you know what? It all tasted great. I didn't regret it after I ate it at first--it felt fine, like "ok, big deal--it's just one day out of life." Sometimes I feel like I need to give myself a break and just eat what sounds good and enjoy the process of being pregnant, not having to worry about every last calorie that passes over my lips. And yet tonight? Now all I can think about is how guilty I feel. How unattractive I suddenly am convinced that I am. How I'm gaining too much weight. How making once in awhile "exceptions" to the way that I typically live adds up, and I'm worried that the consequences will toy with my self-worth.
Awhile ago, Joey and I spoke very candidly about our big life struggles, the things that make us stumble, and how we are working toward wholeness every day. Our battles are very different and for the most part, I think we could have easily told ourselves that they are unrelated. The thing is, they are interdependent. What he struggles with is related to what I struggle with. Our struggles, unchecked, will feed the others' struggle and perhaps even make it worse.
While Joey's struggle is very typical of many men (perhaps even most men), I struggle with something common to women, perhaps even most women. Insecurity, self-image, weight--you know the toxic combination. The bottom line is that so often I don't feel "ok" with who I am. It all goes back to when I was in 5th grade and my mom took me down to our church where they had one of those huge clunky scales like they have in the doctor's office. When I stepped on, she said, "115. Alright, now if you can just stay here, you'll be ok." Ever since then, 115 has been that elusive dream that would mark me as "ok." I wasn't aware of my body or my weight before that point, but have been hyper-aware of it ever since.
It wasn't until I was about 22 that I started making the choice to be healthy, to not worry about my weight while hiding and eating my emotions. Instead, I learned about nutrition, about exercise, about making a lifestyle change, and I had success. I became disciplined and enjoyed the pay off of my efforts. It became so natural to me that it was like breathing. Weight wasn't an issue for me anymore. But I still struggled with insecurity, with feeling like I wasn't "ok" because despite the fact that I was fit, I never hit that coveted 115 mark again.
And now pregnancy is putting me out of control of my ever-expanding waistline. There is nothing I can do to prevent getting bigger. Nothing. And I wouldn't want to not gain weight--hello, I'm not crazy; I know that a woman must gain weight (at least a little) to have a baby. But, well, I don't like gaining weight. I don't like the way it makes me feel. To complicate things more, I don't like the way I feel after giving in to one of my cravings (even though multiple people have assured me that once in awhile is not a big deal...). I know that, in theory. But it's like my mind is split on this: on the one hand, I know I'll be ok, that even if I do get a little chubby during pregnancy, I will be able to lose the weight after the baby is born. On the other hand, I'm afraid to get chubby in the first place. I want to be one of those women who doesn't look pregnant, who doesn't gain anything "extra," and yet, my behavior doesn't always match that. It's like I have a split personality.
So back to where this fits in with Joey's struggle. I learned that our struggles really are fairly similar. It's about lust, in a way. About being drawn to something that we intuitively know is not good for us, a weakness that can take over if we give it an inch. Just like he would naturally want to hide it from me if he "fell" and looked at some image he knew wasn't good for him to look at, I want to hide it from him when I stumble and have a burger & fries. I'm afraid he'll judge me, make me think I'm unattractive, and basically be disgusted with me and surprised by my behavior, like he'd wonder "who is this person--you're not who I married."
And yet, in those moments when he's tempted or has had a close call, he does tell me. Sometimes it takes him a little bit of time, but he still tells me because it's important to him not to hide it from me. No, he doesn't seek the stuff out, but sometimes there are things that pop up on the computer and his eyes linger a little longer than they should. But do I tell him when I stumble? Sometimes. Most of the time I don't because I don't equate food with lust. To me, food is just food, and having something not all that healthy is ok once in awhile, whereas lingering eyes on another female form is never ok, so to speak.
So what do I do with this? I'm not sure. I'm sitting here at (now) 4:30 am pondering this while all I want to do is drown my sorrows in a box of cookies and a glass of milk. And there's a part of me that thinks "Who cares? It's just a cookie. It won't hurt you." And then there's another part of me that knows that I won't feel any better after having eaten the cookies. Not even if it's just one.
Here's the thing that's getting me down tonight: if I'm comfortable enough to spill my guts out to the world at large, I should be comfortable enough to let my own husband know about it, shouldn't I? One would think. And yet being vulnerable with him about stuff like this is harder than writing about it here because he's really the one whose opinion I care about most. And yet, isn't he also the one whose love for me is most secure? He's the one who thinks I'm beautiful, the one who chose me, who is proud of who I am...and he's the one whose disappointment would be the hardest to handle (which is why it's so difficult...).
So I guess what I do is start fresh in the morning, choosing to make the wise choices (including telling my husband about how I'm feeling) and not beat myself up about not reaching that level of perfection that just isn't reality.
Being pregnant makes me feel crazy sometimes. I know it's nothing new and that most women feel that their losing their minds at some point in the process (right?), so I don't pretend to have stumbled upon a new idea here. What I didn't realize was just how "not myself" pregnancy would make me feel. There are certain things, certain convictions, certain choices I made a long time ago about myself, my body, my health that slowly seem to be being laid by the wayside for some reason, like my brain doesn't care what I've chosen before--it's going to take over and reverse all the good I've done for so long. Being healthy, living healthy, are things that have been an integral part of my life for several years now, so much so that it was simply a lifestyle for me. It wasn't a battle--it just was life for me. Making good choices and balancing my nutrient intake was not a problem (most of the time, at least). Sure, I'd have the occasional splurge, but that's just it: it was a splurge.
Today, I splurged. But it's more than that. I mean, I ate crap. Twice. The only veggie I had today was a pathetic little tomato on my burger for dinner. I didn't even have a scrap of fruit. And... I had two servings of french fries today (over the course of two meals, but still...). And you know what? It all tasted great. I didn't regret it after I ate it at first--it felt fine, like "ok, big deal--it's just one day out of life." Sometimes I feel like I need to give myself a break and just eat what sounds good and enjoy the process of being pregnant, not having to worry about every last calorie that passes over my lips. And yet tonight? Now all I can think about is how guilty I feel. How unattractive I suddenly am convinced that I am. How I'm gaining too much weight. How making once in awhile "exceptions" to the way that I typically live adds up, and I'm worried that the consequences will toy with my self-worth.
Awhile ago, Joey and I spoke very candidly about our big life struggles, the things that make us stumble, and how we are working toward wholeness every day. Our battles are very different and for the most part, I think we could have easily told ourselves that they are unrelated. The thing is, they are interdependent. What he struggles with is related to what I struggle with. Our struggles, unchecked, will feed the others' struggle and perhaps even make it worse.
While Joey's struggle is very typical of many men (perhaps even most men), I struggle with something common to women, perhaps even most women. Insecurity, self-image, weight--you know the toxic combination. The bottom line is that so often I don't feel "ok" with who I am. It all goes back to when I was in 5th grade and my mom took me down to our church where they had one of those huge clunky scales like they have in the doctor's office. When I stepped on, she said, "115. Alright, now if you can just stay here, you'll be ok." Ever since then, 115 has been that elusive dream that would mark me as "ok." I wasn't aware of my body or my weight before that point, but have been hyper-aware of it ever since.
It wasn't until I was about 22 that I started making the choice to be healthy, to not worry about my weight while hiding and eating my emotions. Instead, I learned about nutrition, about exercise, about making a lifestyle change, and I had success. I became disciplined and enjoyed the pay off of my efforts. It became so natural to me that it was like breathing. Weight wasn't an issue for me anymore. But I still struggled with insecurity, with feeling like I wasn't "ok" because despite the fact that I was fit, I never hit that coveted 115 mark again.
And now pregnancy is putting me out of control of my ever-expanding waistline. There is nothing I can do to prevent getting bigger. Nothing. And I wouldn't want to not gain weight--hello, I'm not crazy; I know that a woman must gain weight (at least a little) to have a baby. But, well, I don't like gaining weight. I don't like the way it makes me feel. To complicate things more, I don't like the way I feel after giving in to one of my cravings (even though multiple people have assured me that once in awhile is not a big deal...). I know that, in theory. But it's like my mind is split on this: on the one hand, I know I'll be ok, that even if I do get a little chubby during pregnancy, I will be able to lose the weight after the baby is born. On the other hand, I'm afraid to get chubby in the first place. I want to be one of those women who doesn't look pregnant, who doesn't gain anything "extra," and yet, my behavior doesn't always match that. It's like I have a split personality.
So back to where this fits in with Joey's struggle. I learned that our struggles really are fairly similar. It's about lust, in a way. About being drawn to something that we intuitively know is not good for us, a weakness that can take over if we give it an inch. Just like he would naturally want to hide it from me if he "fell" and looked at some image he knew wasn't good for him to look at, I want to hide it from him when I stumble and have a burger & fries. I'm afraid he'll judge me, make me think I'm unattractive, and basically be disgusted with me and surprised by my behavior, like he'd wonder "who is this person--you're not who I married."
And yet, in those moments when he's tempted or has had a close call, he does tell me. Sometimes it takes him a little bit of time, but he still tells me because it's important to him not to hide it from me. No, he doesn't seek the stuff out, but sometimes there are things that pop up on the computer and his eyes linger a little longer than they should. But do I tell him when I stumble? Sometimes. Most of the time I don't because I don't equate food with lust. To me, food is just food, and having something not all that healthy is ok once in awhile, whereas lingering eyes on another female form is never ok, so to speak.
So what do I do with this? I'm not sure. I'm sitting here at (now) 4:30 am pondering this while all I want to do is drown my sorrows in a box of cookies and a glass of milk. And there's a part of me that thinks "Who cares? It's just a cookie. It won't hurt you." And then there's another part of me that knows that I won't feel any better after having eaten the cookies. Not even if it's just one.
Here's the thing that's getting me down tonight: if I'm comfortable enough to spill my guts out to the world at large, I should be comfortable enough to let my own husband know about it, shouldn't I? One would think. And yet being vulnerable with him about stuff like this is harder than writing about it here because he's really the one whose opinion I care about most. And yet, isn't he also the one whose love for me is most secure? He's the one who thinks I'm beautiful, the one who chose me, who is proud of who I am...and he's the one whose disappointment would be the hardest to handle (which is why it's so difficult...).
So I guess what I do is start fresh in the morning, choosing to make the wise choices (including telling my husband about how I'm feeling) and not beat myself up about not reaching that level of perfection that just isn't reality.
