helloooo?

Is anyone there? I am timidly dipping my big toe in the water here in bloggyland again after lo these many moons. I suppose it shouldn't make any difference if no one was reading, but I'm the kind of girl who needs the tiniest bit of encouragement in situations like this.


It's not that I have anything to say, exactly. I just feel like maybe it's time to re-emerge from my self-imposed tunnel. I've still been writing, it's just gone underground, in journal form.


Maybe someday I'll get the motivation to recount my caregiving journey, but I don't think it will be today.


Here's a quick status report, just so you're up to speed:

• We moved my mom into an elderly ladies' home last month. She's adjusting as well as we could hope. It's really a lovely place. I'm adjusting. I think. Some days. She's close enough that we can take her to church with us and to the occasional track meet, and have her over for Easter dinner and stuff like that. Here she is with Lily and Tessa when they were here not long ago (I got to have them to myself for FIVE WHOLE DAYS).




• Dan is almost done with his freshman year at college. How did this happen? We enjoyed getting to see him almost every weekend, since he was only a bit more than an hour away. I'm not even deluding myself that he was coming home to see me. This lovely lady in pink was undoubtedly The Draw:

• Dave is teaching cardio fitness at the middle school where Susannah attends, and she actually has him for a teacher this marking period. Weird.





• Garrison is running track now. Y'all know how much I love track meets in Michigan, right? 75 degrees on Saturday, 43 degrees and rainy on Tuesday. But it's extra exciting this year because Dave is also Garrison's track coach. Some interesting family dynamics going on, as you can imagine.





• Jim and I are planning to revisit our old stomping grounds in El Paso in June. We're on the docket to speak at a military marriage seminar -- the first one since January 08 when we went to Korea. We're excited because we have friends from our Germany days who are living there now and it will be wonderful to reconnect.


• It must be the act of getting old that is prodding me to look up old acquaintances. I've even found my best friend from junior high on facebook, and several of my high school classmates, too. Ahh, technology! Either that or it's my dearth of current day friends. Hmmm. Either way, it's sort of fun.


• If you have had any contact with me at all in the past few months, you know that I'm all a-flutter over American Idol. Matt Giraud (who is now in the TOP FIVE, people!) is not only from Kalamazoo, but he goes to our church! At least he did, before he became famous and all. I'm doubtful he'll ever actually come back, to tell the truth. But he once sat right behind me, and even signed my bulletin. So don't even bother trying to call me on Tuesday or Wednesday nights. I'll be watching. I'll be voting. You should, too.

So that's the Christmas newsletter edition. We're all still here, just older and bigger.

And I think that's all for now. I have to pace myself, you know. Let me hear from you, if you're out there.

household hint

When cleaning windows, Windex or a Windex-like facsimile is really the most effective product to use. Goo Gone, while exemplary for removing sticky gunk and tape residue, doesn't quite cut it for a shiny, streak-free result on the window pane.

I know this because that's precisely what my mom used today. I was occupied scraping old paint from the walls in Danny's old room, and I thought I'd give her a useful activity so she could feel helpful. I kept hearing her talk about how hard these double pane windows are to get clean, and when I
turned around, the window was smeared with Goo Gone.

It was right around then that I suddenly remembered how thirsty the flowers outside must be, and oh, could she please water them before they got too dry?

hello

Apparently I'm due for a new post.

I can promise you without equivocation, though, that if each time you came here looking for mindless drivel you went instead to Stuff Christians Like, your lives would be enriched.

Thank you for your prayers, though, and your not-so-subtle prompting (in the case of my darling oldest daughter). I think having my hubby actually leave his first ever comment since I wrote my first post in January 2005 was the shocking event that finally motivated me. I'm not even going to attempt to bring you up to date. If my life has not been interesting enough even to myself, I am quite certain no one would be entertained in the least in the retelling of it.

