An Unlikely Pair, Linked Forever

A strange combo, to be sure.  Read on.

When I was thirteen years old, I got my first job working at a deli market.  Two doors down from Sonoma's historic plaza, the deli was a popular lunch destination for all kinds of people: shop workers, construction guys, tourists, and laborers. Jim, the owner who hired me, was a great boss.  He was the picture of decorum during business hours, until the older employees went home and the teenagers were left to close up. Then, he would swear like a sailor–always in jest–to horrify and entertain us. We loved him.

The "older employees" consisted of three or four women who became like a whole fleet of grandmothers to me. They were good country folk, hard-working, no-nonsense women who taught me how to make egg salad, prepare all the sandwich fixins, and slice deli meat on the giant electric slicer. They teased each other, but not me: they were strong, plain, kind, and funny.

Shone's Deli is also where I met Ann, the best friend a soon-to-be high schooler could possibly find, and we quickly knew we would be by each other's side for life.  Landing the deli job was a hugely positive development in my young life.

My first day of work, however, was not an auspicious beginning.  At first, everything went fine: I was soaking up all the training, figuring out how to make a roast beef sandwich just like the customer ordered, and ringing up orders at the ancient cash register, all while managing not to freak out when cute boys came in. But then, on my first solo voyage with the meat slicer, disaster struck. The tip of my left index finger got in the way of the spinning blade, giving the roast beef a little something extra as my A negative plasma spurted all over the slicer's gleaming chrome.

I did not react well to the sight of my own blood; the wooziness began immediately. Thankfully, the grandmothers jumped right in. One of them, Helen, whisked me away to the back room, magically producing a glass of ice water to calm me down. A couple more cleaned everything up lickety-split: no customers were the wiser. Helen bandaged me up like the experienced farm hand/mom/grandmother she was, and sent me home a wee bit early from my shift – and slightly lighter than when I'd arrived, now missing the tip of my finger.

I always felt kind of stupid about that injury.  I had wanted to do well at my new job. I didn't want to cause any problems or draw too much attention to myself. Bloodying up the workspace was not exactly the kind of value I wanted to add as a new employee.

But rather than making a big deal out of my mishap or lecturing me too much, Jim and the grandmothers just welcomed me back the next day. They were as matter of fact as you'd expect good country folk to be, and we all just got to work, smiling at customers and taking orders. The slicer and I got along fine after that and I never had another work place injury.  I went on to work there for four more years, until I graduated from high school and went to college.  It was a great, easy job, with fun people, and it put spending money in my teenage pockets.  All that's left now of that first day is a hardened, crescent-shaped scar on the tip of my left index finger.

I have developed an absent-minded habit over the years of circling the crescent with my thumb, almost surprised every time I feel how calloused and un-skin-like it has become. Every so often, I recall the day I got that scar.  I can hear the whirr of the electric blade and feel the sharp pain and the rising wooziness.  I also remember feeling stupid and silly, embarrassed about causing a ruckus on day one. Tiny as it is, it has always been a quiet rebuke to me over the years.

But then. Then something happened that might make me believe, for the first time in my life, that Everything Actually Does Happen for a Reason: I took up the fiddle. Two years ago, I started taking fiddle lessons after years and years of wanting to. Learning to play those beautiful strings has been one of the greatest joys of my adult life; it has also been extremely challenging. Those lovely sounds that professionals make? Those are the culmination of an incredible about of practice, coordination, skill, and technique. There's so much more to it than I ever anticipated, and I find my brain, body, and creativity stretched in multiple ways. My new hobby is a lot of damn work.

Happily, it turns out that having a pre-installed callous on one's left index finger is quite beneficial to the whole endeavor. One of the first things you have to accomplish when learning a fiddle is building up the necessary callouses on the second, third, and fourth fingers of your left hand. Thanks to Shone's Deli, I came to this party ahead of the game.  Yes, I still needed to build callouses, but my index finger was already a seasoned pro. Pressing hard with that finger produced no pain at all, and the little scar's moment to shine had arrived. Now, when my left thumb circles the hardened crescent on finger #4, I don't think about shaving off the tip of that finger with a meat slicer. I think instead about how that scar helps me play the D note in a A major scale. I think, with pleasure, about how my whole hand knows how to deftly move its fingers in order to play St. Anne's Reel and Angeline the Baker and many other traditional bluegrass and celtic tunes. I freakin' love that scar now.