A Dose of Reality - July 27, 2010
This quote was eye-opening for me. Not sure I'll ever be a total locavore (I really, really like bananas...), but it's certainly something profound to think about.
"The main barrier standing between ourselves and a local-food culture is not price, but attitude. The most difficult requirements are patience and a pinch of restraint--virtues that are hardly the property of the wealthy. These virtues seem to find precious little shelter, in fact, in any modern quarter of this nation founded by Puritans. Furthermore, we apply them selectively: browbeating our teenagers with the message that they should wait for sex, for example. Only if they wait to experience intercourse under the ideal circumstances (the story goes), will they know its true value. 'Blah, blah, blah,' hears the teenager: words issuing from a mouth that can't even wait for the right time to eat tomatoes, but instead consumes tasteless ones all winter to satisfy a craving for everything NOW. We're raising our children on the definition of promiscuity if we feed them a casual, indiscriminate mingling of foods from every season plucked from the supermarket, ignoring how our sustenance is cheapened by wholesale desires."
"The main barrier standing between ourselves and a local-food culture is not price, but attitude. The most difficult requirements are patience and a pinch of restraint--virtues that are hardly the property of the wealthy. These virtues seem to find precious little shelter, in fact, in any modern quarter of this nation founded by Puritans. Furthermore, we apply them selectively: browbeating our teenagers with the message that they should wait for sex, for example. Only if they wait to experience intercourse under the ideal circumstances (the story goes), will they know its true value. 'Blah, blah, blah,' hears the teenager: words issuing from a mouth that can't even wait for the right time to eat tomatoes, but instead consumes tasteless ones all winter to satisfy a craving for everything NOW. We're raising our children on the definition of promiscuity if we feed them a casual, indiscriminate mingling of foods from every season plucked from the supermarket, ignoring how our sustenance is cheapened by wholesale desires."
- Barbara Kingsolver, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (page 32).
The Perfect Muffin - July 27, 2010
This morning I wish computers somehow captured smells and transported them to you. Seriously. I'll bet my kitchen smells better than yours does. Well, that is, unless you just pulled out freshly baked banana crumb muffins from your oven like I did. They're intoxicating. Seriously.
Wanna peek?
I tried this recipe after having an enlightening, encouraging, inspiring conversation with my good friend Molly who's on a quest for the perfect muffin. She's experimenting with cooking real food too, but she's got a complication that I don't have quite yet--a 4 year old with an opinion. I'm sure my kids will be the same way some day, but for now, baby number one is at the mercy of what I put in my body.
My favorite story about Molly's son Timmy is that he has to have Mac & Cheese out of the box.
Won't touch the stuff otherwise. How in the world does a 4 year old know the difference (or care about the difference)? I'm sure I'll learn very quickly once mine is out of utero.
Anyway, Molly really wanted to find a stellar muffin recipe, one that tasted really good, good enough for Timmy to want to eat it. And one that perhaps was sneaky about the fact that it was actually good for his little body. Well Molly, I think I found your answer. (And I'm bringing some over to you today for you to try!)
This muffin is so good, I actually think it could be the best one I've ever eaten. It's healthy, too. Sounds like a contradiction in terms, right? Wrong. I can't explain it--you'll just have to trust me.
It's made with whole wheat flour, sucanat (a form of unrefined/minimally processed sugar; it's an abbreviated word for "sugar cane natural"), mashed bananas, plus a few more ingredients you'll see below. The version I made does have some oil in it, but you can substitute apple sauce for the oil instead (I, unfortunately, simply didn't have any in the house...).
Here's the recipe, and here's the picture of how they looked when I pulled them out of the oven. You'll just have to use your imagination for the smell, but I promise you--it's insanely good (particularly if you've got coffee brewing at the same time).
Banana Crumb Muffins
Original recipe from PassionateHomemaking.com; I only changed a few minor things, but feel free to peruse that site for the original. It's a great site with inspiring posts (and lots of recipes!)
Wanna peek?
I tried this recipe after having an enlightening, encouraging, inspiring conversation with my good friend Molly who's on a quest for the perfect muffin. She's experimenting with cooking real food too, but she's got a complication that I don't have quite yet--a 4 year old with an opinion. I'm sure my kids will be the same way some day, but for now, baby number one is at the mercy of what I put in my body.
My favorite story about Molly's son Timmy is that he has to have Mac & Cheese out of the box.
Won't touch the stuff otherwise. How in the world does a 4 year old know the difference (or care about the difference)? I'm sure I'll learn very quickly once mine is out of utero.
Anyway, Molly really wanted to find a stellar muffin recipe, one that tasted really good, good enough for Timmy to want to eat it. And one that perhaps was sneaky about the fact that it was actually good for his little body. Well Molly, I think I found your answer. (And I'm bringing some over to you today for you to try!)
This muffin is so good, I actually think it could be the best one I've ever eaten. It's healthy, too. Sounds like a contradiction in terms, right? Wrong. I can't explain it--you'll just have to trust me.
It's made with whole wheat flour, sucanat (a form of unrefined/minimally processed sugar; it's an abbreviated word for "sugar cane natural"), mashed bananas, plus a few more ingredients you'll see below. The version I made does have some oil in it, but you can substitute apple sauce for the oil instead (I, unfortunately, simply didn't have any in the house...).
Here's the recipe, and here's the picture of how they looked when I pulled them out of the oven. You'll just have to use your imagination for the smell, but I promise you--it's insanely good (particularly if you've got coffee brewing at the same time).
Banana Crumb Muffins
- 1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour (whole wheat pastry/soft spring wheat is the best!)
- 1 teaspoon baking soda
- 1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 3 bananas, mashed
- 3/4 cup sucanat
- 1 egg, lightly beaten
- 1/3 cup canola oil (or replace with half applesauce, if you'd rather)
Topping, optional:
- 2 Tbsp whole wheat flour
- 1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1 tablespoon butter
- 1/4 cup sucanat, optional
- Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Lightly grease 12 muffin cups. I use Pam to grease mine, but that may not be the way you'd like to go. Up to you.
- In a large bowl, mix together 1 1/2 cups flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. In another bowl, beat together bananas, sugar, egg and melted butter. Stir the banana mixture into the flour mixture just until moistened. Spoon batter into prepared muffin cups, filling 3/4 full. They puff up, so make sure not to over fill.
- Topping (which of course, is optional): In a small bowl, mix together 1/4 cup sucanat , 2 tablespoons flour and cinnamon. Cut in 1 tablespoon butter until mixture resembles coarse cornmeal. Sprinkle topping over muffins.
- Bake in preheated oven for 18 minutes, (a toothpick inserted into center of a muffin should come out clean at this point. If it doesn't, give it another two minutes or so).
Original recipe from PassionateHomemaking.com; I only changed a few minor things, but feel free to peruse that site for the original. It's a great site with inspiring posts (and lots of recipes!)
Reconnecting with an Old Friend and Discovering Something New-July 18, 2010
Last week I visited an old friend, one I hadn't spend time with in quite a long time (probably since I graduated from college...). Our relationship had always been a good one; I always walked away from our visits feeling fulfilled, knowing that I'd learned something from our time together. I felt inspired, empowered, and eager to return again soon.
Yes, the library. I stopped going because, well, I'm not sure why. Perhaps because it became more fashionable to visit the shiny new bookstore with my latte in hand. The problem is, I couldn't walk away from the stores with anything I wanted. I had to pick out just one thing--if that--and take a chance on whether it was what I really wanted. Oh, I miss roaming around the bookstore looking for a treasure to add to my bookshelf, particularly old bookstores where treasures can actually be found. But I've rediscovered the joy of the library this week. It was there when I needed it, eager to show me the things I yearned to find, and generous enough to let me walk away with them, if only for a little while.
These days, every dollar--every cent, really--counts. When I took it upon myself to start learning all I could about organic living, my first instinct was to rush off to the bookstore and find the newest, most reliable, most relevant title I could find. Usually I'd be able to rationalize such a purchase since it was for the betterment of my mind, and not just an impulsive, frivolous purchase (which I concede has its place, too). But this time, I truly did not have a cent to spare. If I wanted to get my hands on real books to teach me what I wanted to know, I was forced to return to the library. I'm so glad I did.
I found several things there, but here are the three that are most profoundly challenging everything I know about food and forcing me to rethink consumerism in a way that I'm actually thankful for. Becoming a deliberate, intentional consumer is something that is really quickly becoming extremely important to me. I'm truly surprised how deeply convicted I've become over this topic. I won't get preachy, but what I will say is that these three titles opened my eyes, stirred my heart, and encouraged me to find ways to take action, even if the steps are small at first.
1. King Korn (2008). Joey and I watched this last night and were surprised at some of the interesting points it brings up. The movie starts out with two best friends who set out to discover why our generation is the first to have a shorter life expectancy than our parents. Their investigation led them to find out that their bodies are made up primarily of corn (in other words, their diet primarily originates from corn). Crazy. The movie opened our eyes to just how industrialized farming has become. Not just farming, but corn farming in particular. How strange that Iowa grows enough corn to feed the entire US, but none of it is edible; instead, it's destined to become ethanol, corn syrup, or cow feed. We were saddened and a bit disgusted at how sick America has become due to the overproduction of corn. This movie created lines of communication between us that I am so thankful for. Not to mention the fact that we were able to talk with my parents about it and encourage them to watch it too. I think this will be the catalyst for change in our family.
2. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver (2008). This book is a great combination of storytelling and expose. Kingsolver recounts the year-long commitment her family made to eating locally and divulges eye-opening truths about the food industry that they learned along the way, everything from how conventional beef is fed, slaughtered and shipped, to the sheer amount of fossil fuel that is used to deliver food to our table. Plus, her daughter inserts her own anecdotes that are quite entertaining and encouraging, and she includes a few recipes that look absolutely delicious. No, not everyone is capable of making as dramatic a change as the Kingsolver Clan (they own a little farm in Kentucky), but the book does give practical encouragement for ways that we can make a difference. I don't know about you, but I'm all for practicality.
3. Sarah Snow's Fresh Living by Sarah Snow (2009). This book was more practical than Kingsolver's, but it was equally eye-opening for me. I took a particular interest in the chapter about making a green nursery (since I'll have a newborn in less than 4 months...). Not only does Snow offer advice about how to live green, but she also explains reasons why it's so important. Green has become such a buzzword, something that people tend to throw around to sound trendy or cool. The truth is, as Snow points out, that "going green" is really living life more like it was lived 50 years ago. Our parents grew up on more healthy food, things that didn't contain such high amounts of pesticides or chemicals and they played with toys that weren't made with toxic ingredients like so many are today.