It hasn't just been a blog writing drought. I haven't read anything, either, even from my favorites. So if Pioneer Woman is pregnant or if BooMama has dyed her hair blue, I wouldn't know. It's been a pretty comprehensive computer avoidance on the whole. Weird. And unexplainable, so I won't try.

Danny is done with school. He graduates this Thursday. He's so happy. Susannah was asking me what my favorite day of the year is and I really have to say that for me each year, it's the last day of school. It is just so freeing -- so exhilarating. The thought of a whole summer ahead to sleep in and laze around eating popsicles with no schedule and no demands. Christmas is fun, but Christmas is work, and expectations and shopping. The other kids still have two more weeks, which seems unbearable at this point. I don't think kids should have to be in school in June.

My mom has found her purpose in life -- sweeping our driveway. She's a sweeping zealot. This time of year we have all kinds of stuff falling from our abundant tree population, but by golly it doesn't have a chance to accumulate with my mom and her mighty broom. She keeps a running "whew, whew, whew, whew.." going while she's sweeping. And of course we praise her up and down and thank her profusely. Then she beams.

Her Fox News watching has subsided a little. I think her desire to be with the rest of the family is outweighing her drive to keep up with the most fair and balanced reporting ever. Last night she sat on the couch in our living room and laughed and laughed to Zoey 101. All by herself.

She used to enjoy American Idol. It made Susannah so mad when she would say every time about Simon,"Awww...He shouldn't say that. That's mean." And each and every time Susannah would say, "He's just being honest, Grandma. That's his job. Sometimes he says nice things." And then Susannah would roll her eyes at me and make an exasperated, infuriated face. It was funny to me that Susannah's response was just as predictable as Grandma's comments.

So let me ask you this -- if you had a 73-year-old mother with Alzheimers, who had a tentative grasp on the real world at best, and it was the season finale of the 4th season of Lost, the most complicated, puzzling show ever viewed, and she had never seen even one episode before -- would you think it was A Grand Plan to let her watch with you? Yeah, that's what I thought, too. But she insisted, and was on the verge of getting all feisty and "you're certainly not MY boss"-ish. So we had no choice. We warned her that it would be confusing and troubling, and that we wouldn't be able to explain it.

"Whose baby is that?" "Why is he doing THAT?" " Are those the good guys?" "Well that's weird." "What is she talking about?" "Why would they want to go back to the island?" "How did she get electricity? I thought she was on a raft." "Is he a bad guy?"

And once or twice when I let out with an anguished "NOOOOOO!!!" (at events transpiring onscreen) she said, "Well, I don't think it's really happening. I think it's just fiction."

Whew.

Happy Mother's Day and may all your bouquets be edible

We thought it would be fabulous to give my mom one of those edible arrangements. Do you know about this? They take fruit and arrange it to look like a bouquet of flowers. Simply gorgeous, and for a certified fruit freak like my mom, we figured it would be the perfect Mother's Day delight.

They are not cheap, but by golly, she's worth it. Plus my brother said he'd go in on it with me.

You know how sometimes something that seems so right turns out to be so wrong? Yeah, me too.

We could not have chosen a worse present. It completely stressed her out, because she kept saying she could never eat all that, and she had no place to keep it, and it was too big for her, and her refrigerator was too small, and she should give it to my brother.

Note to self: next year stick with flowers, perhaps?

memory

Watching someone with Alzheimers is like having one page of a favorite book ripped out every day until all that's left is the cover.

Yesterday was a good day for my mom. We moved her furniture in on Saturday, and really, I couldn't be more pleased at the way everything fits in there. It's such a nice little spot, and it looks homey and cozy. She has adjusted to the transition better than anyone could have expected or even hoped.

I'm grateful that my brother and his wife are close enough to help. Actually all the kids pitched in, too, and by the end of the day we had pictures hung and everything in place. She seems to be genuinely comfortable here, and for that I'm grateful, too.

