What Must Be Acknowledged

You may not realize it, but librarians are "professionally trained" to avoid unsolicited comments on your books.  As in, it's considered bad form to remark in a personal way about your selections, no matter how much we want to squeal that we loved that book you chose and just-you-wait-til-the-end-it-will-blow-your-mind, or to ask you how your recovery is going from this, that or the other if you check out a book about it.

Intellectually, I understand this concept and generally follow it.

Sometimes though, my heart speaks up, and while I feel a twinge of professional guilt, I'm not sorry to bend this guideline once in a while.  Because I am dealing with people here-not an Amazon order that gets delivered in a bland manilla envelope after being "handpicked" by a souless machine in a cavernous warehouse.  A person stands before me, and even with the option to avail themselves of self-check (and thus greater privacy) they still have chosen to set a stack of books before me for checkout.

I don't pretend to believe that this act, by itself, is an invitation to converse about said stack.

But sometimes, it is.  Experience has taught me the difference.

A while ago it was a gentleman with a stack of books about grief, funerals and eulogies.  I checked out his books and paused with my hand on top of the pile.  "I want to tell you that I'm so very sorry that these are the books you are checking out today.  I'm sorry you have any need of them."

He looks up and straight into my eyes.  He's a little startled, I can tell, but he says carefully, "Thank you so much for acknowledging that.  My family and I are a mess.  But we will get through this.  Thank you for saying something."

I never say "You're welcome," to that kind of thanks. My voice is always cracked up somewhere in the back of my throat and I can't trust it.

Today I have want of a similar stack.  I'd want books if they could cushion the battering my heart has taken.  If a stranger acknowledged my pain with the slightest gesture, I might be a little startled, too.

But we are all members of the same small tribe on this tiny planet in unfathomable space. We must observe and acknowledge each other.  Our stories may be the faintest whispers in the universe, but if we lean in closely enough, we can hear them.  If we can hear them, we can treasure them. And in this way, we are held.  First by each other, and then by God, who gave us the ears in the first place and tunes them for a whisper.

May I not miss the whispers.

These are the Conversations that I Love

Both of these exchanges happened today with Landon.  They go in that, "The World According to Landon" file that I like to add little stories to because I know if I don't write them down, I probably won't even remember them next month....and I'd really like to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mom, do you know what is Russian War?"

What piece of current events has Landon been inadvertantly exposed to now?  And how did that happen?

"Well, buddy...." I trail off, because I don't really want to give details to something as dark and confusing as war. "What do you think it is?"  It's an old standby, but sometimes it helps to gauge where he's really at before I pull out my verbal textbook.

"A mountain.  Carved with presidents in the rock.  Do you know this?"

It turns out Landon merely wanted to find out if I knew about Mt. Rushmore.  Not a Russian War.

Smiles and relief all around.

"Yes, buddy, I do know that about Mt. Rushmore.  I'm glad you know it, too."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have recently decided that the Tooth Fairy will get to spread her joy around here when the time comes. Landon very rarely, if ever, goes in for flights of fancy. (He's the one who told ME (very gently) that Santa Claus was not real)  He is a lover of "true-fact" books and reality is in very sharp focus for him.  I've mentioned how anytime we pretend anything together he frequently stops to remind me, "just for tends, Mom."

So when he asked me today if the tooth fairy was real, I told him he should just wait and find out. He didn't seem convinced, but wasn't going to push it.

I pulled out one of his library books from the basket.  It was called Put Screws to the Test and showed a man using a large screw to drill a hole in an icy lake.

Trying to be funny I said, "I think this man is using this screw to find one of his lost teeth to give to the Tooth Fairy."    And I was rewarded because he laughed.

"That's not true, Mom," he predictably replied.  "Grown-ups don't lose teeth."

And then I laughed.  Maybe the Tooth Fairy has a chance around here after all.

Epic Surprise

I am not often surprised by Bill.

It's not his style, I guess.  Since I don't revel in surprises, I don't miss their absence in our relationship.

When a surprise does come along, it takes on an epic, legend quality that I can feel, even at the time.

Like the time my husband walked into the car dealership and bought our family a car that very day.

Oh, wait. That was just last week.  See how it already has the feel of a tale?

So that is how I shall tell it:

Once there was a girl who didn't like to shop.  For anything.  Ever.  Oh sure, there was a garage sale mood, a thrift store mood, or a used bookstore mood that struck once in a blue moon, but with the addition of two kids who found even that kind of treasure seeking completely boring, the whole enterprise had lost all appeal.