Who knew that something that happened when I was 13, something I had only ever seen as residue from an episode I'd rather forget, would play such a central role in one of the most positive developments of my middle-aged life? Not I, said the duck, but I'm endlessly grateful to have experienced this happy convergence of events.

It makes me wonder what else in my life might be acting in this mysterious way. What strange scars and bumps have morphed into something beautiful and beneficial? Which ones will do so in my future? What gratitude am I missing?  How have the experiences of my life layered one on top of the other to get me where I am today, mother of five, wife of (still just the) one, fiddler, writer, pray-er, friend? It's a lot to ponder. All I know is that I find great comfort in discovering that something painful has become something joyful. There is so much hope in that discovery.

A tiny scar. A life-changing new practice. Linked forever, and beautifully.

***

Daybook for 14 June 2021

Outside my window: A perfect June morning is wrapping my neighborhood in its fragrant, warm arms, and all the birds are singing their appreciation. 

I am thinking: that I need a new attitude about my job. My current attitude has me unmotivated and unexcited about the tasks and projects on my work to do list. This happens to me every now and then, and could be related to the end of the school year.

I am thankful for: birria tacos. Specifically, the ones I got from this taco truck last night at this taproom.

From the kitchen: literally nothing. I made a very thorough meal plan and shopping list on Friday, but it turns out that the essential step is actually going grocery shopping which I did not do. There were too many other fun things to do this weekend.

I am wearing: black yoga pants and a cute linen, flowered top that I got at a thrift store. Actually, I also got the pants at a thrift store. Thrift stores are my jam.

I am creating: this post.

I am going: to the Outlaw Music Festival in October! Really looking forward to it.

I am reading: My Grandmother's Hands. A beautiful book. Why I am reading it is the subject of another post. I should plan to write that. 

I am hoping: that my daughter gets a job for the summer. Quickly.

I am hearing: the birds chirping in the perfect June morning.

Around the house: all of my daughter's stuff that she brought home from college. We haven't figure out where to store it all yet, and I think she is coming home with approximately three times the amount of stuff we moved her into the dorms with back in February.

One of my favorite things: Music. Listening to it, playing it, singing along to it, watching it live...all of the music things are my favorite.

A few plans for the rest of the week: Lots of soccer! No summer off for this soccer family.

And a picture:

This is what I saw when I looked up from where
I was sitting at last Saturday's soccer game.

I invite you to join me by posting your own daybook with these categories (or any others you choose).

New Rules

“Were you scared?” I asked her.

“Well, maybe a little. But the good news is, I thought, is that I was in the computer room, which is waaaaaaaay at the back of the school, and I figured that if anyone got into the school, he probably wouldn’t get all the way back to us there, so we were probably fine.” 

She went on: “We hid under the computer tables, which was gross because people stick their gum under there. So we had to lie there and stare at old gum. So I pulled out a book and started to read so I wouldn’t have to stare at the gum.” 

And a little later: “My teacher didn’t get underneath anything though. She just kept walking around. Shouldn’t she be safe too?”

I agreed with her that yes, her teacher should be safe too.

This is the conversation I had with my daughter recently, after her school experienced a lock down. The episode was brief: the lockdown was triggered not by anything dangerous happening at the school but by police activity in the neighborhood. It was a routine precautionary procedure, and was resolved quickly. However, the automatic text that went out to families only said: Lockdown at XX School. Receiving that text was anything but routine.

Tallulah is 12. When I was twelve, I was thinking about music, goofing around with my friends, and circling the clothes I liked in catalogues. I was not calculating the likelihood that I would get shot at school or picturing in my head what might happen to my teacher if she didn’t duck down under the tables with me, my classmates, and the old wads of gum.

I wish she didn’t have to think like that. I wish this were not normal for her. She was incredibly matter of fact when she was describing her predictions that a gunman wouldn’t make it to where she was huddled underneath the gum. That hurt a little to hear.

Sometimes, I feel a little hopeless about the gun debate in our country. It seems so obvious to me, a bleeding heart liberal, that the answer is gun control, but I know that for many conservatives the answer is more guns. It feels like never the twain shall meet, and we will only ever be angry with each other for not seeing the world the way we do. The problem with the gun debate is the same problem we are having with every policy debate: we cannot listen to the people on the other side. We demonize the people on the other side. That is what needs to stop.