No, I'm not going to be an all-out "granola" as Joey likes to call it (I promise that my children will know the joy of an Oreo cookie), but I am going to be mindful. To be conscientious, wise and a good steward of the world and resources that God gave us. I guess that it boils down to this: what I'm learning is that to be passive is to die a slow death--and it's not just my own life we're talking about here, but the lives of my husband, my children, my friends and family--and those are just the folks in my immediate little world. This is a far-reaching problem and there is not a simple solution. I am only one person, but I'm realizing that what little I can do will change my health and that of my small little world.
Yes, the library. I stopped going because, well, I'm not sure why. Perhaps because it became more fashionable to visit the shiny new bookstore with my latte in hand. The problem is, I couldn't walk away from the stores with anything I wanted. I had to pick out just one thing--if that--and take a chance on whether it was what I really wanted. Oh, I miss roaming around the bookstore looking for a treasure to add to my bookshelf, particularly old bookstores where treasures can actually be found. But I've rediscovered the joy of the library this week. It was there when I needed it, eager to show me the things I yearned to find, and generous enough to let me walk away with them, if only for a little while.
These days, every dollar--every cent, really--counts. When I took it upon myself to start learning all I could about organic living, my first instinct was to rush off to the bookstore and find the newest, most reliable, most relevant title I could find. Usually I'd be able to rationalize such a purchase since it was for the betterment of my mind, and not just an impulsive, frivolous purchase (which I concede has its place, too). But this time, I truly did not have a cent to spare. If I wanted to get my hands on real books to teach me what I wanted to know, I was forced to return to the library. I'm so glad I did.
I found several things there, but here are the three that are most profoundly challenging everything I know about food and forcing me to rethink consumerism in a way that I'm actually thankful for. Becoming a deliberate, intentional consumer is something that is really quickly becoming extremely important to me. I'm truly surprised how deeply convicted I've become over this topic. I won't get preachy, but what I will say is that these three titles opened my eyes, stirred my heart, and encouraged me to find ways to take action, even if the steps are small at first.
1. King Korn (2008). Joey and I watched this last night and were surprised at some of the interesting points it brings up. The movie starts out with two best friends who set out to discover why our generation is the first to have a shorter life expectancy than our parents. Their investigation led them to find out that their bodies are made up primarily of corn (in other words, their diet primarily originates from corn). Crazy. The movie opened our eyes to just how industrialized farming has become. Not just farming, but corn farming in particular. How strange that Iowa grows enough corn to feed the entire US, but none of it is edible; instead, it's destined to become ethanol, corn syrup, or cow feed. We were saddened and a bit disgusted at how sick America has become due to the overproduction of corn. This movie created lines of communication between us that I am so thankful for. Not to mention the fact that we were able to talk with my parents about it and encourage them to watch it too. I think this will be the catalyst for change in our family.
2. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver (2008). This book is a great combination of storytelling and expose. Kingsolver recounts the year-long commitment her family made to eating locally and divulges eye-opening truths about the food industry that they learned along the way, everything from how conventional beef is fed, slaughtered and shipped, to the sheer amount of fossil fuel that is used to deliver food to our table. Plus, her daughter inserts her own anecdotes that are quite entertaining and encouraging, and she includes a few recipes that look absolutely delicious. No, not everyone is capable of making as dramatic a change as the Kingsolver Clan (they own a little farm in Kentucky), but the book does give practical encouragement for ways that we can make a difference. I don't know about you, but I'm all for practicality.
3. Sarah Snow's Fresh Living by Sarah Snow (2009). This book was more practical than Kingsolver's, but it was equally eye-opening for me. I took a particular interest in the chapter about making a green nursery (since I'll have a newborn in less than 4 months...). Not only does Snow offer advice about how to live green, but she also explains reasons why it's so important. Green has become such a buzzword, something that people tend to throw around to sound trendy or cool. The truth is, as Snow points out, that "going green" is really living life more like it was lived 50 years ago. Our parents grew up on more healthy food, things that didn't contain such high amounts of pesticides or chemicals and they played with toys that weren't made with toxic ingredients like so many are today.
No, I'm not going to be an all-out "granola" as Joey likes to call it (I promise that my children will know the joy of an Oreo cookie), but I am going to be mindful. To be conscientious, wise and a good steward of the world and resources that God gave us. I guess that it boils down to this: what I'm learning is that to be passive is to die a slow death--and it's not just my own life we're talking about here, but the lives of my husband, my children, my friends and family--and those are just the folks in my immediate little world. This is a far-reaching problem and there is not a simple solution. I am only one person, but I'm realizing that what little I can do will change my health and that of my small little world.
My Persistent Struggle with Bread-July 16, 2010
It's always been a dream of mine to make incredibly good homemade bread that's so good it makes me wonder why I ever settled for eating bread from the grocery store. I've tried many times before without a whole lot of success. Some, but not recently. My history with bread goes back to my childhood when I would watch my mom or my grandma whip together a few ingredients and magically produce a warm, satisfying loaf. I remember being so enthralled by it that I even did a science project on homemade bread when I was in 5th grade (or was it 6th? I've lost track) in which I made several batches, each time leaving out an ingredient to determine the effect it had on the bread. Good research opportunity that unfortunately doesn't do me any good with my efforts today.
When I got a little older, I started using my parents new bread machine--after all, all I had to do was dump the ingredients in and wait for the magic to happen. My favorite recipe was for Colonial Bread, which suddenly I'm inspired to look up and try my hand at again. It was dark and warm, sweet with the flavor of molasses, and hearty enough to make me feel like it was something worth being proud of. When I got older, my dear friend Molly bought me a bread machine of my own that I could take with me when we moved into our own little apartment up at school, and it worked wonders for me-both because it produced great bread, but it also made my soul feel warm and comforted. I still have it (but admit I haven't used it in ages).
I'm determined to make a loaf of bread the old fashioned way again, but I haven't been met with much success. I've had good results with cinnamon rolls, pizza dough, and quick breads (which are too easy to really put in the same category as yeast breads), but a good ol' fashioned handmade loaf of bread is much more difficult for me. It's extremely frustrating because I know how to do it, and yet...something always seems to go wrong. I think it must be the yeast or the temperature of the water. Perhaps one has gone bad and the other isn't the right temperature. Oh well. I will press on.
This week I found what looked like an incredibly easy, healthy, tasty whole wheat bread recipe (again, from http://heavenlyhomemakers.com/how-to-make-whole-wheat-bread-tutorial). It was easy, but again, it didn't rise for me. The frustration! When my husband Joey got home from work, I had a big lump of dough sitting on the counter mocking me. He asked what I was going to do with it and I told him that I was just going to throw it away (but I wasn't ready to do so quite yet. It was too sad for me.). He suggested I made flat bread out of it.
Oh, my clueless husband. Now, I don't know how to make flatbread, but I'm fairly certain it doesn't involve rolling out whole wheat dough that didn't rise and just sticking it in the oven to bake. Still, I humored him, if for no other reason than he was taking an interest in what I was doing and encouraging me to press on to find a way to put to use something that I didn't want to see go to waste.
I rolled out the dough and used a biscuit cutter to make little rounds. We greased a cookie sheet with a few spritzes of Pam and baked the little rounds for a few minutes at 350 degrees, and wouldn't you know? They turned out better than I would have ever expected. (Turns out Joey isn't so clueless after all.) They weren't fluffy because the dough hadn't risen, but they were soft and warm, easy to chew, and made a wonderful little bread to top with jam or dip in balsalmic vinegar and olive oil. (We actually had them dipped in homemade pesto that night because it's what I had made for dinner. So addicting!) We couldn't go through them all ourselves that night, so I threw them into the freezer to use another time.
So what's my point of all this? I struggle with making homemade bread. It's hard for me, but I will persist. I will go on. I will not let lousy yeast or my own self-doubt get in my way. But now I know that if it doesn't work, there's something that can be done with the "ruined" dough. (I made sliders for Joey today for lunch--a perfect use for these strange culinary creatures.)
When I got a little older, I started using my parents new bread machine--after all, all I had to do was dump the ingredients in and wait for the magic to happen. My favorite recipe was for Colonial Bread, which suddenly I'm inspired to look up and try my hand at again. It was dark and warm, sweet with the flavor of molasses, and hearty enough to make me feel like it was something worth being proud of. When I got older, my dear friend Molly bought me a bread machine of my own that I could take with me when we moved into our own little apartment up at school, and it worked wonders for me-both because it produced great bread, but it also made my soul feel warm and comforted. I still have it (but admit I haven't used it in ages).
I'm determined to make a loaf of bread the old fashioned way again, but I haven't been met with much success. I've had good results with cinnamon rolls, pizza dough, and quick breads (which are too easy to really put in the same category as yeast breads), but a good ol' fashioned handmade loaf of bread is much more difficult for me. It's extremely frustrating because I know how to do it, and yet...something always seems to go wrong. I think it must be the yeast or the temperature of the water. Perhaps one has gone bad and the other isn't the right temperature. Oh well. I will press on.
This week I found what looked like an incredibly easy, healthy, tasty whole wheat bread recipe (again, from http://heavenlyhomemakers.com/how-to-make-whole-wheat-bread-tutorial). It was easy, but again, it didn't rise for me. The frustration! When my husband Joey got home from work, I had a big lump of dough sitting on the counter mocking me. He asked what I was going to do with it and I told him that I was just going to throw it away (but I wasn't ready to do so quite yet. It was too sad for me.). He suggested I made flat bread out of it.
Oh, my clueless husband. Now, I don't know how to make flatbread, but I'm fairly certain it doesn't involve rolling out whole wheat dough that didn't rise and just sticking it in the oven to bake. Still, I humored him, if for no other reason than he was taking an interest in what I was doing and encouraging me to press on to find a way to put to use something that I didn't want to see go to waste.
I rolled out the dough and used a biscuit cutter to make little rounds. We greased a cookie sheet with a few spritzes of Pam and baked the little rounds for a few minutes at 350 degrees, and wouldn't you know? They turned out better than I would have ever expected. (Turns out Joey isn't so clueless after all.) They weren't fluffy because the dough hadn't risen, but they were soft and warm, easy to chew, and made a wonderful little bread to top with jam or dip in balsalmic vinegar and olive oil. (We actually had them dipped in homemade pesto that night because it's what I had made for dinner. So addicting!) We couldn't go through them all ourselves that night, so I threw them into the freezer to use another time.