She married an analytical consumer who liked to research before he shopped.  The poor man would try to share his enthusiasm for the details of said research before bed, but was met with (at best) courteous quiet while he talked or (at worst) a glassy eyed stare as he clicked through lovely websites on his tablet.

But the analytical consumer did not lose heart. He did his homework. He arranged their finances. He talked to buyers. He read about sellers. And he settled on a vehicle that he thought was the right fit for his family.

On the day they went to test drive it, he didn't even bring his checkbook.  They were not buying a car.  They were investigating cars.  To his nonshopping wife, they were out lining up invisible ducks that needed to be in a row before any decisions would be made.

Surprisingly, those ducks lined up faster than they anticipated and they found themselves beginning to hope that they could do this thing.

The analytical researcher got in the ring and began negotiations for a price much lower than they hoped to pay.  When the manager came out to deliver the bad news of "no dice," to her husband, he hesitated for just a moment.

"I know you," his wife said. "That is the number you have in your head and if you walk out of here paying anything else you are going to regret it."

The dancing deal went on.  The sales manager went back to his fish bowl office. Who was he calling? His wife? His brother? In fact the General Manager who lives in Oz and approves these deals?  We never find out.  But after the final round he brought out the paperwork that listed everything the analytical consumer wanted, and not a penny more.

"We cannot pay anything tonight.  We didn't even bring a checkbook," her husband admits.

And then my favorite line of the whole tale:

"That's ok.  With a credit score like yours, your word is golden.  Bring the check by at your convenience."

I sit a little stunned.  We will be driving off with a shiny new car without paying them one penny?  Because my husband's word is golden?!

We are not wealthy people.  Bill is a teacher and I sub for a library district.  We're not going to pretend that replacing our 14-year-old wheezer of a car is not a big deal for us.  We won't deny that we have been saving for new wheels for years, have been budgeting for this day, and that one of us has considered the decision from every angle before we ever stepped foot in this place.  The fact remains that adding a car payment will require careful attention to a budget that already runs rather precisely.

All that aside, at that moment I felt extraordinarily rich.

To be married to a man whose very word is golden.  A man who responsibly manages all his affairs so that he has built a reputation for trustworthiness.

When they bring our lovely red chariot around I name her Ruby Valentine, in honor of the day we bought her, February 14.  It would be such a cliche if either of us had seen it coming.

But in fact, Bill has truly, generously, enormously surprised me.
(and maybe himself just a little, too)

Second Born

Oh my sweet second born
Can we celebrate you in a different way?

Countless pictures
A journal filled with excrutiating detail of every milestone
Professional portraits
Handprints and Footprints pressed into clay

Those were the birthright of the firstborn
The lavish, loving attention we had for the baby who turned our world upside down
We three sat under our newly created dome called Family and couldn't stop gazing at each other

You arrive
Dreamed of, anticipated, longed for, welcomed

And you turn our world upside down.
We four sit in a boat called Family and we paddle madly to keep afloat
We rock you to sleep even as you rock the boat
Everyone settles anew

As a brother
As a mother
As a father of sons--
Plural.

Who will tell your story? What will I say when you ask when you first rolled over, sat up, crawled and ate solids?
My answers won't be sure.

But I will tell of how you woke laughing. How you bounced in rhythm with African drums before you could even walk.

How you rolled and crawled and climbed and walked with a speed and fearlessness that required a relaxing on my part.  I cannot hold you as close; you are my crocodile thrashing to do the next thing, to be, to become, to explore, to move on.

I will tell of how you went to bed laughing. Giggling under your knit blanket, pushing your fingers through the holes because you love texture.

I will tell of how you were our happy bird.  Singing when we sing, whispering when we whisper, laughing when we laugh, and not yet saying a word.

Except, "Wow."

And you are that to us, sweet second born.
One long and continuous wow.
That you are ours. That you are you. That you are such joy. That you are growing so fast and changing so much.
We say wow.

We may not be creating a documentary of your life, collecting a museum's worth of precious artifacts and a gallery's worth of perfect portraits,

But we celebrate you.

Parented with less pressure
Less scrutiny, more patience
You get more freedom
And less lonely.
Arriving with a first friend already waiting for you


This is your birthright as the second
To be a dream-come-true for three
Instead of two

The novelty of being rookie parents has worn off long ago.
The wonder of you will never fade.

Oh my sweet second born,
We celebrate you in a different way.

The Slings and Arrows

 My husband may call himself a practical realist.  On a bad day I may call him a pessimist: a tendency to see the hole, the missing, the lack, the undone.

The truth is, he sees those things with an eye to fill, to replace, to provide, to complete. He makes a mental note of them (frequently aloud) and is often completely baffled when my insecure side takes his noticing as a personal criticism.