I think we need a massive, communal reset, with new rules. Here are a few suggestions:

• Don’t say anything mean about the people you disagree with.
• Talk to people you disagree with. Ask a minimum of 10 questions to learn more about them personally and about why they hold certain views.
• If you’ve never talked with someone on the other side of an opinion you hold strongly, see if you can change that.
• If you have never met an immigrant, a Muslim, a rural voter, a gun rights enthusiast, a tax and spend liberal, a trickle down conservative, or anyone else you think of as “other,” if you’ve never tried to understand their point of view, put that on your bucket list instead of a trip to Bali. Or maybe in addition to.

What makes a difference in any person’s life? What makes a difference in yours? Relationships. Connection. Community. Expression. Being known. Those are the things that transform individual people, individual hearts. Those are the things that make us peaceful. That is where every policy debate needs to begin, with seeking community and connection. We may not agree (um…we definitely don’t agree). But we can still talk to each other, hear each other’s stories, and put ourselves in each other’s shoes. I think that’s what’s missing in our civic lives these days.

These are just random, somewhat weary thoughts as I think about the Tree of Life and the grocery store in Kentucky, and I worry about what is happening all around me. My daughter is safe, for now; but I’m scared that tomorrow, or the next day, or next year, she won’t be. I’m trying not to lose faith in this country, but it’s hard. 

Who wants to talk? Who wants to listen?

Unprepared and Nostalgic

My daughters are dressed in their Holiday finery, and we are about to leave for the annual St. Jerome Christmas Concert.  

This has been a strange Advent.  More than ever before, it has snuck up on us, and we are unprepared in this season of preparing.  We don't even have our Christmas tree yet.

As the days whiz by, and I wake up each day farther behind than the day before, and I try like hell to hold on to the things that matter and let go of the things that don't, I find myself literally catching my breath.  I find myself confused by how fast time goes by.

For example, four years doesn't seem like a lifetime ago, but four years go, I wrote a reflection upon coming home from the 2009 Christmas Concert.  Reading it now, I almost feel like I'm reading about some other family instead of mine.  So much has happened since then.

One thing remains the same though: I am still finding, daily and in the midst of chaos and confusion, the things that make me call this a happy family.  To remind me of this important fact, and to indulge in a little nostalgia, here is that reflection once more:

* * *

Is my kid the only kindergartner with a big smudge of green ink on her face? 

Is my 2nd grader the only one with a huge clump of hair hanging down in her face? It appears that all those other girls are perfectly coiffed. 

Why does my 4th grader look like he is being choked by his tie, which is pulling strangely up and to the left? 

Is my 5th grader really that bored by the proceedings, or is his arm injured in a such a way that he physically cannot hold his sparkly star any higher than his elbow, rendering it at least 6 inches lower than the stars of all of his classmates? 

Are we the only parents who yelled at their kids in the 15 minutes prior to the festivities? 

Are we the only family to arrive at this Celebration of the Season with more than 50% of us grumpy? 

Is my three-year old really going to throw herself around like a rag doll and shriek like the monkey she wishes she were for the entire program, causing lots of people to toss sympathetic smiles and delighted giggles my way, people who don't have to attempt to keep her from launching off one of the pews, falling off of a kneeler, or crashing into the banister, and can therefore think she is just adorable? Am I the only one who thinks she is a pain in the ass?

You call this a happy family? Why do we have to have all these kids?* 

* * * 

Am I really that neurotic of a mother to notice all of these imperfections? Don't answer that one. 

* * * 

Can there be anything more touching than seeing an emerging young man in his Christmas finery, walking with dignity down the street, hands in pocket, keeping distance from the younger ones, establishing his fledgling maturity? 

Can anything be cuter than a cadre of kindergartners singing and signing "Mary had a baby, oh Lord; Mary had a baby, oh my Lord; Mary had a baby, oh Lord; the people keep a-comin' and the train done gone!" 

Can she look any more heartbreakingly lovely in her brand new glasses, my little Miss 20-20? 

Is anything more important than trying, however imperfectly, to show up for your kids, and battle the stress, and rage against the commercial machine, and offer them the gift of Christmas, the gift of Christ, the gift of loving each other, however imperfectly, so that at the end of the evening, when one of them comes downstairs in tears, unable to describe the sadness, just overwhelmed and confused by the intensity of emotion he is feeling, you can set aside your own exhaustion and your own irritation at the stresses and curveballs that came your way today, and you can hold him and tell him that you know how he feels and that you've felt that way too, and it's because he has such a big, good heart that he feels that way and because the excitement of the holiday season can be just plain overwhelming? Because if you can do that, and then offer him his first taste of egg nog, you'll be able to send him to bed peacefully, and he will thank you and tell you he loves you, and in an instant, you will call this a happy family. 