Yesterday morning I put some hymns on the CD player for her, and then gave her the task of putting a stack of pictures in an empty album. Afterwards I sat down and let her show them all to me. We also looked at a book that was put together for her by the teachers at the elementary school where she had taught before she retired in 1999. It ends with letters from each of them, telling her how special she is.

In the afternoon she had my nephew's baseball game to attend, and when my brother brought her home, (Jim and I were on a babysitting mission) she gave him a tour of her "new house." I guess she had forgotten that two days ago he had been very involved in moving everything in. Here's how he described it in an e-mail I have permission to copy:

She took me on a Full Tour....showing me every detail of the new addition, every piece of furniture and picture that "They" had put there. She even opened each drawer in each cabinet, showing me how the items inside would be used. "Now, see, in here is this thing (hairbrush), and I can just do this (demonstrating her hairbrushing technique) after I take a shower, which I did this morning, and see, here is where I hang the towels..." Clearly she is totally enamored with the setup -- I couldn't be happier with how she has reacted. But the whole time I had a lump in my throat, thinking about how much like a two-year old she was, wanting to show me everything, like a toddler with a new playhouse.

The whole time Danny and Suse were popping in and out, obviously amused by the whole thing. And while they were being very nice and respectful, it made my heart hurt. It's the same with my kids, and with every stranger who happens to run across Mommy at a baseball game or track meet; I want to scream out NO you DON'T know her based on this shell, albeit a very happy shell, of who she REALLY IS, or was. She is the most amazing teacher known to education, whose memory is so sharp she could remember all 30 students' names after 15 minutes on the first day. She is the person who is so smart and brave that she learned to fly a plane and soloed when she was 60. She is the person who is so creative and caring that she sends extra lunch with her kids for all their friends, who would otherwise eat junk food for nutrition, and writes personal notes on EACH banana. This is NOT the person you should judge, this is only what's left. And I realize that what keeps that wonderful person alive is our memories. Our own fragile, temporal, vulnerable memories. Which I now feel I need to protect not just for me, but for her, since that's all that remains..."

the weather could be a factor, too

I never wanted this to turn into The Dementia Chronicles, but it seems like that's where I am, so my choices are not to post at all, or to post what I'm living.

I do have other things going on in my life, but I'm not giving them the attention I should.

I have a son who's graduating in a month. How can this be? I haven't even begun to process that, emotionally or practically. I finally gave up on the scrapbook, realizing and coming to terms with the fact that it just wasn't going to happen. Not now, anyway. But I keep thinking I should be doing something to plan for his open house.

I have a son who's started driver's training (his white Nikes were recovered, by the way. Dan happened to see a kid at school with them. Now Garrison isn't so sure he wants them back after they've been, well, sullied and debased).

I have a daughter who is paddling her canoe as close to the waterfall of adolescence as she can without dropping right off the edge. Mouthiness is the order of the day. I am certain much of it is a desperate need for some quality Mom time. She really gets the leftovers, I'm afraid. And this whole Grandma thing is probably the hardest on her. Simply because the rest of us can draw on our memories of Grandma the way she used to be, and that helps us be more tolerant of her quirks and weirdnesses now. I could spend hours analyzing and dissecting the psychological, emotional dynamics at work in their relationship and this new living arrangement. But I won't.

I have a hubby who certainly, certainly means well and wants to be supportive and helpful. It's hard for him, because he has his ministry work which is pretty demanding in and of itself. I haven't been a very nice wife. I know I must be sheer delight to live with...

I have a dog who needs a bath.

I have a house that has been neglected since January.

I have a broken camera. They just don't make cameras to survive being dropped on the kitchen floor like they used to. I'll add that to the small appliance cemetery with my iPod.

I have fifteen (at least) extra pounds of potato chips and bagels that I'm carrying around in frankly unflattering places.