So what's my point of all this? I struggle with making homemade bread. It's hard for me, but I will persist. I will go on. I will not let lousy yeast or my own self-doubt get in my way. But now I know that if it doesn't work, there's something that can be done with the "ruined" dough. (I made sliders for Joey today for lunch--a perfect use for these strange culinary creatures.)
Strawberry Banana Bread-July 15, 2010
In the past few days, I've been learning as much as I can about organic living, which of course includes organic cooking. Real food, sans the processing that so much of our "food" goes through on its way to our table. Anyhow, I came across a recipe for Strawberry Bread on a fabulous site (http://heavenlyhomemakers.com) and threw in a few chocolate chips upon Laura's suggestion because I agreed with her that it sounded yummy.
Of course, in my currently non-local, non-organic kitchen, I didn't have a few of the key ingredients the original recipe called for (specifically, rapadura. I used plain old sugar instead). But, I decided that since I had comparable conventional ingredients, I could at least start experimenting. I did, however, have my trusty bag of whole wheat flour that I brought from my own kitchen when my husband and I recently moved in with my parents (another story for another day). That combined with the myriad of strawberries leftover from a big weekend birthday party provided enough of what I absolutely needed to try the recipe. In the end? It was very, very good. Delicious, even. I highly recommend it.
Next time I make it, I will make it with rapadura, if I can get my hands on any. I'm on the hunt. But I also want to try it with less fat, perhaps add some flax meal or something, and reduce the amount of cinnamon (just my own preference).
Today, inspired by the idea of strawberry bread, I came up with an idea for strawberry banana bread. I used the strawberry bread recipe as a guide, but tweaked it to my own specifications. I ran into one small snag when I was mixing up the batter, though. I didn't have any eggs. Not a single one to be found. So, I just left them out--and the result was surprisingly good.
Here's my recipe for Strawberry Banana Bread, but I'm sure I'll change it a bit and make it even more delicious (and healthy!) in the weeks to come.
Ingredients:
1 very ripe banana (largish)
Of course, in my currently non-local, non-organic kitchen, I didn't have a few of the key ingredients the original recipe called for (specifically, rapadura. I used plain old sugar instead). But, I decided that since I had comparable conventional ingredients, I could at least start experimenting. I did, however, have my trusty bag of whole wheat flour that I brought from my own kitchen when my husband and I recently moved in with my parents (another story for another day). That combined with the myriad of strawberries leftover from a big weekend birthday party provided enough of what I absolutely needed to try the recipe. In the end? It was very, very good. Delicious, even. I highly recommend it.
Next time I make it, I will make it with rapadura, if I can get my hands on any. I'm on the hunt. But I also want to try it with less fat, perhaps add some flax meal or something, and reduce the amount of cinnamon (just my own preference).
Today, inspired by the idea of strawberry bread, I came up with an idea for strawberry banana bread. I used the strawberry bread recipe as a guide, but tweaked it to my own specifications. I ran into one small snag when I was mixing up the batter, though. I didn't have any eggs. Not a single one to be found. So, I just left them out--and the result was surprisingly good.
Here's my recipe for Strawberry Banana Bread, but I'm sure I'll change it a bit and make it even more delicious (and healthy!) in the weeks to come.
Ingredients:
1 very ripe banana (largish)
1 c cut strawberries
1 ½ c whole wheat flour
½ c brown sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp salt
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp baking powder
2 T canola oil
1 ½ tsp flax seed meal (if you have it/want to use it).
Method:
Mix together dry ingredients. Set aside. Blend stawberries and banana in a food processor or blender until smooth (like a smoothie).
Add the blended fruit to the dry ingredients; then, add oil to mixture and blend well.
Pour into greased glass loaf pan (I usually just sprayed the pan with Pam); sprinkle with flax seed meal. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.
The result? Ta-da! I love the texture the flax seed meal gave the top. It gave it a slight crunch, especially when toasted (which, by the way, is really good).
Ah, the simple joy of something freshly baked. I think I might be addicted to it.
2 Corinthians 8:10-July 13, 2010
"So here's what I think: The best thing you can do right now is to finish what you started last year and not let those good intentions grow stale. Your heart's been in the right place all along. You've got what it takes to finish it up, so go to it. Once the commitment is clear, you do what you can, not what you can't. The heart regulates the hands."
A Quest to Live Intentionally--July 13, 2010
On my birthday this year, I wrote out a few goals for myself, things I'd like to accomplish before I turn 30. One of the things I wrote was to be a deliberate friend. To me, being deliberate means being intentional about things, which takes effort--lots of it, really. Having intention suggests purpose, which in turn suggests planning, determination, a reason for doing something.
In friendship, particularly since life takes friends in many different directions, intentionality (is that a word?) is necessary, otherwise we can let life pass us by and we'll wake up wondering why in the world we're lonely. Or unsatisfied. Or frustrated with the people we love.
I think that there's something to be said for living intentionally, meaning living a life of purpose, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, relationally--and physically. I don't want to just slide by--not in any area of life. I don't want to sit back and consume the things the world tells me I should consume. I don't want to sit back and do life the easy way. I don't think life was meant to be easy, anyway. It's sure nice when things are easy, but I just don't think an "easy" life is equivalent to an "abundant" life. So here is the beginning of my journey toward living intentionally, toward seeking abundance in all areas of life.
In friendship, particularly since life takes friends in many different directions, intentionality (is that a word?) is necessary, otherwise we can let life pass us by and we'll wake up wondering why in the world we're lonely. Or unsatisfied. Or frustrated with the people we love.
I think that there's something to be said for living intentionally, meaning living a life of purpose, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, relationally--and physically. I don't want to just slide by--not in any area of life. I don't want to sit back and consume the things the world tells me I should consume. I don't want to sit back and do life the easy way. I don't think life was meant to be easy, anyway. It's sure nice when things are easy, but I just don't think an "easy" life is equivalent to an "abundant" life. So here is the beginning of my journey toward living intentionally, toward seeking abundance in all areas of life.
Merging the New with the Old
I started a different blog over the summer, one that I was determined to keep distinctly separate from this blog because the subject matter dealt with wouldn't have anything to do with the sorts of things I ramble about on this blog. But over the months, I realized that to keep the two separate was to separate two aspects of myself. I'd rather be one jumbled mess than have a split personality, so I decided to just merge the two together.
So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to repost the things I wrote at my other blog here. I'll put the original date in the subject line just after the title of the post. No, not everything that I wrote has to do with recognizing things that are distorted and choosing to believe truth, and yet... they do, some more than others of course, but still.
In short, I began learning about the real food movement over the summer; I started uncovering the truth about the food industry and chose to take what I'd learned and 1) apply it to my own life and 2) share with others. I'm certainly not the first to do this, and I suppose I won't be the last either. And I'm not even all that great at it. I just posted my discoveries and musings (and a few recipes); I didn't dedicate myself to becoming an authority on the subject. I'm afraid I won't be the place to come to learn about the movement, but perhaps what I write here will in some small way encourage someone else to start the journey toward the truth.
Anyway, that's what the next several posts will be. And after that? It'll be back to my inconsistent ramblings. Ah, well. Perhaps 2011 is the year that I'll become consistent? One can only hope.
So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to repost the things I wrote at my other blog here. I'll put the original date in the subject line just after the title of the post. No, not everything that I wrote has to do with recognizing things that are distorted and choosing to believe truth, and yet... they do, some more than others of course, but still.
In short, I began learning about the real food movement over the summer; I started uncovering the truth about the food industry and chose to take what I'd learned and 1) apply it to my own life and 2) share with others. I'm certainly not the first to do this, and I suppose I won't be the last either. And I'm not even all that great at it. I just posted my discoveries and musings (and a few recipes); I didn't dedicate myself to becoming an authority on the subject. I'm afraid I won't be the place to come to learn about the movement, but perhaps what I write here will in some small way encourage someone else to start the journey toward the truth.
Anyway, that's what the next several posts will be. And after that? It'll be back to my inconsistent ramblings. Ah, well. Perhaps 2011 is the year that I'll become consistent? One can only hope.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Clarity from a Pair of Swollen Ankles
Before I was pregnant, I hated my ankles. Loathed them. Cursed them, tried to hide them, wished I could change them (tried several times), and eventually gave up on them and resigned myself to the fact that they'd be one of my "problem areas" forever. But then they got worse. Much worse.
Pregnancy has been full of many surprises, mainly in the way my body has changed, but the one thing that caught me the most by surprise was how swollen ankles could actually make me thankful for (and actually miss) my normal, pre-pregnancy ankles.
It was hot a few weeks ago--incredibly hot--106 degrees, in fact. And no, I don't have air conditioning. To say I was miserable would be an understatement, and I know that you ladies who've been pregnant through heat waves will understand. One day, I got home from work, sat on the couch and put my feet up because they were aching after having been on them all day. When I glanced down at them, I was shocked to see they'd tripled in size. Tripled. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch when Will Smith's character has an allergic reaction to seafood and his face swells up to the point where he's virtually unrecognizable. My ankles did the same sort of thing.
When Joey got home that evening, he asked me how I was surviving the heat. All I had to do was show him my ankles--they spoke for themselves. From that moment on, I decided that I had to laugh at them (they were comical, after all), otherwise I would cry. I cried anyway, though. Those things stuck around for several days; they were there so often that they became the new normal, and I started forgetting what my normal ankles looked like.
Then one morning when I got out of bed, I looked in the mirror (as I often do), and noticed something incredible--my ankles. They were beautiful! They were slender and dainty and made my feet feel pretty again. And then a strange thought struck me: they were back to their normal selves. I hadn't had to work hard for them or put up a huge fight--nope, all I had to do was recognize the beauty that had always been there, the beauty that I failed to see before. I wished I had a short skirt and high heels that were made for 8 month pregnant ladies, but alas, I settled for my regular work pants and flats that day. And of course, when I got home, those ankles were swollen to high heaven again, and the little ankles I used to know were again obscured by the new puffier ones. But I went to sleep that night with a strange feeling--contentment with the ankles that I have. Happy that they were swollen, because had they not been, I would not have had that moment in which I realized how lovely my ankles are. And through that, I realized that my body is just that: a body. It's not my spirit, it's not my soul, it's not my intelligence and it's not my heart. Those things have remained constant even though my body has not. And while realizing that my ankles weren't half bad was a big deal for me, realizing that who I am is pretty fantastic despite how I look was even more important. Lord help me to hang on to that.