* * * 

*with gratitude to George Bailey of Bedford Falls, NY

Power

It's been crazy around here.

We thought that after the garden tour, things would slow down. We were mistaken. So we've been trying to teach the children well, manage our small business, keep up with clients, orchestrate summer plans for the kids, and control/coordinate the process of setting up a new soccer team that Rick will be coaching.

Oh, the drama of coaching! Take 15-30 girls -- and their parents -- throw in one passionate coach, stir in the whole Tryouts process, shake with changing parameters daily, and WOW! You get a roller-coaster of a soccer team ride.

It's all good though. The beautiful game will win out over the demands and whackiness; it always does.

* * *

But we've been running like mad. So yesterday, with the littlest at preschool and the oldest at his guitar lesson, I finally had the chance to slow down with the middle three. (Another bonus of having a kid ride the bus? A 45 minute guitar lesson becomes a 2-4 hour adventure away from the house. Independence for him and fewer people to corral for me: win-win!)

We read from Beyond the Western Sea for awhile, until the blue sky's beckoning became impossible to ignore. We loaded up the car with snacks, skateboards, helmets, a viking hat, and a new kite, and off we went to the park.

So it was that I found myself on a beautiful Spring day, sitting in the sun with my six year old on my lap, my eight year old pressed against my side, and my ten year old just beyond, gazing up into the sky, watching a blue and green kite with a dark red tail dance and swirl on a cloudless stage.

We ate grapes and let the kite mesmerize us. We sat, and chatted a little, and stopped the frenzied motion of our lives for a few minutes.

After awhile the girls popped up and ran to swing and play in the sand. My son and I sat together, contemplating the kite, and marveling at how high it was and how strong the pull of the wind.

"It's sort of a little scary," he said thoughtfully.

"You mean that powerful pull?" I said.

"Yeah." He was curious about why this force had a little bit of fear in it.

"Yeah, that's weird, isn't? I think it's because it's so powerful. Power can be scary sometimes."

Holding onto that string did make one aware of the subtle current of fear running through one's hands while holding onto the powerful force of the wind. It made me think about other kinds of power that can be scary, and reminded me of the book we'd been reading that morning, in which the Irish characters are at the mercy of the English people who wield power and control over them, usually abusively. There is some kind of connection there, I'm sure.

I refrained from pointing this out to my son, pretty sure it would just annoy him with its obvious homeschooly-ness, but I started thinking about how to bring it back around at some later date. I contented myself with being grateful that he recognized that power and described it to me.

* * *

From the far side of the park, a thin man in dirty brown pants and a dirty white t-shirt came, pushing a bicycle over the grass, his handlebars wearing a sign proclaiming Free Leonard.

"Where'd you get that kite? I'm gonna get me one of those and put FREE LEONARD on it! You gotta tell me where you got that kite!"

I smiled and shrugged at him, because I really didn't know where we got it. I am forever finding things in my house with no idea how they got there. I found the kite that morning, having never laid eyes on it before.

"What? You don't want to tell me? I want to get one and put FREE LEONARD on it! Man, you gotta tell me so we can FREE LEONARD!"

I smiled again: "I don't know where I got it." My son said, "Yeah, we just found it."

"You found it? That's cool. I gotta find me one, so I can put FREE LEONARD on it! Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do!"

And off he went, slightly nutty, but certainly enthusiastic about his cause. My son turned to me, raised his eyebrows and said: "He really wants to free Leonard."

"Yes, he really does," I said.

The kite dipped and sailed, high in the sky, looking like a small green patch of light.

"Can you take the kite, mom?" And off he went to join his sisters. I stayed in the grass, alternately watching the kite and turning to watch my children pulling themselves up play structures, pumping their legs hard to swing high, and chasing each other through the sand.

I held onto the kite string and decided it was really time to do a little research into Leonard Peltier's story, since we see those signs everywhere and the kids have been asking about them for years. I'm guessing that particular lesson might have something to do with power as well.

* * *

Something else is powerful too: taking a break from life's mayhem and madness, sitting in the park with strong and curious children, and watching the world go by.

* * *

Repost: Together

To mark the 9th anniversary of 9/11/2001, I am re-posting the reflection I wrote last year. It still holds true for me. We still need this story.

* * *

Talk of the Nation today was about the 8th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. The question put forth was this, paraphrased from my memory: "What emotion still lingers for you from the experience of 9/11? What feelings will not let you go?"