But it can be a vicious cycle. He wants to keep track of the things that need keeping track of. I don't want to be invited into his mental to-do list when my own (shorter) one seems overwhelming enough. He shows his love by being conscientious and vigilant.  I feel his love when he drops everything and puts people ahead of tasks.  He puts people first by doing the behind-the-scenes tasks.   

After hosting a recent game night at our house when I had finally figured out how to fit the clean-up into one night (instead of letting half of it spill into the next morning because the dishwasher was full), I was overly pleased and proud of myself.  We've done it!  Well done, Team Brown. We can get up tomorrow to this sparkly loveliness and be inspired for the new day.  

Bill's happy, of course.  He has helped with the clean-up and deserves to feel  proud, too. But instead of sharing my effusive self-congratulations, he offhandedly says, "Man. This floor. It is really taking a beating."

Every surface of our kitchen looks like it is getting ready for an open house tomorrow and he has his head down looking at the floor. I perceive this casual, uncalculating observation on his part as a flaming arrow of criticism and discontent. It wouldn't lead to a quarrel if it made sense.  (Just so you know that I don't think I should be taking his comments that way, or even letting them push the pendulum so hard.)  

Something inside me breaks.  Out come the "fighting" words we were warned about in premarital counseling: "You never," "You always," "I'm sick of,"

And the second half of each of those sentences feel like the most true, valid, and pertinent points of the evening.  Even when he wants to explain.  No.  I've got this verbal barrage going and it may be on semiautomatic. It's like an old magazine of ammo we should have dealt with years ago, but seems to keep getting refired when we least expect it. Unkindness shoots both ways. 

Do you ever find yourself here?  One minute you are both fine and happy, and less than ten later you are both feeling like you'd rather crawl away and nurse a few wounds?

It's a horrible feeling.  We can find solidarity to face "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," but it's a lonely night when the slings and arrows are from ourselves.

But like I told you, my husband is a practical realist.  So when the drama-emotional-hyperbolic side of my brain starts to take over and I fear that the chasm our unkindness has created may be an uncrossable divide, it will be he who calmly says, "We're going to get through this.  We can make it.  We've got work to do, but don't give up on me.  I'm not giving up on you.  Because you're still my Jode, and there's nobody else I'd rather do this with."

Marriage: it is a beautiful gift, a sacred union, a comfort and a joy.  It is also sometimes a bitter struggle, a painful humbling, a sharp reminder of the worst parts of ourselves we want to conceal, and the most demanding work we voluntarily sign up for.

In the end, I'm willing to keep at it.  I keep asking for God's help. I keep muddling through and on.  Because he's still my Bill and there's nobody else I'd rather do this with.

Reading Twin

We showed up to work wearing the same outfit, right down to the silver necklaces with teardrop pendants.  We had our own clothes, but chose all the layers and colors exactly the same.  We were even both reusing a venti Starbucks cup.

Two library girls with a matching sense of "style."

Ast it turns out, we really like Sense and Sensibility, both the movie and the book.  We love Emma Thompson and admire her many talents.  She likes Hugh Grant; I'm not a big fan.

"I like Hugh Grant, but I don't really think he worked for that role with Emma Thompson.  It never really seemed like the right match," she went on to clarify.

"EXACTLY!" I can easily forgive her liking Hugh for making an observation I have felt all along and not ever articulated.

"You know who I think she is a better match with?  That other guy in the movie who dumped her sister.  HE seems like the one she should have been with...not that character in the movie, of course.  Just someone like that guy," I tell her, in a mood to have opinions about people I don't know.
"EXACTLY!" she echoes with the same enthusiasm I showed her observation.

She looks him up to recall what he looks like.

Turns out, he's married to Emma Thompson.

Whoah, it's not often my random musings are *right*.  I think we both gained a notch more respect for the other's opinion for that one.

So we add a little stack of opinions to the table, each of us laying them down in rapid succession like two kids playing war: happy when they matched even if it meant having to concede a bunch of other points. Just like the card game looks pointless and boring to anyone watching, but is actually quite engaging to the players, that's how this conversation feels. I sense an outsider would wonder why we are talking about these people and plots like they are real.

I'm listening to an audiobook I will have to abandon because it isn't keeping my interest.  I've read stronger books in this genre (Cory Doctorow's For the Win and Ernest Cline's Ready Player One, for example.) She looked at me with a little shock.

"You liked For the Win?  ME TOO.  And I loved Ready Player One.  So much!"
"But you like Sense and Sensibility."
"I know.  But I really liked those books, too."