I admit that I've wavered between being angry and being resigned to the fact that my body is changing during the past few months. At the same time, though, I've been in awe of my body, realizing that it's capable of so much more than I've given it credit for in the past. I used to chastise this body of mine, I would look at it with contempt and think that I had to control every little thing in order for it to be even remotely close to being "ok." But I guess that's another story. For now, saying I'm thankful for my swollen ankles is enough. The puffiness reminds me of the truth, and the truth is that my body is just one aspect of who I am, and though it may change one way or another during different seasons of my life, the truth of who I am won't change. And I got all that from a pair of swollen ankles.
Pregnancy has been full of many surprises, mainly in the way my body has changed, but the one thing that caught me the most by surprise was how swollen ankles could actually make me thankful for (and actually miss) my normal, pre-pregnancy ankles.
It was hot a few weeks ago--incredibly hot--106 degrees, in fact. And no, I don't have air conditioning. To say I was miserable would be an understatement, and I know that you ladies who've been pregnant through heat waves will understand. One day, I got home from work, sat on the couch and put my feet up because they were aching after having been on them all day. When I glanced down at them, I was shocked to see they'd tripled in size. Tripled. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch when Will Smith's character has an allergic reaction to seafood and his face swells up to the point where he's virtually unrecognizable. My ankles did the same sort of thing.
When Joey got home that evening, he asked me how I was surviving the heat. All I had to do was show him my ankles--they spoke for themselves. From that moment on, I decided that I had to laugh at them (they were comical, after all), otherwise I would cry. I cried anyway, though. Those things stuck around for several days; they were there so often that they became the new normal, and I started forgetting what my normal ankles looked like.
Then one morning when I got out of bed, I looked in the mirror (as I often do), and noticed something incredible--my ankles. They were beautiful! They were slender and dainty and made my feet feel pretty again. And then a strange thought struck me: they were back to their normal selves. I hadn't had to work hard for them or put up a huge fight--nope, all I had to do was recognize the beauty that had always been there, the beauty that I failed to see before. I wished I had a short skirt and high heels that were made for 8 month pregnant ladies, but alas, I settled for my regular work pants and flats that day. And of course, when I got home, those ankles were swollen to high heaven again, and the little ankles I used to know were again obscured by the new puffier ones. But I went to sleep that night with a strange feeling--contentment with the ankles that I have. Happy that they were swollen, because had they not been, I would not have had that moment in which I realized how lovely my ankles are. And through that, I realized that my body is just that: a body. It's not my spirit, it's not my soul, it's not my intelligence and it's not my heart. Those things have remained constant even though my body has not. And while realizing that my ankles weren't half bad was a big deal for me, realizing that who I am is pretty fantastic despite how I look was even more important. Lord help me to hang on to that.
I admit that I've wavered between being angry and being resigned to the fact that my body is changing during the past few months. At the same time, though, I've been in awe of my body, realizing that it's capable of so much more than I've given it credit for in the past. I used to chastise this body of mine, I would look at it with contempt and think that I had to control every little thing in order for it to be even remotely close to being "ok." But I guess that's another story. For now, saying I'm thankful for my swollen ankles is enough. The puffiness reminds me of the truth, and the truth is that my body is just one aspect of who I am, and though it may change one way or another during different seasons of my life, the truth of who I am won't change. And I got all that from a pair of swollen ankles.
Monday, June 28, 2010
When Things Turn Upside Down
Joey's got Vertigo. It came upon him suddenly yesterday afternoon as soon as we got home from Montera Beach. It was awful to watch him spiral downward into a shell of who he normally is. Selfishly, I was upset that he "had to get this" on our Anniversary. But then, after a quick check of the spirit, I realized that we had just gotten back from a wonderful weekend full of fun anniversary stuff, and that we were, essentially, done with our celebration by the time we got home. The only thing left was to have a slice of our anniversary cake (which I had been looking forward to intensely!).
In a split second, I went from feeling frustrated with him for feeling sick to being relieved and thankful we were home before it all hit him. Then, before I knew what hit me, I was scared. Terrified. Even though Joey was pretty sure it was Vertigo, my mind played games on itself and I had big scary scenarios all lined up in my mind (like heat stroke, a brain tumor, a head injury, etc). Watching him struggle to walk just a few steps, not being able to do anything to cool our room down (it was intensely hot last night), and feeling powerless to do anything but simply tell him that I'm there if he needs anything... it made me realize how truly out of control I am over so much. And even though our first year of marriage hasn't been difficult, or perhaps because our first year has been so good, I felt in control of things. But last night I felt completely out of control. Even though my head knows that ultimately we aren't in control, I realized in a profound way last night that things can change in an instant, and our whole world can be thrown off balance.
I spent the evening watching a bad movie, eating good ice cream, and wondering what would happen next. When I finally went to bed, I watched him intensely for several minutes to make sure he was still breathing. I was afraid that something more severe was going on and that we should have rushed him to the emergency room. Instead, I had to lay there next to my husband on our first anniversary willing myself not to worry about him, but to trust that not only was Joey right, but that God was in control.
Today, he's better. Not great, but better. We were able to get him in to see a doctor first thing this morning, but she didn't do a whole lot for him, except for perhaps allay our fears that something more serious was going on. Today? Today I'm realizing that perhaps I overreact to things, even though my heart is in the right place. Having my heart in the right place doesn't really do a whole lot to help the situation except to reassure Joey that I'm here for him. Today I wonder how I'll grapple with things that are more serious. I cried last night when Joey fell asleep, not because I was upset he was sick on our anniversary, but because I was scared of the unknown. Today I realize that every day is an unknown. And adding a baby to the mix makes things even more of an unknown. Someone new to worry about, right?
But the kicker is that worrying doesn't accomplish anything. It's hard not to worry, and it's difficult to take thoughts captive and not allow our imaginations to run away with us, but seriously, it's something I am choosing to do because I cannot live life in fear. It's debilitating. Living a life of worry or fear simply isn't living.
Anyway, I think I'm starting to ramble. The good news? Joey's trying to type along with me as I write this. I think he's getting bored of laying around feeling dizzy. Or perhaps he's feeling a little bit better. I think it's a combination of both.
Happy first anniversary to us!
In a split second, I went from feeling frustrated with him for feeling sick to being relieved and thankful we were home before it all hit him. Then, before I knew what hit me, I was scared. Terrified. Even though Joey was pretty sure it was Vertigo, my mind played games on itself and I had big scary scenarios all lined up in my mind (like heat stroke, a brain tumor, a head injury, etc). Watching him struggle to walk just a few steps, not being able to do anything to cool our room down (it was intensely hot last night), and feeling powerless to do anything but simply tell him that I'm there if he needs anything... it made me realize how truly out of control I am over so much. And even though our first year of marriage hasn't been difficult, or perhaps because our first year has been so good, I felt in control of things. But last night I felt completely out of control. Even though my head knows that ultimately we aren't in control, I realized in a profound way last night that things can change in an instant, and our whole world can be thrown off balance.
I spent the evening watching a bad movie, eating good ice cream, and wondering what would happen next. When I finally went to bed, I watched him intensely for several minutes to make sure he was still breathing. I was afraid that something more severe was going on and that we should have rushed him to the emergency room. Instead, I had to lay there next to my husband on our first anniversary willing myself not to worry about him, but to trust that not only was Joey right, but that God was in control.
Today, he's better. Not great, but better. We were able to get him in to see a doctor first thing this morning, but she didn't do a whole lot for him, except for perhaps allay our fears that something more serious was going on. Today? Today I'm realizing that perhaps I overreact to things, even though my heart is in the right place. Having my heart in the right place doesn't really do a whole lot to help the situation except to reassure Joey that I'm here for him. Today I wonder how I'll grapple with things that are more serious. I cried last night when Joey fell asleep, not because I was upset he was sick on our anniversary, but because I was scared of the unknown. Today I realize that every day is an unknown. And adding a baby to the mix makes things even more of an unknown. Someone new to worry about, right?
But the kicker is that worrying doesn't accomplish anything. It's hard not to worry, and it's difficult to take thoughts captive and not allow our imaginations to run away with us, but seriously, it's something I am choosing to do because I cannot live life in fear. It's debilitating. Living a life of worry or fear simply isn't living.
Anyway, I think I'm starting to ramble. The good news? Joey's trying to type along with me as I write this. I think he's getting bored of laying around feeling dizzy. Or perhaps he's feeling a little bit better. I think it's a combination of both.
Happy first anniversary to us!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Stream of Consciousness
I admit it. I'm at work, and technically I should be working, except that I cannot concentrate, I'm uncomfortable, and I feel like I could fall asleep at any moment. My sinuses hurt, which is causing a nearly unbearable headache, and to make matters worse, all I want is a big, tall, icy cold Coke. The one thing that I should NOT have. Caffeine + unneccessary amounts of sugar = not the best choice for my pregnant self. What I should do is get up and get a tall glass of water, but there's a helium tank blocking the water fountain, and I don't feel up to finding another one.
Up until this point I've felt like my classes have been somewhat of an inconvenience to me. An unwanted interruption in the middle of my day that makes everything so much more stressful and busy than I'd like. Now that it's over, I feel a little sense of loss, like I'm losing something that I've invested a lot of myself in, and now I'm not sure what to do with myself. I've experienced this before--it's not new. Graduations, job changes, moves--they all bring this sense of "What now?" with them. And somehow, I always figure out what to do with myself when the next step comes.
Transitioning to part time here is a beautiful blessing that is scary and unsure. The cut in pay isn't that much, but what makes it seem more significant is the loss of medical coverage. Trying to figure out how to get coverage when you're 4 months pregnant doesn't seem smart, if you ask me. Seems like folks could deny me. Suddenly I'm worried that this decision was flippant, that I made it out of my own selfishness instead of making a logical, sound decision. But when I think about grading piles of essays, tests and homework; planning lessons; reading and lecturing on novels; and all of the administrative stuff that comes along with teaching, I know that this is a blessing. Not having to work more than 6 hours a day when our little baby arrives will be something I am utterly grateful for. Today, I'm trying to keep my eye on that truth, instead of the obstacle of needing health insurance and having to revise our budget.