And I have a mama who tried to hand me her dirty clothes through my kitchen window opening this morning. I don't know how I'm going to do this, this next phase. I don't know how to be a daughter to her while telling her to put her wadded up kleenexes in the trash instead of on the floor. I don't want to be bossy, but she clearly needs direction. Literally. She can't remember where the refrigerator is. I don't want to be annoyed but her behavior defies logic. I keep thinking, "Where are you, Mama? Where is the lady I know and love and have always admired?" How do I strike that balance between controlling her and honoring her dignity? How do I keep from becoming her? How do I sort out my feelings of knowing this is the right choice, but not liking the choice? I couldn't imagine making any other choice, though.

Sorry. I know this isn't jolly fun reading. I miss myself, too.

Phase II, reading, rambling, reminiscing, and a robbery

Today was the final inspection on my mama's little addition. As of 4:00 this afternoon we were able to start moving her stuff in, and tonight she's sleeping in there.

I don't know how it's going to be once we move more of the furniture from her house in. I wonder if she will stay in that part of the house -- if she'll consider it her own space. I hope so. I know that might make me seem like an ungracious hostess, but I sorta want to be able to preserve some sense of separation. At least while I can. Maybe for the kids' sake as much as mine?

Her bathroom is so nice. Much nicer than any of the others in my house. I'm a little bit jealous, if you want to know the truth. We still need curtains and there's some touch-up painting that needs to be done, but I feel like we've started a new chapter in this story.

Which makes me think of books. Here's what's on the floor by my bedside bookcase right now:

• Things Unseen by Mark Buchanan --I'm on page 133 and I'm loving it. From the back: "This book is about heaven and yet not. It is about our longing for heaven, our instinct for it. It is about eternity in our hearts. .." I'm having a hard time getting through it, though, because vying for that bedtime reading spot is also
• Mothering Mother by Carol O'Dell -- a daughter's humorous and heartbreaking memoir. I'm on page 39. I got distracted by
• The 36-Hour Day by Nancy L. Mace -- a family guide to caring for people with Alzheimers. I made it to page 27 last night before falling asleep. In the stack that I haven't started yet, but have every intention to, is also
• For Men Only by Shaunti and Jeff Feldhahn. I know I'm not, technically, a man, but I thought the first one (For Women Only) was pretty on target, and I'm curious if what they're telling the men about us women is as accurate. I may not get around to it any time soon though, because I probably really really need to read
• Learning to Speak Alzheimer's by Dr. Robert Butler -- a groundbreaking approach for everyone dealing with the disease

I feel so certain that these books contain helpful information for me, in one way or another. Information I should have -- that would benefit me hugely. It's frustrating that I can't get them all read RIGHT NOW. If I'd go to bed at a more reasonable hour, I might have a better chance of doing more than a half hour of reading before sleep overtakes me. I've tried reading with my eyes shut, and I'm pretty good at it, but I've found the retention rate drops off sharply.

Bedtime's also the time that I journal, and I'm backlogged with that, because I am currently trying to keep three -- one for Lily and Tessa, one for James, and my own. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Much the way I started keeping a separate photo album for each of my kids when they were tiny. It worked out swell, until I had more than two kids.

It's hard to keep up with recording my life when it's been all I can do just to live it properly. And not always succeed even at that.

I'm a little bit sorry that Brooke left. I think she'll be fine, though. I will buy her album when it's released. I've always been a fan of that genre -- that Carol King/Carly Simon-y vibe.

I've also been a lifelong fan of Neil Diamond. His was the first concert I ever attended, back when we were living in Laramie and he came to the fieldhouse at the University of Wyoming. I was in 8th grade at the time, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

Hang on -- it's a trip in the Way Back Machine.

My bff and soul sister Carree Cunningham and I had huge crushes on him. When I spent the night at her house we would put on "Tap Root Manuscript" and listen to it over and over as we went to sleep. It's really an unusual album -- one side is all African music ("Soolaimon" and "I Am the Lion") and the other side has "Cracklin Rosie" and "He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother." But we loved it. It was one of the greatest joys of my life when I discovered it on iTunes years later. All those good times just came crashing back. And I was in musical, sentimental, bliss.