I never would have pegged her as a Doctorow fan. His work and themes are about as far from Jane Austen as a reader could get.  I wonder if I seem as unlikely.

When I ask for audiobook suggestions for my drive home, we discover that we literally like ALL the same authors.  She is reading Ann Patchett's latest.  I have it on hold to get the next available copy.  Every author, every title, in any genre.

It was the most uncanny resonance. "At this point," I finally conceded,  "I will take anything you suggest."

My opinion cards had all been played.  She matched on every one.  She ended up taking the whole game and title as my Reading Twin.

Who just happens to dress like I do, too.

Fun, but kinda weird, right?

Footnotes of Our Story

I don't remember when the notes started.  But somewhere along the way, Bill started leaving me notes.  Post-its, random scraps, torn pieces from a daytimer...little notes.  I find them on the mirror, on the kitchen counter, taped to my alarm clock, his love in writing to be discovered before the day can let me forget.

We are word people.  This is our language.

They are small, and the themes are simple and repetitive, but these little squares quilt my heart and keep the cold and lonely away.

Tonight Landon brought out a lovely latched basket that I had not noticed was missing.  Inside was a package he had wrapped with two colors of construction paper and twice as much tape.

"I made this for you," he said to Bill.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's for you."

Bill peeled back the outer layer.  A white paper emerged.  In fact, there was nothing but paper.  Scraps Landon had cut and "written" on.  A heart with more tape and writing.  And his main attraction, a full sheet covered with letters from an alphabet stencil.

"What does it say?" Bill asked.

"It's love.  It's loving words.  It's a note I wrote for you and it says I love you and we can go to a theater together."

Bill and I share one of those glances that say more than it's worth trying to express aloud.
My eyes get glassy and my throat gets tight.

We are word people.
This is our oldest son learning our language.

My heart is so full, I find I must write it all down while I can still remember it.  Just.like.this.

Even as I type, a few aisles in every grocery store have exploded with red and pink, candy and cards.  There's a day on the calendar marked to express and share love, in all its preference for red and pink, candy and cards.   And the day may pass at the Brown house with nobody remembering to mention it at all.

Just as you can't create an entire beautiful quilt in a day, our love is grown in small bits-
one post-it, one calendar scrap, one construction-paper-wrapped collection of words at a time.

You're Not Always Right

"Mom, did you know Georgia is one of the coldest places on Earth?"

Hmmm....I did not know that.  In fact, I know nothing like that. "Well, Buddy, that's not really true.  Georgia is in the southern United States, and there are lots of places colder than that."

"I'm not talking about that."

And now he's annoyed.  As he often is when he is corrected.  Like many of us, he likes to be right more than wrong.  But I don't want the seeds of "know-it-all" to bloom in his personality, so even though it isn't fun, I do point out when he's wrong.  Sometimes.  When I have the energy.

"Let's look at the globe, Buddy."

(He got a globe for Christmas and both of us still think it's great fun to pull it out for anything we can think of.)

"This is Georgia, here in the United States. It isn't one of those icy places like Antarctica or the Arctic, which are much colder."

"It's not that Georgia, Mom!  It's a cold Georgia. You don't know what you are saying.  You are just confused."

Sheesh.  I'm pretty sure I know that Georgia is not as cold as the Arctic.  And then a lightbulb goes off in my head....."Do you mean the Georgia that is a country near Russia?  That might be a cold Georgia,"  and we find it on the globe, but still he is unsatisfied. And frustrated.  And a little miffy that his mom is so dense that she can't concede that Georgia is one of the coldest places on Earth.  I'm a little down that he has such an unteachable attitude.  That he's kinda stubborn.  That he thinks he has to be the expert about EVERYthing.  But we let it go because what's the point of arguing?

This morning Landon was finishing watching a documentary called "Frozen Planet." We've been studying the Arctic, so I thought it was a nice tie-in.  When I walked in I heard the narrator say, "Winds in South Georgia can get up to one hundred and thirty miles an hour."  South Georgia?!

I sneak out and get his globe.  I scan the top.  I search the bottom.  Yep, there it is, an island near Antarctica called South Georgia.

One of the coldest places on Earth.

Well, since we're talking about cold things, can I have my Humble Pie a la mode?  

The Must-Read Memoir of 2014

What if you knew someone whose heart was shattered in one terrible night when her husband unexpectedly died in her arms?  What if you knew she had two little boys whose world crumbled right along with hers, even while they peacefully slept?

Pain like that is a palpable vortex.  It is dark.  It is scary.  It is overwhelming to feel your own heart break and know that the pain you feel is nothing, NOTHING compared to being the one for whom the light has been snuffed.