Being pregnant comes with such a strange mix of emotions. One day, I'm perfectly fine, happy to be alive and secure in the knowledge that this is God's grace to my fearful heart that actually believed (however irrationally) that children would be an impossibility for me. With nothing more than my own anxiety to base that idea on, I realize now how crazy I must have sounded when I would talk about my fears. But still, being so irrational about it, and wanting it desperately, made acceptance more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. I thought I'd jump for joy, cry my eyes out, and relish the idea of being a mom-to-be. Instead, I cried a little, but mostly I shook. And I approached this pregnancy thing with an attitude of disbelief. I thought the doctors were wrong, and that I was right. That their instruments were flawed, and that my finite mind was more intuitive than they were. Even when we finally heard the heart beat, I doubted. Now that my tummy is starting to protrude and my pants don't fit without one of those belly band things, I'm starting to reconsider. And yet, I have a new fear that when they finally do the ultrasound, the baby will be a tumor that secretes hormones that make it SEEM like I'm pregnant, or that something will be wrong and the baby will be sick or disfigured. Talk about hope, eh?
Joey tells me that I can be crazy and irrational because he'll be the rational one for both of us. His belief is inspiring, comforting, and reassuring most of the time. But there are still those dark moments when I put on a smile and act like I'm secure about all this, when in reality I'm doubting something. If it's not the idea of the baby itself, then it's the idea of myself as a mother. And I know, in my rational mind, that all of it is a load of crap. But I also know that it feels very real to me, and I feel almost like I've got a split personality about all of it.
I told Christy early on that it felt like everyone was more excited about this baby than I was, and that was such a hard thing to admit because it felt like I was saying that I wasn't excited for this child, or that I didn't love it or wasn't happy about it. The good news? She absolutely understood. She had felt the same way when she was first pregnant with Brennan. After talking to her about it, I think the truth is that I feel this way because I'm the one who's carrying it all--the baby, the anxiety, the pressure, the fear...I'm the one who deals with the reality of it every single second of every single day.
But then there are those glittering moments where I see that everything is just as it should be, that this is the time I've been waiting for, praying for, yearning for. This is a dream come true. A prayer answered. And I guess in the end, that's the real truth to hold on to.
Up until this point I've felt like my classes have been somewhat of an inconvenience to me. An unwanted interruption in the middle of my day that makes everything so much more stressful and busy than I'd like. Now that it's over, I feel a little sense of loss, like I'm losing something that I've invested a lot of myself in, and now I'm not sure what to do with myself. I've experienced this before--it's not new. Graduations, job changes, moves--they all bring this sense of "What now?" with them. And somehow, I always figure out what to do with myself when the next step comes.
Transitioning to part time here is a beautiful blessing that is scary and unsure. The cut in pay isn't that much, but what makes it seem more significant is the loss of medical coverage. Trying to figure out how to get coverage when you're 4 months pregnant doesn't seem smart, if you ask me. Seems like folks could deny me. Suddenly I'm worried that this decision was flippant, that I made it out of my own selfishness instead of making a logical, sound decision. But when I think about grading piles of essays, tests and homework; planning lessons; reading and lecturing on novels; and all of the administrative stuff that comes along with teaching, I know that this is a blessing. Not having to work more than 6 hours a day when our little baby arrives will be something I am utterly grateful for. Today, I'm trying to keep my eye on that truth, instead of the obstacle of needing health insurance and having to revise our budget.
Being pregnant comes with such a strange mix of emotions. One day, I'm perfectly fine, happy to be alive and secure in the knowledge that this is God's grace to my fearful heart that actually believed (however irrationally) that children would be an impossibility for me. With nothing more than my own anxiety to base that idea on, I realize now how crazy I must have sounded when I would talk about my fears. But still, being so irrational about it, and wanting it desperately, made acceptance more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. I thought I'd jump for joy, cry my eyes out, and relish the idea of being a mom-to-be. Instead, I cried a little, but mostly I shook. And I approached this pregnancy thing with an attitude of disbelief. I thought the doctors were wrong, and that I was right. That their instruments were flawed, and that my finite mind was more intuitive than they were. Even when we finally heard the heart beat, I doubted. Now that my tummy is starting to protrude and my pants don't fit without one of those belly band things, I'm starting to reconsider. And yet, I have a new fear that when they finally do the ultrasound, the baby will be a tumor that secretes hormones that make it SEEM like I'm pregnant, or that something will be wrong and the baby will be sick or disfigured. Talk about hope, eh?
Joey tells me that I can be crazy and irrational because he'll be the rational one for both of us. His belief is inspiring, comforting, and reassuring most of the time. But there are still those dark moments when I put on a smile and act like I'm secure about all this, when in reality I'm doubting something. If it's not the idea of the baby itself, then it's the idea of myself as a mother. And I know, in my rational mind, that all of it is a load of crap. But I also know that it feels very real to me, and I feel almost like I've got a split personality about all of it.
I told Christy early on that it felt like everyone was more excited about this baby than I was, and that was such a hard thing to admit because it felt like I was saying that I wasn't excited for this child, or that I didn't love it or wasn't happy about it. The good news? She absolutely understood. She had felt the same way when she was first pregnant with Brennan. After talking to her about it, I think the truth is that I feel this way because I'm the one who's carrying it all--the baby, the anxiety, the pressure, the fear...I'm the one who deals with the reality of it every single second of every single day.
But then there are those glittering moments where I see that everything is just as it should be, that this is the time I've been waiting for, praying for, yearning for. This is a dream come true. A prayer answered. And I guess in the end, that's the real truth to hold on to.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Childhood Memories Part 2
The day after I started this post, memories started flooding my mind! Now as I lay here tonight, I'm having trouble remembering what I had remembered! (Go figure.) Oh well. I'll sit here for a moment and see if anything else comes to mind...
6. I vividly remember one summer day when I was about four years old when a man without a mustache walked into the kitchen through the garage door, swept my mom into his arms and gave her a huge kiss. I'm not sure if I heard something and came into see what was going on or if I was already in the kitchen, but what I do remember is the fact that I had no idea who this strange man was who was kissing my mom. In my little mind, my dad wasn't home, so there shouldn't be a man kissing my mom! The thing is that it was my dad-- I just didn't recognize him. He'd been gone that summer, away at grad school in Indiana for the past two months or so and while he was there, he shaved off his trademark mustache, but I had no idea! To my recollection, he hasn't shaved that mustache off since.
7. Speaking of when my dad was away at school, I remember the very first time I ever cooked dinner by myself. Again, I was about four years old and one evening decided that I really wanted to cook dinner for our family. When I asked my mom if I could do so, she said, "Well, what are you going to make?" I remember saying with confidence, "Bologna surprise," I dish I made that up on the spot. I had no idea what I'd make before I asked her if I could make dinner, but that was my idea when she asked me. I must have chosen it because 1) I LOVED bologna and 2) surprise meant that I could make it up as I went. When my mom asked me (probably stifling a chuckle) what bologna surprise was, I responded very matter-of-factly that it was bologna stuffed with cheese, rolled up and secured with a toothpick, then heated in the toaster oven so the cheese melted (like she should have known what that was...). She said, "Ok...well, what are you going to serve with it?" I quickly glanced up above the fridge and saw a bag of plain Ruffles. "Potato chips," I responded, because you know, it just complements it so well...
I don't know why she let me go through with it, but she did. And I remember watching those bologna rolls in the toaster oven, making sure they didn't burn. I also remember how good those things tasted! We all ate them for dinner--even my mom. And while I'm sure she ended up having something else to eat after we'd all gone to bed, to this day, I appreciate the fact that she not only let me go through with it, but she also tasted my creation. From that day on, my mom let me experiment in the kitchen all the time. I think she instilled confidence in me by letting me come up with creative recipes (which I'm sure were sometime were downright disgusting), and never made me feel like my ideas were silly. To this day, I love to experiment in the kitchen, but my ingredients have become a bit more sophisticated than bologna.
8. I am scared of the moon. Or, well, perhaps it's more accurate to say that I used to be scared of the moon, but sometimes I still get a little creeped out by it. I blame it on my father. My dad liked to pick on me, most likely because he knew I was an easy target. (Wonder where my brothers learned that from?) On nights when we happened to be in the car when the moon was especially bright (and usually nearly full), he would say to me in a sort of sing-song voice, "I see the moon and the moon sees me!" to which I would reply, "No! I don't want the moon to see me!" I hated the idea of the moon watching me. I could see a face in the moon, a face that I can still see to this day. I hated the way it would follow me; it didn't matter which way the car turned or how many trees or houses we passed by that blocked it from view. Whenever the road cleared, there it was, peering into the car window watching me. I couldn't escape it. Oh, how it scared me! By the way, my dad still teases me about that.
9. I don't remember going on many shopping trips with my mom, other than trips to the grocery store or to Target. Shopping for clothes wasn't something that we did very often when I was little, except for making the trek to Livermore every once in awhile to go to the big Goodwill store there. I remember the day when my mom told me I shouldn't be telling people where we got our clothes; up until then, I thought Goodwill was a pretty awesome place. We got to go pick out just about anything we liked, and we always came home with some great treasure. I remember one day I was playing with one of the neighbor girls, proudly wearing my new sweatshirt I had just gotten at Goodwill. It was yellow with puffy lambs on it I think (or something equally disgusting by today's standards). At the time, it was very in and I had wanted one badly. Anyway, my neighbor friend complemented me on the sweatshirt and asked me where I got it. I told her that I had picked it out at the Goodwill store in Livermore. My mom was outside watering or something and overheard our conversation. Later that evening, she told me that I didn't need to tell my friends where my clothes came from, that the Goodwill store was our little secret discovery and that no one else needed to know about it. I think that was the moment when I realized our family was a bit different than others.
We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up, but I really didn't notice until after that day. My mom didn't take me clothes shopping much, but she didn't really need to. All my clothes either came from the Goodwill store or from those magical brown paper bags that my mom kept at the top of the hall closet. I lived in hand-me-downs, and I loved them. Some good friends of my parents had two little girls that were a bit older than me and they would always pass their clothes on to me after they'd outgrown them. I remember the days when my mom would pull a bag down as being some of the best days ever; I loved trying things on and seeing how I looked in them. We used to make such a mess in the hallway, because for some reason, that's where I always seemed to try things on.
I have such an appreciation for second hand things now; things that have a history, things that are well-used and well-loved, things that are appreciated far more than they would be if they were easier to come by.
10. Ok, here it is: memory number 10. I remember my Grandpa Guzman. He passed away when I was 11, just before Christmas that year, I believe. I remember hearing the news, and I remember wondering why I couldn't cry. Thinking about him now, remembering how I felt when he died and thinking about how things changed in the aftermath of his death, all of it brings tears to my eyes, but I barely shed one tear at the time of his death. Maybe I was in a state of shock, or maybe it just didn't have the same effect on me then as it does now.