Anyway, we went to the concert and waited around afterwards hoping against hope to get an autograph. We waited and waited and waited until the place was empty, but he never came out. My parents were frantic, because we hadn't come out of the fieldhouse and they were sure we'd met with foul play, and they should have never let us go alone at such a tender age.

What I did get instead of an autograph was the cup of water he had taken a drink from while he was on stage. I carried it carefully home and poured the water in an empty peanut butter jar. When Carree would come to my house we would take out the jar, think how his mouth had touched the water that was in there, and swoon.

After a while some fuzzy green mold began to grow on the inside of the jar and I had to throw it away, but I've continued to treasure the memory of it in my heart.

So yeah. Neil Diamond week? Two thumbs up for me.

But two thumbs down to the little punks who broke into the locker room. If anyone happens to see a pair of size 12 white Nikes on eBay in the next week or so, please let me know. Garrison had his stolen out of his gym locker at the high school today. He is so upset, because they were new; he bought them (with his own money) in Nashville over spring break. Apparently nothing is sacred.

Which is why-- yearning for heaven? Yes, ma'am I am.

where do I send the thank you note?

In case you ever wondered where to send a letter to God, I have narrowed it down to Peoria, Illinois. Not sure of the street address, but I'm working on that and I'll get back to you.

Of course it could be that He was just passing through Peoria a few days ago. How else can I explain the random, out-of-the-blue "thinking of you" card I got today that wasn't signed, and included cash and a Bath & Body Works gift card? There was no return address, but the post mark was definitely Peoria. It has His fingerprints all over it, wouldn't you say?

It touches my heart to realize how He works through His children, and some day I want to be a person who hears His promptings and responds obediently and generously like that. What a blessing it must be to be that kind of a blessing. I don't know how to mail it, but I do want to say thanks, God.

In other spirit-lifting news, I found out today that my darling daughter and her two darling daughters are coming to visit for the weekend. It's my youngest daughter's 11th birthday (yes there will be squealing girls for a sleepover), and my son's senior prom, and there's a wedding shower thrown in just to keep things from being too relaxing.

Sadie dog
and I took a long walk today and ended up at my friend Annie's house. I haven't seen her since before spring break. It felt good to walk. It felt good to talk. I'm sure my lack of girlfriend time in general has contributed to my blues as much as my lack of physical activity.

So things are not quite as gloomy as they were a couple days ago, even though my circumstances haven't changed, and even though I still don't have my iPod back. The place Jim sent it to said they couldn't fix it, so now Jim is going to give it a try.

My mom has moved in now, unofficially, and the deterioration of her mind is quite depressing on a number of levels--including the loss of her and the inevitability that it's just going to keep getting worse. I've heard it said that a person with Alzheimers is much like a 2-year old, but it's harder in many ways, because 2-year olds are primarily cute and charming, and you expect to have to help them with basic concepts. My mom has 74 years' worth of being fiercely independent, resourceful, and feisty. And she doesn't take too kindly to any assertion that she can't make solid decisions. I think once I stop expecting her to be my same mom, I'll be better. When I see a wad of folded up paper towels in her purse, I won't try to take them out. I have much to learn.

Currently she's staying in the spare bedroom, but the addition we're putting on for her should be complete soon. Of course I've been telling myself that for weeks now. I am not even kidding when I tell you that the layer of dirt on my floors is grotesque. It simply doesn't make sense to sweep because the tracking-in of stuff? It's epic in proportion. There have been workmen in and out of my house since January. Almost every day.


The ledge in back of the faucet there used to be my kitchen windows.

This is taken from the same spot where my dining room windows used to be. There are french doors there now. It's looking good, but it's been a huge upheaval in the, shall we say, ambience of our home.