But what if from the bottom of the vortex your friend sent up a message?  Like a white-hot flare, she shoots up some words, "I'm down here.  It's unimaginable. And this is how it is." And every day, she blogs.  But "blogging" is no verb to describe the raw, jagged, heartwrenching, horrible/beautiful journey that she takes you on.  You read her very heart on the screen, and time after time, there's nothing for it but to cry.  Or sometimes, laugh.  And then cry about that, too.  You, who are not the crying kind.

And then what if, somebody who knows the right people and how to make things happen finds out about your friend's blog and it seems the next thing you know you are watching her sign a book contract under the twinkling lights strung by her dearest friends and a thousand prayers and heaps of love?

And there's nothing for it, but to cry.  But it's joy.  Mixed up with all that pain.  Because a miracle is being born.  One brave word at a time.  And your friend, she just lets you in. Not just you, anybody.  Everybody.  Open arms, open heart, this girl who needs to process it all alone and all together, in words.


Can I invite you to go there?  To go to that dark, scary place with her?

The book will hit bookstores everywhere in 22 days on February 18.  Or today if  you are a preorder kind of person.  And then maybe, like me, you'll find yourself welcoming dawn with this book in hand, feeling gratitude to a person who would lead us all in...to the darkness and out again.

Because the book is called, And Life Comes Back.  
And so it does.

And when it does for her, a little of yours will come back, too.

• 9/26, 4:19am

Wishing I Were on the Other Side

"Raise your hand if you already have something written you want to publish."

A few hands go up.

"Raise your hand if you have already published something."

A few other hands go up, noticably more easily.

"Raise your hand if you are thinking about writing something you would like to publish."

It looks like the rest of the attendees raise their hands.

"So raise your hand if you don't even know what program you are sitting in."

Gets a few chuckles.

But I neither laugh nor raise my hand. I know where I am (a workshop on epublishing) but I'm not sure I can answer why I carved out the time to drive here and listen to some movers and shakers on this topic.

I don't have a well-loved manuscript hidden away somewhere that just needs a platform to find an audience.  I didn't just finish the National Novel Writing Month with something blazing hot, begging to be published. And yet, publication beckons to me like an Everest.  Why?

I used to think that everyone wanted to be a writer.  Turns out, that's because I happened to know a lot of voracious readers, and most of them do.  If someone hands you a ticket for transport or transcendence, you often wonder if you could be a magic-maker and hand out such remarkable tickets, too.

For every encouraging person who has ever told me anything along the lines of, "You should write a book," are a hundred other voices (most of them in my head) pointing out the ridiculous improbability of it all.  After all, you have to be an author to write a book.  You have to be someone brilliant and remarkable and photogenic and disciplined.  You need hundreds of ideal, uninterrupted work hours where you are productive and focused and inspired.  You need a Mac computer, awesome penmannship, perfect grammar, and oh yeah, a never-ending spring of unique ideas that leaves you breathless with their originality and beauty.

None of those things are true of me.

What about you?  Doesn't the idea of publication beckon to many of you, too?  We read, we write, we stumble around in the dark with our words, looking to shine a little light. Find a path.  Embark on an epic journey....

only to still be wasting time fiddling around with the batteries of our flashlight.

All the while another author runs past us in the darkness, takes a flying leap off the cliff into the unknown, and all we hear is, "Wheee!"

Whee?! That's it?  Did they get published or not?

We don't get the answer to that.  Self-doubt settles back down around us in the darkness. It seems it would be much easier to stop trying to earn the "externally-validated-author" badge and get off this trail altogether. Other worthy pursuits await.

But then we catch a faint echo of that whee and can't walk away.

Because we definitely, absolutely want to believe that the journey would be worth it for its own sake, that the risk is worth taking. That whatever success or failure waits at the end of that flying leap of faith, the flight is the thing.

But wouldn't it be grand to know that we had wings that would carry us before we even leapt?

There is No Immediate Love/Hate

How long does it take you to appreciate a piece of  visual art?  Sure, you could spend any length of time imaginable admiring something, but generally speaking, doesn't most art compel a response rather quickly?  You see a painting and find it haunting.  A sculpture leaves you cold; you move on.  Someone has crafted a quilt that suggests "heirloom" before it is even one year old. Even music asks us to make up our minds fairly quickly.  Yes, you could develop a deep appreciation for unfamiliar music over time, but most of us can hear a song and assess rather quickly if we'd rather change the station.

And then there's word.

For artists who paint with words, we don't have much hope of appealing to the instantaneous resonance one can feel with music and visual arts.

Who pulls an unknown, unopened novel off the shelf and declares, "I must have this collection of words in my home!  It is amazing and wonderful and I get chills just looking at the cover."?