People answered as you would expect: fear, sadness, anger, the desire for revenge. Those feelings and emotions have stayed, for so many of us. For me too. I, like all of you, remember so distinctly that morning. I was giving my boys a bath; Rick had already left for work. He called mid-morning and told me to turn on the TV. That's how I heard what was happening, and that scene stays with me.

I got the boys out of the tub, dried them off, my beautiful 3 and 1 year olds, and smelled their clean, soft hair and skin. I held them, cuddled with them, and watched them roll around with each other in their towels. All the while, I cried in disbelief as I watched the terrible pictures. I did not keep the TV off; maybe I should have to shield them from the pictures. But I couldn't NOT watch.

And each year, I feel the same way. I can't NOT remember. I can't NOT honor the anniversary by listening to stories of what happened to people that day. I think we all should mark the day this way, so that we always remember, never forget. What will we do if someday there are "9/11 deniers," just as there are Holocaust deniers today? It sounds ridiculous, but I likely will not be surprised if it happens in 60 or 70 years.

One of the guests (or callers, I can't remember) on TOTN today described the two things that stay with him from that day. The first was shock. He still feels the palpable shock of disbelief that the things that happened actually did happen. The second was profound: the thing that stays with him is the way strangers began to reach out to one another. He described being in Union Station in D.C. shortly after the attacks, talking with strangers, both American and visitors from abroad, and experiencing a connection with them that was borne of shared tragedy.

This struck me. It is true: we all heard the amazing stories of how New Yorkers came together to help and support each other. We forged those same connections in our various cities and towns across the country. The horror of those events stripped bare any pretense, any separation, any petty differences that on an ordinary day would have kept us in our own worlds, apart from strangers, intent on doing the day's tasks and taking care of our own. That day, we all became our own. We all became the shoulders we needed; we carried each others' hearts. Those of us who were not victims that day -- our loved ones did not die -- still wept and prayed and hurt along with those who were.

That unimaginable tragedy showed us how to live that way, to live straight from the raw, troubled heart and to simply be present to anyone who was suffering.

Out of such chaos, this thread of care and love began to weave across the country. It became the blanket that has brought about any healing that has been possible for the people who lost so much. And each year on the Anniversary, if we listen to the stories and let those awful feelings descend upon us again, we have the chance to keep that thread alive.

We all have such busy lives. We do not live that raw, stripped bare life every day: no one could, or should. But the memory of 9/11 does offer us the chance to live that way at least for a little while, to see the people around us, strangers and friends alike, as people with whom we share a common history and common feelings of grief, fear, and need.

To have this be something that stays with us from 9/11 is a great gift. Let us never stop telling the story of the planes flying into buildings and into a Pennsylvania field. Let us never stop telling the stories of the heroes who helped us that day, of the families who lost someone that day, of the struggle to rebuild cities, lives, countries. Those stories will keep us together, and together is exactly where we should be.

* * *

Where I Try To Pick a Course of Action

See that house, Mom? The people who live in that house have a flat screen TV. I can tell.

We, in case you can't tell, do not. We were in a very beautiful neighborhood, where people like us go when we are providing a service to people who live in very beautiful neighborhoods.

Really? I said. You can tell that just by looking?

Yup. All of these houses have flat screen TVs.

This might sound unbelievable to you, kid, but there are people in the world who are wealthy enough to live in a house like that who are not interested in television, and wouldn't spend money on a flat screen TV no matter what it cost.

Not these people in these houses. They definitely have flat screen TVs.

Well, tell me this. Can you tell by looking at the houses if the people who live in them are happy?

Yup. See that blue one? They have a flat screen TV, and they are happy. And that one on the corner? They have a flat screen and they are really happy, because they also have those cool big soccer goals there.

He had me there. OK, the people who live in that house on the corner might very well be happy.

Most people have flat screen TVs, you know Mom.

That's not true, Sam.

Yes it is: almost everyone has a flat screen TV. Except us.

Do you mean everyone in the world? Or in the United States?

OK, well, just the United States. Most people in the United States have flat screen TVs.

At this point, I am impressed that he can insert the phrase flat screen TV into almost every sentence he utters. A pronoun isn't good enough for a flat screen, apparently.

Well, there are over 300 million people in the United States, and I'm willing to bet that fewer than half of them own one.

I bet you're wrong.

Oy, this kid is tenacious! So now I'm furiously googling census and household data, searching for factual, credible data to back up my completely baseless claim.