I know what my problem is but I don't know how to escape it -- my worst enemy is me. I'm such a disappointment to myself. I haven't worked on my grandson's birth sampler, I haven't done anything on Danny's scrapbook. All of my crafty supplies are piled up on the table because we moved the shelves from this room to the room my mom's using until the addition is done, and I couldn't set up any kind of craft project in the dining room because there's construction going on in there. I haven't been a good friend. I'm blubbery on the outside and shriveled in my soul.

But by golly, my laundry is caught up! That is the one area of my life that is consistently right on track. I've been loving this clothesline weather. One of my simplest, most soul-nourishing pleasures (besides a bunch of fresh dill) is hanging my laundry on the line. If you ever come to my house and see piles of dirty laundry, you'll know it's time to put me to sleep. (I promise a picture of my clothesline soon.)

So there's hope in the pit. There are everlasting arms that won't let me sink too far. There is much to be grateful for. More than enough, in fact.

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned, struck down, but not destroyed."

Amen.

but I LIKE winter

Look! Look how brave they are. It's fun to see these little harbingers of joy and hope and spring.

We're melting slowly around here. There are still patches of snow, but more and more ground is showing beneath it.

I wish I was as eager to embrace the next season in my life.

The siding is up on the addition, and from the outside it looks like part of the house. They've done a great job matching it to the rest of our house.


Inside it's quite a different picture. This is one of my kitchen windows, and it used to look out at the woods. Now it looks into this.

As the addition nears completion, I'm having to confront the fact that my view of the future has changed just as dramatically as my view out my window. It won't be long until we move my mom into these rooms. She doesn't know it yet, but it has to happen.

I am trying to be brave, like the crocuses. I know it's all for the best. I know it has to happen. I know it's right and proper. I know it will be easier in the long run having my mom living here with us. I'll be able to more closely monitor her activities and her meals, and she'll have company around the clock. As her condition deteriorates, she's going to need hands-on care.

It just seems scary, too, a little, if I'm honest. As often as I tell myself that it's the right move, I find myself asking God if He's sure I'm the right person for the job.

I'm not a patient, compassionate person. I am not a good nurse. It's not in my nature to overlook irritations. I am selfish with my time. I tend to argue more than concede. I like to be in control. I don't like change.

My hubby says that I am going through this precisely to have those characteristics chiseled away. I say I don't want to be chiseled.

Which brings me face to face with the most uncomfortable realization of all -- I am not surrendering to the Master Sculptor. I know that I need to be saying, "Here I am -- I offer myself to You. Mold me, shape me, refine me, make me more like You."

I know that there should be this sense of welcoming what's coming, knowing that I will have the opportunity to lean on Him, depend on Him to get me through the trying times. I know He'll give me the grace and strength I need. But I am not a good leaner. I don't want to lean.

So to say that I'm all conflicted inside would probably be a ginormous understatement.

I'll take arguing for 500, please, Alex

DOUBLE JEOPARDY - Being tried twice for the same offense; prohibited by the 5th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. '[T]he Double Jeopardy Clause protects against three distinct abuses: [1] a second prosecution for the same offense after acquittal; [2] a second prosecution for the same offense after conviction; and [3] multiple punishments for the same offense.' U.S. v. Halper, 490 U.S. 435, 440 (1989).

When Sadie was a small puppy, our vet, a wonderfully wise woman, advised us to early and regularly perform the "alpha roll" with our little cocker spaniel, to teach her who was boss. I looked it up just now on google to see if it was alpha roll (because we rolled her over on her back) or alpha role (because we were demonstrating to her that we would be in the role of the alpha dog) and apparently it is no longer an approved dog training technique. Rats. But it seemed to work swimmingly for us.

I also put my babies to sleep on their tummies.

I've attributed Sadie's sweet submissive spirit today to our diligent training. And I've told everyone who will listen that that is the be-all and end-all to insure compliancy and proper respect in your canine companions.