But you could easily walk into an art gallery and feel that connection.  Love at first sight with no investment or risk at all.  You just walked in and fell in love.

Artists show you a destination.
Writers ask you to take a journey.

Writers ask for a little more--a bigger risk of your time and interest.  I may not be able to win you over at first glance, but sit with me for a spell.  We may become friends yet.

Ridiculous or Iconic? Classic Children's Stories through a Different Lens

I got it into my head that my kiddo should know fairy tales.  Like they are part of the canon of Western Civilization, a piece of required knowledge, background info everyone should have to successfully navigate the nuances of later literature.

Or something like that.

But as we move through these stories, I'm beginning to have my doubts.

 Take, for example, The Three Billy Goats Gruff. In the face of danger two goats essentially throw their siblings under the bus to save their own hide.  The eldest brother, with no one else to throw, resorts to brute force and rescues them all.  It's heartwarming.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears: A curious vandal escapes charges of breaking and entering, destruction and theft of personal property by fleeing the scene of the crime.  Her outraged victims never hear from her again.

The Three Little Pigs: Two lazy siblings count on one industrious brother for all the good ideas.  When their own homes are destroyed by a ferocious enemy, they run for their lives only to instantly turn in mockery of their foe as soon as they reach safety.

Little Red Riding Hood: A disobedient and scatterbrained girl mistakes a ravenous wolf for her grandmother. She is consumed in her entirety by the wolf (is he part jaw-unhinging snake?!) and is rescued by a woodsman with an ax to the wolf's belly.  The gory slashing of his belly is quickly glossed over as everyone learns a valuable lesson that mother knows best.  Or is the lesson that Little Red seriously needs glasses? Or half a wit?  

The Gingerbread Boy: An arrogant cookie-boy leans too hard on his one and only talent (running fast) and is killed by a creature who had mastered swimming, running AND cunning. Lesson: Foxes are sly.

Other authors apparently had doubts about these plots as well, which led to us finding variations.  In one, Goldilocks tries to make ammends. In another she meets three LiBEARians and learns about finding "just right" books.  The Wolf often turns out to be better than we thought.  He has allergies/a terrible cold.  He was just trying to borrow some sugar.  They start a community garden and all go vegan.  The Gingerbread Girl lassoes and captures the wolf with her long red licorice hair. The variations are all over the place.

I know these stories are iconic, and surely someone has earned a doctorate explaining what they tell us about the human condition, but I'm willing to admit that  reading five versions of each (with corresponding Venn Diagrams) is more than any well-rounded person needs.

So I am not too surprised that Landon said to me today, "I don't want any more picture books for awhile.  Let's just read true-fact books, okay?"

Yes, let's.

The chatter of talking animals quiets down for a bit and we settle down for something he chose and desperately wanted:

F/A-18 Super Hornet

Well now, doesn't this just open up a whole different can of worms?!

Unforgettable Bear

Bear-Bear was a grungy, germ-infested, foul-smelling, sad little excuse for a stuffed animal when I let him move on.

In the interim, Bill has occasionally told me that Landon is still missing Bear-Bear, but I dismissed the idea. Surely Bill was assigning a sentimentality to the situation that Landon didn't possess.  I've never heard a peep about it. The preciousness of a saggy lump of a worn out bear did not compute.

Then tonight happened.  Stories were over and Landon was getting ready to go to bed.
"Dad, do you think you could call your old school and see if someone found Bear-Bear and they didn't know what to do with him so he is sitting in a closet somewhere?  Can we drive down there and see if anybody found him?"  His voice cracks.  His eyes fill up with the real-deal, genuine tears.

I sat there stunned. My little boy is really, truly missing that bear almost two years later. I can't let Landon think that all his pain is his own fault, and yet, I don't want it to be mine, either.

I take a deep breath.

"Buddy, I really made a big mistake.  Bear-Bear was dirty and stinky and gross and even after we washed him he just seemed like a grungy, dirty bear that I didn't want to make you sick, so I got rid of him. But I'm really sorry.  We should have talked about it before I did that."

"But could Daddy just check to make sure he didn't get left at his school?"

"He could. He can.  But I think we need to get on a mission to find a new animal your big loving heart can welcome as your very special one.  Maybe we'll find a bear.  Maybe a monkey.  Maybe something else will be the one, and you'll just know you're ready to love it like you loved Bear-Bear.  Do you think you're ready to love another animal and let it be your favorite one?"

He nods, but I can see that he is still sad and trying to process the permanency of the loss.

"Mom, did you throw it away or give it to the Goodwill?"