My pre-teen talks about many things these days: cell phones, flat screen TVs, the wii and wii games, his PS2, and cars. Mercedes, for some reason. I feel sorry for him, that he has a mother who is so utterly uninterested in cool technology or in anything that smacks of having social status implications. He told me today that some people have "these things" that allow you to plug your TV, your wii, your DVD player, your PS13, and your personal assistant all in to the same device and then control all of them with one remote.

He said this like he was letting me in on a big secret that he felt obliged to share with me, to better my life and help me see the light. I didn't have the heart to tell him I was aware of this fabulously convenient option but just didn't care enough about my TV watching/gaming experience to take any steps in that direction.

* * *

A little background. A long, long time ago, in what feels like a different life, I served as a volunteer with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. Think Catholic Peace Corps. Sort of. Social justice action with a spiritual component. For a very short period of time, two years, I worked in homeless shelters in Washington DC and Boston. I chose to join JVC because I thought I could learn something from spending time with people afflicted by poverty and, as it turns out, by addiction and mental illness. The women and children I met during those two years gave me a glimpse into how poor people live in America, and it's not pretty. It's also not all terrible, as these people had children they loved, things they enjoyed doing, interesting things to say, and full, if difficult, lives.

When I left California to begin that work, my friends gave me a knickname. Or actually, they appended my full name with the initials O.S.J.M. If you are familiar with Catholic religious orders, then you'll likely know that initials like that after a person's name indicate to which religious order the person belongs. I was not actually in an order, but my friends, who liked to tease me that I was going off to be a do-gooder for a while -- slumming it, as they say -- created an order just for me: the Order of Social Justice Mamas.

ANYWAY (is this getting boring? I feel like this might be getting boring.), OSJM came to be a sort of joke-y way for my husband to refer to my interest in Things Social Justice and my lack of interest in Things Material. He marvels at what I do not want or need, and claims it is difficult to buy me gifts (although he always does a beautiful job). I don't think about things, and do not shop for myself much. When I do, it is usually because he has been badgering me to do so.

So. I have this kid, with a temperament vastly different from my own. And sometimes, when I listen to him talking about all of the material possessions he salivates over and believes will make his life complete, I feel like I have two choices: Either I bore him to tears with admonishments about what really matters in life and how a LG Neon will not make him a happier person OR I rip my ears off of my head so that I don't have to listen to what surely must be normal pre-teen behavior but which makes me feel like my kid must have been switched at birth or like I have failed to inculcate my values into his young mind and heart. The lecture option is not appealing, to him or to me. So I'm stocking up on gauze bandages.

Where is that middle ground? And why do I always seem to be searching for it?

* * *

Grab Bag

And summer comes to a close.

Ours ended well, with the arrival of Tule, a six year old beautiful black lab who needed a new home as much as we needed a doggie. We started Labor Day weekend with no inkling that by its close we would have a truly great dog. But she's here! And it has been an amazingly effortless transition so far. We haven't had a dog for six years, but it seems to be much like riding a bicycle; you never forget how. She fits in around here like a long missing puzzle piece. As I type, she is curled up on Sam's bed, cozy and happy after a day of chasing a tennis ball to the delight of some happy children.



* * *

Two funnies from my second son today.

Funny #1: While we were at the park trying unsuccessfully to tire out our new dog, he needed to use the bathroom but I had forgotten the key. (Our local park system sells a key, for a nominal fee, that opens all the public park restrooms; funny thing about them though...they don't work if you leave them at home.) So he headed up to the wild area of the park to answer the call of nature. A few paces away, he turned and announced: "I will be back, when nature stops yelling at me." I guess he really had to go badly.

Funny #2: After complaining bitterly that he had to wash the dishes tonight, he shifted into overdrive and began what can only be described as aggressive dish washing. I walked back through the kitchen and he shouted at me: "Mom! I am ROCKIN' these dishes!" Whatever works for you, son.

* * *

Sustainability. I've been thinking about sustainability today. Not in a green, eco-friendly, love the earth way, but in a domestic sense. I cannot seem to sustain any of the systems I come up with for handling laundry, housecleaning, grocery shopping and meal planning, chores, or anything else. Sustainability is breathtakingly hard. It seems to me that establishing systems and routines for smoothly running a household is a great gift for children, a gift I wish I were giving my own. Maybe homeschooling will be my opportunity to do this, as I hope it might be. But I have to admit, I am skeptical about my ability to really sustain a well-run home.