When I remember him, I remember a jolly man who always lit up with a smile when I came into the room. He used to have new teddy bears waiting for me when we'd visit he and Nonie up in Auburn. He would take my brothers and I fishing in his pond and let us ride his tractor; he would give us piggy back rides and take us on hikes on his property. I can hear that strange noise he used to make, the noise that sounded like he was working on getting something out of his teeth. I can smell the toasted bagel and the port wine cheese spread that he loved to have at probably any time of the day. And I remember his hands, his leathery skin and the way his hugs felt--strong, secure, safe. Most of all, I remember what our family was like before we lost him.
My grandmother (Nonie) changed forever when he died. She was never a terribly warm, outwardly loving person, but after she lost him, bitterness took hold of her heart and affected her interactions with everyone from then on. I understand it; losing a husband would be beyond painful and life would be excruciatingly lonely after that. I've learned that perhaps she has always been like this, but now that she's on her own, it's a bit more obvious. She pushes people away. Drives them away, really. It started with my Uncle Al and his family, and now it's moved on to my family. I used to think that this would have never happened had my grandfather been alive; but when I said this to my dad one day, he told me that Grandpa Guzman wasn't really the man I knew. As a grandfather, that was the real him, but as a person, as a man, as a father, that wasn't him. Apparently he had an iron fist and on more than one occasion belittled my father's choices in life. He wasn't an easy man to love for my dad, but for me? He was a hero. I love that his memory is pure in my heart and that I have those special moments of joy with him. I don't have that with Nonie. And I tried. I tried many times to get close to her, but all I found was rejection. I'm not sure where I"m going with this part of the memory. It's not particularly good, and it is certainly intertwined with memories from the not so distant past. I guess this is the one that wanted to get out tonight, though.
And now that I've gotten the ball rolling, I find that I have several more memories from before I hit Junior High. I prove the statistic wrong, which was the whole point, right? I guess I shouldn't be surprised; in my family, I seem to be the one who remembers things, the one who corrects others when they've got a story wrong, or the one who people ask about an insignificant detail just because they know I'll remember. I'm the one with the memory. Sometimes it's a blessing, as memories are so often wonderful, and sometimes it's not, as memories are also often hurtful or confusing.
There really is a lot to be learned from memories, things we can learn about why we are the way we are.
6. I vividly remember one summer day when I was about four years old when a man without a mustache walked into the kitchen through the garage door, swept my mom into his arms and gave her a huge kiss. I'm not sure if I heard something and came into see what was going on or if I was already in the kitchen, but what I do remember is the fact that I had no idea who this strange man was who was kissing my mom. In my little mind, my dad wasn't home, so there shouldn't be a man kissing my mom! The thing is that it was my dad-- I just didn't recognize him. He'd been gone that summer, away at grad school in Indiana for the past two months or so and while he was there, he shaved off his trademark mustache, but I had no idea! To my recollection, he hasn't shaved that mustache off since.
7. Speaking of when my dad was away at school, I remember the very first time I ever cooked dinner by myself. Again, I was about four years old and one evening decided that I really wanted to cook dinner for our family. When I asked my mom if I could do so, she said, "Well, what are you going to make?" I remember saying with confidence, "Bologna surprise," I dish I made that up on the spot. I had no idea what I'd make before I asked her if I could make dinner, but that was my idea when she asked me. I must have chosen it because 1) I LOVED bologna and 2) surprise meant that I could make it up as I went. When my mom asked me (probably stifling a chuckle) what bologna surprise was, I responded very matter-of-factly that it was bologna stuffed with cheese, rolled up and secured with a toothpick, then heated in the toaster oven so the cheese melted (like she should have known what that was...). She said, "Ok...well, what are you going to serve with it?" I quickly glanced up above the fridge and saw a bag of plain Ruffles. "Potato chips," I responded, because you know, it just complements it so well...
I don't know why she let me go through with it, but she did. And I remember watching those bologna rolls in the toaster oven, making sure they didn't burn. I also remember how good those things tasted! We all ate them for dinner--even my mom. And while I'm sure she ended up having something else to eat after we'd all gone to bed, to this day, I appreciate the fact that she not only let me go through with it, but she also tasted my creation. From that day on, my mom let me experiment in the kitchen all the time. I think she instilled confidence in me by letting me come up with creative recipes (which I'm sure were sometime were downright disgusting), and never made me feel like my ideas were silly. To this day, I love to experiment in the kitchen, but my ingredients have become a bit more sophisticated than bologna.
8. I am scared of the moon. Or, well, perhaps it's more accurate to say that I used to be scared of the moon, but sometimes I still get a little creeped out by it. I blame it on my father. My dad liked to pick on me, most likely because he knew I was an easy target. (Wonder where my brothers learned that from?) On nights when we happened to be in the car when the moon was especially bright (and usually nearly full), he would say to me in a sort of sing-song voice, "I see the moon and the moon sees me!" to which I would reply, "No! I don't want the moon to see me!" I hated the idea of the moon watching me. I could see a face in the moon, a face that I can still see to this day. I hated the way it would follow me; it didn't matter which way the car turned or how many trees or houses we passed by that blocked it from view. Whenever the road cleared, there it was, peering into the car window watching me. I couldn't escape it. Oh, how it scared me! By the way, my dad still teases me about that.
9. I don't remember going on many shopping trips with my mom, other than trips to the grocery store or to Target. Shopping for clothes wasn't something that we did very often when I was little, except for making the trek to Livermore every once in awhile to go to the big Goodwill store there. I remember the day when my mom told me I shouldn't be telling people where we got our clothes; up until then, I thought Goodwill was a pretty awesome place. We got to go pick out just about anything we liked, and we always came home with some great treasure. I remember one day I was playing with one of the neighbor girls, proudly wearing my new sweatshirt I had just gotten at Goodwill. It was yellow with puffy lambs on it I think (or something equally disgusting by today's standards). At the time, it was very in and I had wanted one badly. Anyway, my neighbor friend complemented me on the sweatshirt and asked me where I got it. I told her that I had picked it out at the Goodwill store in Livermore. My mom was outside watering or something and overheard our conversation. Later that evening, she told me that I didn't need to tell my friends where my clothes came from, that the Goodwill store was our little secret discovery and that no one else needed to know about it. I think that was the moment when I realized our family was a bit different than others.
We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up, but I really didn't notice until after that day. My mom didn't take me clothes shopping much, but she didn't really need to. All my clothes either came from the Goodwill store or from those magical brown paper bags that my mom kept at the top of the hall closet. I lived in hand-me-downs, and I loved them. Some good friends of my parents had two little girls that were a bit older than me and they would always pass their clothes on to me after they'd outgrown them. I remember the days when my mom would pull a bag down as being some of the best days ever; I loved trying things on and seeing how I looked in them. We used to make such a mess in the hallway, because for some reason, that's where I always seemed to try things on.
I have such an appreciation for second hand things now; things that have a history, things that are well-used and well-loved, things that are appreciated far more than they would be if they were easier to come by.
10. Ok, here it is: memory number 10. I remember my Grandpa Guzman. He passed away when I was 11, just before Christmas that year, I believe. I remember hearing the news, and I remember wondering why I couldn't cry. Thinking about him now, remembering how I felt when he died and thinking about how things changed in the aftermath of his death, all of it brings tears to my eyes, but I barely shed one tear at the time of his death. Maybe I was in a state of shock, or maybe it just didn't have the same effect on me then as it does now.
When I remember him, I remember a jolly man who always lit up with a smile when I came into the room. He used to have new teddy bears waiting for me when we'd visit he and Nonie up in Auburn. He would take my brothers and I fishing in his pond and let us ride his tractor; he would give us piggy back rides and take us on hikes on his property. I can hear that strange noise he used to make, the noise that sounded like he was working on getting something out of his teeth. I can smell the toasted bagel and the port wine cheese spread that he loved to have at probably any time of the day. And I remember his hands, his leathery skin and the way his hugs felt--strong, secure, safe. Most of all, I remember what our family was like before we lost him.
My grandmother (Nonie) changed forever when he died. She was never a terribly warm, outwardly loving person, but after she lost him, bitterness took hold of her heart and affected her interactions with everyone from then on. I understand it; losing a husband would be beyond painful and life would be excruciatingly lonely after that. I've learned that perhaps she has always been like this, but now that she's on her own, it's a bit more obvious. She pushes people away. Drives them away, really. It started with my Uncle Al and his family, and now it's moved on to my family. I used to think that this would have never happened had my grandfather been alive; but when I said this to my dad one day, he told me that Grandpa Guzman wasn't really the man I knew. As a grandfather, that was the real him, but as a person, as a man, as a father, that wasn't him. Apparently he had an iron fist and on more than one occasion belittled my father's choices in life. He wasn't an easy man to love for my dad, but for me? He was a hero. I love that his memory is pure in my heart and that I have those special moments of joy with him. I don't have that with Nonie. And I tried. I tried many times to get close to her, but all I found was rejection. I'm not sure where I"m going with this part of the memory. It's not particularly good, and it is certainly intertwined with memories from the not so distant past. I guess this is the one that wanted to get out tonight, though.
And now that I've gotten the ball rolling, I find that I have several more memories from before I hit Junior High. I prove the statistic wrong, which was the whole point, right? I guess I shouldn't be surprised; in my family, I seem to be the one who remembers things, the one who corrects others when they've got a story wrong, or the one who people ask about an insignificant detail just because they know I'll remember. I'm the one with the memory. Sometimes it's a blessing, as memories are so often wonderful, and sometimes it's not, as memories are also often hurtful or confusing.
There really is a lot to be learned from memories, things we can learn about why we are the way we are.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Childhood Memories
This week I've been teaching my American Lit students about the little things in life, about the small details that will slip by us unnoticed if we don't take the time to see them as they're happening. I read the other night that most people don't have more than ten memories from childhood, other than things they remember from pictures. When I read that, I wanted to prove it wrong. I thought surely I had more than ten. Perhaps they're not big, ming-blowing or life-changing memories, but I'm sure I must have more than ten. Here's my list...let's see how it goes...
1. The way the aroma of bacon frying and coffee brewing mix so brilliantly at my Grandpa and Nonie's house in Auburn that it would rouse us from our beds and beckon us to the kitchen early in the morning. As a rule, Guzmans never liked to get up early, but when we were at Grandpa and Nonie's, that smell was magic. To me, that's the way mornings should always smell.