I don't know for certain, but I'm certain what I need to say.  "To the Goodwill, Buddy. He was excited about meeting some new animals and going on new adventures.  He was ready to go."

We hug.  Bill and I look over his head in our shared misery over my miscalculation.  I believed Landon wouldn't remember, wouldn't care, and would quickly be over it.

My little boy has spent half his life (and all the time he can remember) feeling the loss of that bear.  It's hard to acknowledge that this is an addition to what will be a long list of ways I let him down, cause him pain, disappoint him, misunderstand him, or otherwise fall short.  Oh, I'm hoping and praying that it's a short list, but I'm not kidding myself, either.  Parenting is hard, and nobody does it perfectly.

I'm remembering my last Christmas of being a little girl when the doll my parents got me was a bitter disappointment.  Not the baby doll I yearned for, but a stand up doll that had golden ringlets and a creepy grin.  With dogged perseverance, my mom took me to every toy store she could think of until we found the perfect baby doll, the very last one of my childhood, and most beloved.

My mom isn't a sentimental person, either.  But sometimes, a parent can look into their child's heart and see a big, deep yearning for something that isn't fueled by greed, peer pressure, or market manipulated wishes...It's for something real and simple and solid like a doll or best-friend bear.

I've learned my lesson, sweet boy. He may be the last one you love with all your heart, the perfect stuffed animal friend for you to finish out your littlest years with, but we'll find him. And when we do, I promise he can stay with us every day you ever want him to.  And then for me, maybe a couple more.

Looking Back

A note comes along that evokes memories twenty years old and to my surprise, they are wrapped in sentiment.  Crinkly, and a bit fragile.  Don't overthink these, I say to myself, or they will crumble away and you'll wonder what the fuss was about.  But glance briefly into this past chapter of your life, and you'll find a smile.

In that chapter that was the transition between the little girl I was and the grown woman I would become,  I see that it was a season of the brightest possibilities, the purest friendships, the sharpest lines.  Nothing was known, and I was certain of everything.  Alternately, I second-guessed my every move while throwing myself into irrevocable trajectories.  The future stretched ahead long and promising, the past a rosy glow, the present a fleeting gift held tenderly in my heart.  I didn't want to grow old while I intensely wanted to grow up.  Anything seemed probable, possible, eventual.  My world was not defined by past choices; it was an open delta with a thousand paths, leading to any sea.

I love that bright-eyed, shiny-hearted, zealous girl-woman.  She is a girl who would not recognize, understand, or maybe even approve of the woman she became.

But this is ok.

How could she have known that cracks can be cherished, that a broken heart grows larger, that being thrown from her high horse would allow her to take her first shaky steps toward grace?

My friend put it well saying, "I find God can take idealism and forge a stronger alloy with mercy and compassion."

I may not be as bright and shiny as I was twenty years ago.  That girl might even call me a bit tarnished. (Yeah, she leaned toward negative labels like that.)  But I'm defining myself as an alloy: a mix of idealism, mercy, compassion, and a few of the broken bits that have gotten left behind along the way.

Front of the Line

Most extroverts love a good party.  They get their mingle on and meet new people and hear new jokes and tell new stories and eventually, make new friends.  They go home happy and filled up with an invigorating anticipation of meeting up with the most interesting of the new, the most favorite of the old, again.

But if you're an introvert, a good party might not hold as much promise.  

As an introvert, I have rediscovered my version of a great party: a new library.

I've recently been hired as a substitute librarian for a large library district and tonight went out to one of their smaller, more remote branches.  This collection doesn't get shipped out to fill any other requests.  In other words, all the newest, hottest titles stay on the shelves until someone local takes them home.

Book buyers who always just buy what they're craving when they want it won't understand, but in library world, patrons usually queue up for the newest, latest titles from the famous, well-loved authors.  So to walk in and see books with waitlists well over a hundred--well now, this was a great party.

Hobnobbing with the hot titles.  Mingling with the nominees.  Everybody dressed up in their finest, covers still shiny, pages still crisp.  They gave me a tour and my eyes kept bugging out as I saw title after title that would ordinarily be a "get in line because you and everyone else wants to read it."

I felt like I had finally made friends with the bouncer and cut in line at a club where all the best people were.

"Can I really take this one home?"

Of course.  Why not?

"Is this one meant for display?"

No, take it.

"I hope I don't seem too greedy."

No.  We love it.  Gets our numbers up!  Check out as many as you want.

So I did.  Almost three bags' worth.
And tonight, in pure introvert fashion, I can't wait to get my read on, meet new people, hear new jokes, hear new stories and eventually, make new friends.