If only it were so easy with kids. There is something in each of my children, some rebellious particle in their DNA, some defiant chromosome that compels them to argue with EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY. I can't imagine where they get it.

As a child I was the most back-talky, sassy, mouthy daughter ever. I don't know how much of that was due to me being an only child until I was 10. I'm pretty sure I was an intolerable, obnoxious, smarty-pants. I think I'm better now, but I have not learned to hold my tongue very well to this day. It has brought Jim no end of joyous, tender matrimonial moments.

So in the hair-pulling, jaw-clenching instances when I feel like screaming at my kids, "STOP ARGUING WITH ME AND JUST SUBMIT!" I hear this little snigger in the corner of my brain, "ha ha! You've got that coming, you know....this is payback for all the times you sassed your mom."

Or maybe I've got it coming because I didn't train them right when they were puppies, er, babies. I missed some crucial phase where expressing contrary opinions is weeded out. Either way, I know it's somehow my fault that my children talk back to me.

What I can't bear is that my mom has started sassing me, too.

I know that as she ages and her dementia increases that I will be doing more and more for her. Like her bills, her meals, her driving, and her laundry. I know her needs are going to be more demanding as the days go by. I am happy to embrace this season of caregiving. Honestly I am. I can overlook her confusion, her memory loss, and her endless repetition.

What I can't handle is that she is now arguing with me -- she won't submit and just do what I say, without giving me a verbal hassle.

I have to confess that I have not been the most patient, compassionate daughter this week. I have spoken sharply. I have lost my cool.

And I have had guilt. The voice, sensing my weakness, has started its refrain..."ha ha! You've got it coming for all the times you sassed her. Payback's a b-" But NO! That's not fair! I've already been punished for that crime. I've had four teenagers, and one still to come.

All my boys are bigger than me now, and I think Susannah is a lost cause. But my mom's only 4' 11", so I think I'm gonna have to alpha roll her.

Just don't call the ASPCA.

Murphy's law at church

Today was the day my mom made her choir debut. She's been practicing with the choir since the beginning of January and finally felt ready to take the stage. It was such a big deal for her that she invited my brother and his two kids to come see her. My nephew's almost 13, and my niece is 15. They don't usually attend church, but made the effort for this special day.

Susannah wanted to stay in the service, too, instead of going to Sunday School, and Dan and his girlfriend thought they'd miss the high school class to support Grandma.

Wouldn't you know that the sermon today was on sex? Sexuality from God's perspective, as it is supposed to be a picture of our intimacy with Him. Nothing inappropriate or graphic, of course, but definitely pushing the boundaries.

Squirm? No, I didn't squirm at all.

(Why oh why couldn't it have been something safe like David and Goliath?)

a different kind of pioneer woman

I've had childbirth on my mind lately. OK, I have childbirth on my mind a lot. But especially recently, because of our newest grandbaby's upcoming arrival, and because of Corie's talk of considering pursuing becoming (how many -ing words can I string together?) a childbirth instructor. I've had birth on the brain.

When I was expecting Corie (27 years ago, almost - yikes) we were living in Germany, obviously far from my mom and home. I wrote her a letter full of my concerns and questions about giving birth.

Growing up, I had only ever heard my mom say positive things about her birth experiences. I was 10 when my brother was born (my first sibling), and then 12 with my sister (I was 43 when my youngest sister was born, but that's a whole different story for another time). So I remember well the calmness and joy my mom expressed when she talked about labor and delivery. She had always been very open and honest with me. I knew I could ask her anything. That in itself, I realized later, was a gift not every young girl is given.

I saved the letter my mom wrote in response, and just got it out of Corie's baby book the other day. Re-reading it now, I am amazed that she demonstrated such a radical belief that birth was a natural, un-fearful event. She wrote of how important it was to relax, and trust that your body was working the way God designed it to work. She wrote of how difficult it was for her, when I was born especially (in 1958), to find a doctor who didn't pooh-pooh her desire to give birth without drugs. She talked about wanting the baby to have a peaceful entry into the world, and how she wanted to be awake and participating. She wrote that the hard contractions didn't bother her because she knew the worst was nearly over. "...It really is enjoyable and exciting because each contraction means the baby is nearer to being born."