2. When I was little, maybe 4 years old or so, my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob took my older brother Ben and I to the beach in Santa Cruz. I don't remember if my brother Zach was there too or not, but that's sort of beside the point. I was wading in the ocean, and I'm not sure if my aunt and uncle were holding onto me or not, but a big wave came, knocked me down and dragged me back into the ocean. My Aunt freaked! I remember that vividly. I remember not really knowing what to do. I wasn't scared, really, but I do remember feeling helpless. Perhaps I was in a state of shock or something, but I remember the way it felt to not know up from down, to have no idea how I'd get back to the surface to breathe my next breath. And I remember them pulling me out. I don't know who it was--Aunt Natalie or Uncle Bob, but I remember Aunt Natalie was shaken. She was probably more scared than I was. I also remember being very cold. Santa Cruz isn't the warmest beach in the world. Even though this memory isn't the most beautiful in the world, I look back on it and recognize just how much they loved me and the mix of wanting to let me experience new things as well as terror when something went wrong. I was just fine in the end, and my mom wasn't upset about the whole ordeal (to my recollection). At least, I don't think she was; I ended up doing many more things with Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob after that :)
3. My grandparents have a big orange tree in their backyard that's been there for as long as I can remember. One summer in particular, I remember spending the day at G&G's house and having an "orange picnic" in their front yard. We picked our oranges, which was very exciting, and then took them out to eat them on the front lawn. The funny thing about this memory is that I hated oranges. I liked the juice, but that was about it. So, I peeled my orange and chomped down on the little piggies with my molars and sucked the life out of those little wedges (and then I made a nice little pile of the discarded orange bits). My grandma was probably appalled, but what could I do? I hated oranges.
4. Speaking of Grandparents and fruit, I remember the first (and I believe only) time I heard my grandmother swear. We were on our way home from visiting my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob in Fresno and we stopped at Casa de Fruita, possibly for lunch or a bathroom break or something. When we got back into their cursed Ford, that dark blue one that was supposed to have been their "nice" car, it wouldn't start. That thing gave them more trouble; I guess it wasn't surprising to them that it wouldn't start, but all the same, it made my Grandmother so mad that she (with her arm around me in the back seat), said "Damn." I think. Or maybe she said "Shit." Or maybe she said "this Damn car..." Ok, I admit that the memory is fuzzy, but I do remember that she said something that shocked me. I never expected to hear her talk like that, but I think that was the day that my grandmother became human in my eyes.
5. My dad used to take us to the back parking lot Centerville Presbyterian Church to let us "drive." We had this monstrously ugly beast of a van, which made the idea of driving it terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He'd sit us on his lap and control the gas, but we had to steer. I remember he used to gun it when we were almost at the fence, and he'd say "not yet! Not yet!" and make us wait to turn. Then he'd slow way down and let us turn at the last minute. That always scared me beyond words. But I loved it.
6. My brother Zach used to associate various odd things with the different days of the week. Perhaps he still does; I should ask him. We used to ask him to list them for us, prompting him with a day of the week and laughing ourselves nearly to death when he'd say a certain day reminded him of rubber bands. I can't remember which day that was now, though. Again, I should ask him...) Anyway, we used to speculate why he'd associate certain things with certain days, and eventually we had them pretty much worked out except for Wednesday, which he associated with McDonald's french fries. Eventually, it dawned on us. On Wednesdays, we had Kid's Company at church, the midweek church event for kids at CPC. My dad was the children's pastor at the time, so we'd often stay late until all the other kids had gone home. On random nights, for no particular reason, my dad would stop by McDonald's and get us all small french fries. And then we'd go home and watch Home Improvement, which we had set the VCR to record before we left. Those were the best nights. And I'm sure it's why Zach associates those fries with Wednesdays.
Well, I've made it to number 6, but I've run out of time today. I've got to get into the shower & off to a baby shower in an hour, so I'll leave for now, but I will be back. I'm sure I've got another 4 memories at least! I'm going to prove that I'm not part of the statistic!
1. The way the aroma of bacon frying and coffee brewing mix so brilliantly at my Grandpa and Nonie's house in Auburn that it would rouse us from our beds and beckon us to the kitchen early in the morning. As a rule, Guzmans never liked to get up early, but when we were at Grandpa and Nonie's, that smell was magic. To me, that's the way mornings should always smell.
2. When I was little, maybe 4 years old or so, my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob took my older brother Ben and I to the beach in Santa Cruz. I don't remember if my brother Zach was there too or not, but that's sort of beside the point. I was wading in the ocean, and I'm not sure if my aunt and uncle were holding onto me or not, but a big wave came, knocked me down and dragged me back into the ocean. My Aunt freaked! I remember that vividly. I remember not really knowing what to do. I wasn't scared, really, but I do remember feeling helpless. Perhaps I was in a state of shock or something, but I remember the way it felt to not know up from down, to have no idea how I'd get back to the surface to breathe my next breath. And I remember them pulling me out. I don't know who it was--Aunt Natalie or Uncle Bob, but I remember Aunt Natalie was shaken. She was probably more scared than I was. I also remember being very cold. Santa Cruz isn't the warmest beach in the world. Even though this memory isn't the most beautiful in the world, I look back on it and recognize just how much they loved me and the mix of wanting to let me experience new things as well as terror when something went wrong. I was just fine in the end, and my mom wasn't upset about the whole ordeal (to my recollection). At least, I don't think she was; I ended up doing many more things with Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob after that :)
3. My grandparents have a big orange tree in their backyard that's been there for as long as I can remember. One summer in particular, I remember spending the day at G&G's house and having an "orange picnic" in their front yard. We picked our oranges, which was very exciting, and then took them out to eat them on the front lawn. The funny thing about this memory is that I hated oranges. I liked the juice, but that was about it. So, I peeled my orange and chomped down on the little piggies with my molars and sucked the life out of those little wedges (and then I made a nice little pile of the discarded orange bits). My grandma was probably appalled, but what could I do? I hated oranges.
4. Speaking of Grandparents and fruit, I remember the first (and I believe only) time I heard my grandmother swear. We were on our way home from visiting my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob in Fresno and we stopped at Casa de Fruita, possibly for lunch or a bathroom break or something. When we got back into their cursed Ford, that dark blue one that was supposed to have been their "nice" car, it wouldn't start. That thing gave them more trouble; I guess it wasn't surprising to them that it wouldn't start, but all the same, it made my Grandmother so mad that she (with her arm around me in the back seat), said "Damn." I think. Or maybe she said "Shit." Or maybe she said "this Damn car..." Ok, I admit that the memory is fuzzy, but I do remember that she said something that shocked me. I never expected to hear her talk like that, but I think that was the day that my grandmother became human in my eyes.
5. My dad used to take us to the back parking lot Centerville Presbyterian Church to let us "drive." We had this monstrously ugly beast of a van, which made the idea of driving it terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He'd sit us on his lap and control the gas, but we had to steer. I remember he used to gun it when we were almost at the fence, and he'd say "not yet! Not yet!" and make us wait to turn. Then he'd slow way down and let us turn at the last minute. That always scared me beyond words. But I loved it.
6. My brother Zach used to associate various odd things with the different days of the week. Perhaps he still does; I should ask him. We used to ask him to list them for us, prompting him with a day of the week and laughing ourselves nearly to death when he'd say a certain day reminded him of rubber bands. I can't remember which day that was now, though. Again, I should ask him...) Anyway, we used to speculate why he'd associate certain things with certain days, and eventually we had them pretty much worked out except for Wednesday, which he associated with McDonald's french fries. Eventually, it dawned on us. On Wednesdays, we had Kid's Company at church, the midweek church event for kids at CPC. My dad was the children's pastor at the time, so we'd often stay late until all the other kids had gone home. On random nights, for no particular reason, my dad would stop by McDonald's and get us all small french fries. And then we'd go home and watch Home Improvement, which we had set the VCR to record before we left. Those were the best nights. And I'm sure it's why Zach associates those fries with Wednesdays.
Well, I've made it to number 6, but I've run out of time today. I've got to get into the shower & off to a baby shower in an hour, so I'll leave for now, but I will be back. I'm sure I've got another 4 memories at least! I'm going to prove that I'm not part of the statistic!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
"The 'scratch' that satisfies my itch"
I feel so silly. Moments before starting this post, tears were running down my face, my nose began to fill up, and my face turned red from the strain of it all. It's been four hours. That's it. Four hours since I dropped Joey off at the airport. And somehow all I can do is think about how much I miss him. Already. After only four hours.
We've only been married for seven months, but somehow in that short span of time we have created a new standard of peace, comfort, and normalcy. Without him around, I feel sort of incomplete, like something essential for survival has been taken from me, like I can't quite catch my breath.
After trying to distract myself in the living room for a few hours, I finally resigned myself to the fact that it was ok to go to bed at 9:00. When I pulled down the sheets, I saw a note waiting for me. It said, "I love you. I miss you. You're the "scratch" that satisfies my itch." The note was made twice as sweet by the double meaning of "scratch." We may be the only couple on the face of the earth that don't call each other babe, honey, hun, sweetie, or anything remotely similar. But Joey does call me Scratch. Why? Somehow he derived it from Rachel (Rach ... Ratchet ... Scratchel ... Scratch. Ah, the evolution.) Anyway, I give him a hard time about pet names sometimes because I feel the urge to call him something special, something other than what everyone else in the world calls him. Joey is great; it's his name, and I'm happy to call him that, but it's not anything special. Having him call me Rach is fine, too. I don't mind at all. But again, it's nothing special. For him to call me Scratch and to make it meaningful instead of just playful touched my heart. I needed that.
It's pretty easy for me to be distracted by things, to become preoccupied with something and let my mind dwell on it. Tonight? My mind was dwelling on the fact that I missed Joey, and feeling insecure about it. I felt silly for missing him so much, silly because I was sure he didn't miss me even half as much, and frustrated that I couldn't just ignore my feelings and get on with my evening. After I found the note, I realized that my heart needs a tender reminder that there is a love that is constant no matter what crazy emotion I may feel on a given day. In a way, he is the scratch that satisfies my itch, too. We all have itches. We all have needs and desires that can become irritants in our lives, feelings that we cannot seem to shake or get rid of no matter what we do on our own. To have someone who helps satisfy those itches? Priceless.
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