What strategies have you used for any part of running your home that works well for you? Please share. Please. Share. I have lots of ideas, but am always looking for more. And then, how do you turn it into routine, habit? That's the toughest part for me.

* * *

I have also been thinking about the balance between selflessness and self-care. I am terrible at taking good care of myself, and I wish I were better at this. I am also a somewhat socially challenged person who experiences anxiety and worry on a regular basis, which I attribute to an inability to "lose myself" and an overemphasis on my insecurities. So...where is the balance between taking care of yourself and not worrying about yourself? I'm not sure where that is, but I'd sure like to live there.

* * *

So that's my Grab Bag to mark the close of Labor Day weekend and Summer 2010. Don't let me catch any of you wearing white from this point forward. (You're exempt, Nurse Laura: sorry.)

* * *

The Moment I Needed

A few nights ago, Rick and I watched the White House tribute to Paul McCartney, during which Dave Grohl delivered an impressive cover of Band on the Run. It was incredible, even if I could barely resist the urge to reach up to the TV screen and brush the hair out of Dave's face so we could all see his eyes. Yes, I am a mother.

(You can watch a YouTube clip of Grohl's performance here; Band on the Run starts around minute 3.)

The event was in celebration of Sir Paul receiving America’s highest award for popular music − the Library of Congress Gershwin Prize for Popular Song − back in early June. All kinds of performers and musicians paid tribute, including Stevie Wonder, EmmyLou Harris and Elvis Costello. It was a little surreal to see all that rockin' going on in the East Room of the White House, with large portraits of George and Martha Washington gazing down at the proceedings. And it was touch disturbing to see the Jonas Brothers among the guests; I don't know if they performed since we started watching it about half way through, but they just don't seem to be in the same league as so many of the other artists who were there.

But cover after cover was amazing. The artists' took those songs, so many of which are now part of our collective soul, and rendered them beautifully, proving once again what a gift McCartney is and how his songs continue to give us more and more.

The entire show was inspirational. I am always inspired by listening to great musicians play powerful music; I tend to get a little wistful, wishing I had kept up with my piano, and wishing that I had some kind of talent like that to express myself and move people.

Music can suspend us in a world where things matter, where what we feel passionately about is given expression. Musicians get to give voice to what the rest of us feel and hope for. Sometimes, it's music that reminds us who we are. At least, it did for me while I was watching the McCartney tribute. It reminded me that music is important to me, and that I should fill my home with music more than I do.

I was wondering if I had missed a cover of Hey Jude, my favorite Beatles song if you backed me into a corner and said I had to pick one or you'd chop off one of my fingers, when at the very end, of course, Sir Paul played it himself.

And ever since then, I've been going through my days with Sir Paul crooning to me: "The moment you need is on your shoulder." Given that I am constantly searching for motivation to raise my kids, organize my life, color my parachute, etc., that little morsel of wisdom has been a warm and welcome refrain, a prayer really.

Music can do that. It can wake us up and get us moving in the direction we really want to go. I needed that little emotional push, and found it in Hey Jude.

Where do you find yours?

Thank you, Paul. My heart was long ago promised to George, but there's always room for one more.

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I Worry

Being a parent is really hard. Who's with me?

Today was a tough day. My 8 year old daughter crawled into bed next to me at about 12:45am, complaining of a tummy ache. This was about an hour after I had finally decided it was time for me to sleep. She slept peacefully next to me for about 15 minutes, and then the barfing began. Six times in the next five hours, she made the dash to the bathroom with a garbled and desperate "Come with me mom!" It was not a restful night of sleep for her, or for us. By the fourth time, I was so groggy I nearly fell backwards into the bathtub.

Another kid succumbed today as well, plus one husband, so we had a regular sick ward around here. I went through ungodly amounts of Lysol and hanitzer.

When people are sick, I get positively turbo about cleanliness. I'm not normally a neat freak, but stick a barfer on my couch, and I turn to the Simple Green, the broom, and the garbage can like I'm a cracked-up, Type A, OCD poster child. I have just stopped moving, after constant dashing to and fro since getting up 15 hours ago. Seven loads (and counting) of laundry have been completely processed and put away. Dishes leapt out of the sink and into the clean drainer with alacrity. Blankets were folded up as soon as any warm body left them behind. Shoes were not allowed to linger with nary a foot in sight for more than 5 minutes. Empty glasses of ginger ale were swept away before healthy hands could even think about handling them.

I'm so glad we don't get sick that often: this level of efficiency would surely kill me.