She never took a childbirth class. She'd never even heard of Dr. Bradley. Lamaze wasn't an option. But she said that HER mom had given birth (at home) naturally, and that it never crossed her mind that she wouldn't be able to. She just had the courage to pursue what she believed in her heart was right.

Then she wrote this about the way she felt after each birth:

"...Like THIS was what life is all about. I wept with happiness as each of you were born and laid on my tummy...such an outpouring of a feeling of mother love and utmost contentment and happiness! As you each curled your little hand around my finger the first time, the whole effort was worth it. I wanted nothing else at that moment but to look and look and touch and love you until you grew up. It never leaves -- that feeling of mother love. It lasts forever -- through all the spats and hard times and misunderstandings and changes and distances -- it's always there. ..... I would go through MUCH MORE pain than I had, just to experience it again."

I realized how blessed I am. When I had my babies I didn't have to overcome fear and negative perceptions of the horror of birth. When I was teaching childbirth classes, I wasn't just teaching "The Bradley Method," I was passing on my mom's confidence and faith in the process.

My mom has been a role model to me in so many ways. Her love of reading, her joy in her children, her selfless giving to her family. I'm grateful that she blazed the trail that I've been allowed to follow.

I love you, Mommy.

oh my goodness oh my dear sassafras and ginger beer

You know how sometimes even though you realize something is going to happen, it still catches you off guard when it happens?

We have known that my mom's condition was eventually going to require having her move in with us for some time now. At Christmas we met with my brother and sister and discussed that it was probably going to be sooner than later. Then we met with a builder and he drew up some plans for an addition on our house to accommodate an extra room for her. And apparently he went ahead with getting the plans approved by the township and got the building permit and all that.

I can't imagine why, then, it still seemed like a distant, remote, future ,theoretical possibility in my head.

Until this morning.

When the backhoe arrived.


And all of a sudden it was like HOLY COW! THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THERE DIGGING UP MY YARD! WHAT THE HECK!
Just this morning I enjoyed watching five deer outside my kitchen window as they stood at the edge of the woods. Now this is what I see out my kitchen window -- a backhoe, a dude with a big stick, and a can of fluorescent paint:



I think somehow all this time I was going ahead and giving assent to this project with the understanding that I would be assuming the eventual role of full-time caretaker for my mom. And surely somewhere in the recesses of my consciousness must have been the glimmer of an idea that some disruption may occur. But I never really fully embraced the reality of it until this morning.

And now I'm terrified. Because now there's no denying that ohmygoodnessthisreallyishappening.

Of course she has no idea. And we're just hoping that by the time she does in fact need to move in, the addition will be ready for her. At the rate that things seem to be progressing this morning, that shouldn't be a problem.

Back when my kids were little --back when I had only three kids -- and my parents were still married and living in Indiana together, we used to do this thing called "kid days." My kids would go stay with my mom and dad for a week and the kids ruled. Whatever they wanted to eat, she'd get for them. Whatever they wanted to do, she'd do with them. It was glorious for them, and glorious for me, because once it coincided with Jim being away on reserve duty and I got a week to MY OWN HEAVENLY SELF. Oh sweet merciful wonderfulness! I started the week off by cleaning the house from top to bottom, and then IT STAYED THAT WAY. I drove around with no car seat in my car and I pretended that I was completely footloose. ~~sigh~~ the memories...

This week my mom is in Nashville with my sister and I keep getting the same sensation. I keep thinking I should call her, stop in to check up on her, make sure she's eating, offer to take her to the grocery store... but then I remember (!!) and it feels strange.

Isn't it funny how life goes in circles? The emotions are the same --but the characters change.