I think it's a fear of succumbing myself that keeps me hyped up. If I can just keep moving, maybe I can outrun the germs. So today was physically hard.

But I'll be honest here. The hard part of parenting on my mind tonight is the emotional part, the constant worrying about what they will become. I worry about their work ethic. I worry whether they will be compassionate to those less fortunate. I worry that they will be Republicans. I worry that they will be afraid to try new things. I worry that they will embarrass me in public. I worry that they are growing up feeling entitled. I worry that I yell too much. I worry that I am not patient enough, that I don't give them enough time to learn life's lessons before expecting them to "act right." I worry about their priorities. I worry about their hair. I worry that they will be Republicans. Wait: I already said that. Well, it's a big worry. I worry that my worrying is bad for them. I worry that they will grow up to be like me.

And I'm the lesser of the two worriers guiding this ship. (love you, honey!)

The antidote to worry? Faith. Detachment. Trust. And more of that damned patience.

At least my house is clean while I sit here with all this worry and pray for detachment.

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Restlessness Passes. Thanks Mom.

My last post was a little...well...restless, wasn't it? It matched my mood. I suppose the mood makes much more sense in light of the fact that I had gone to a memorial Mass on Friday (the day before The Great Restlessness) for my son's 5th grade teacher. We just left the warm embrace of her classroom last month, and now she is gone. She was a wonderful teacher, a wonderful woman. We will miss her very much.

So I think I was recovering a little bit when that post came pouring out. Too bad I didn't realize this on Saturday; I might have been much easier on myself. But the comments I received helped in that regard, so thank you to everyone who wrote.

Especially lovely was the note I got from my mom, who couldn't get the commenting window to work on my post and sent it in an email instead. (Don't worry mom, it probably wasn't you: the same thing happened to me today when I tried to leave a comment on another blog.) Here's what she said:

Anyway, I just wanted to comment on your "restlessness" piece - actually, taking your kids to the park and getting a load of laundry done is a pretty good day's work. You know all those people you see making "progress?" They think they are not getting anywhere. They could not begin to do what you do in a day.

It depends on how you define "progress." Just getting your kids through another day is progress.

Mom

Thank you, mom. Those words helped. I will have to hear them many times over the next several years, but this weekend, they helped enormously.

I did get them to the park, and they had a fabulous time. I did too, even if it was a lot of work to shepherd them around, coax little ones to use gross bathrooms, tend to boo-boos, and yes, push the damn swing. (Why am I so swing-averse?) I took them out again today, to Wildcat Canyon. Fresh air does wonders for us.

To thank my mom, I am posting a sort of photo album of our recent Fresh Air Refueling trips. Restlessness passes. These smiles live forever.

Untangling Restlessness

I am restless today. Unmotivated. Unsatisfied.

I can't find a way to settle down and be "in the moment," the way we are always told to be.

If I could do something of my own choosing today, I would curl up with a good book: I've been trying to read What is the What for weeks. But I can't do that, now, can I? Of course not. My life is not my own right now. I see people out and about, doing...things. I see them in their yards making progress on home projects. I see them bustling about doing errands and Getting Things Done. I see them spending time with friends. Whatever. Whatever they are doing looks divine, because I can't do any of it.

Two days ago, I spent 45 minutes untangling Toy Story parachuter army men from each other. That night, I found them again tangled in a compromising heap. This morning, I spent 25 minutes untangling a First Communion cross necklace that had four knots in it. So far today, in addition to untangling the necklace, I've done one load laundry, hung our new shower curtain, picked up a payment from a client, and fed people one meal. It's not so satisfying.

I yearn for more. I yearn to be creative and to be engaged in something interesting. Instead, I'm probably going to take the kids to the park, where I will engage in the most mind-numbing of my motherly duties: pushing a swing for as-yet-unable-to-pump-for-themselves children.

I also yearn to lose myself, to stop thinking about myself, to get caught up in something "other." The kids don't count, since apparently my words and actions determine their happiness and success so BAM! we're back to me. It's a sickening paradox: how do I pray for a loss of self, which necessitates being aware that what I want is a loss of self?

And I'm also thinking of the word restless. It means unsettled, uneasy, lacking peace and calm, being fidgety, dissatisfied and unfocused. But it also means without rest. I'm sure I would feel better if I could go to sleep for awhile. I can't.

Oh, and I'm also thinking that I eat too many carbs.

I'm kind of a mess.

And I'm off to the park with my kids.

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