I Skipped Step 11

Do you ever have a moment that you think would be perfect for a hidden camera?

The other day, when butternut squash soup went splattering all over the place in my kitchen (borrowed a blender when my food processor broke) I had to pretend it was for a film crew.  What else?  I wasn't so amused; surely somebody should get to be.

But that's just a moment.  A big, messy, dramatic moment.

What about when your whole day starts to feel like you are in some kind of classroom where the instructor uses your story to explain Murphy's Law? Can't you just see the PowerPoint?  Exhibit A: see how the tall, full glass gets spilled at the table while the Sippy Cup will stand the ages...Murphy would have appreciated that.

So here is our day that professors of Murphy's law wish they had photo documentation of:

It is the day of The Wedding.  Our dear friend is getting married one hour and eight minutes away (by Mapquest's estimation) and we are going.

We have nothing planned but to get ourselves out the door two hours before the start time.

That was our one and only plan.  We are doing nothing else that does not support that plan, people!  Stick to the plan.  The wedding is today.  Today is the day.  Let's stay focused and stick with the plan.  (I start to sound like the wedding planner, instead of a guest, but I can't let my guard down.)

At 9am I mapquest the destination and write down all the directions, including all the "if you get here, you went too far" little tips.

We lay out outfits (some of which we bought and washed and dried the night before) and get ready for showers.

The power goes out.  Welcome, Murphy.
Ok, ok, so you can drive to your dad's house to iron your pants.  How are we going to reheat leftovers for lunch?  I've already taken a shower, so I guess I'll just style my hair in some slicked-back bun concoction that will attempt to look stylish since I can't use my hairdryer to style it properly.

While I'm still getting ready, Bill calls to tell me: our sitter has gotten a flat tire en route.  Does he change it or let her wait for her roadside assistance plan to send someone?  Change it.  Change it.  They could take forever.  Landon can have some dried apricots to tide him over.  (Unknown to me he ate nearly the whole bag)

Bill comes home.  Our sitter arrives.  We gather ourselves and our wits and are only 15 minutes behind schedule, but this is ok, because we are 1 hour, 45 minutes from Wedding and only 1 hour, 8 minutes from destination.

See how that should have worked out just fine?

But we've skipped lunch and have grown hungrier than I think will be tolerable.  (I rue this thought)  Let's just pull over and get a quick snack.  So Bill runs into Vitamin Cottage and buys food we feel too paranoid to eat and roll with so we take another 15 minutes to eat and drink and settle our grumbling tummies. I'm so paranoid about Landon spilling on his new sweater, in fact, that I have him take it off and eat shirtless.  Chocolate milk gets all over his face; crumbs spill all over his front.  It doesn't matter that we are not rolling.  This is how my four-year-old eats, and I should have remembered that.

Let's move on down the road.  We are now 30 minutes away with only 45 minutes to get there.

I read my carefully copied directions and we follow them perfectly.  We read each road sign to each other so we won't miss a turn.  And we get hopelessly, terribly lost.  Out on country roads with little to nothing in between.  We are so close, and ridiculously far at the same time.

As panic starts to circle in for a landing in our car, I start jabbing at Bill's smart phone that often makes me feel like a fat-fingered moron, and this time is no exception.  I can't get mapquest to actually search for the address I entered.

I call my sister for help.  As we get farther out toward Kansas she says, "Turn right at"

"Turn right where?!  What? Where?" I plead with dead silence.

She calls back.  She tries talking faster.  The smart phone wises up and cuts us off sooner.

Finally, like an air traffic controller landing a disabled plane, she guides us in with urgent precision, rattling off directions and crossroads without waiting for reply.

Bill drops Landon and I off at the door to go park the car in the totally full lot.  And now Landon has to "go".  Poor kid, the apricots are catching up with him and will not be ignored.  There's just no rushing some things, I'm afraid.

So finally, and at long last, after making it our only mission to get to this wedding, we slip in the back 11 minutes late looking for that last-row pew to settle into.  It is not to be.  The guests are all seated at round tables that will double for dinner reception seats.

But we saw the wedding.  The songs. The candles.  The radiant bride, the handsome groom.  It was beautiful and sacred.  Landon sat as attentive as I've ever seen him.  I settled down and enjoyed the moment.

Of course, I mislaid my glasses at the reception and had to go back and fake-casual search while Bill found them in the car and hoped our cell phones would work one last time to bring me back. But that's not really a Murphy thing.  That's kinda par for the Jodi course.

Our names are in the Guest Book.  And I was gratified to see that they were not even the last.  Had the pen run out of ink right as we went to sign I would have said Murphy got the last word.


PS: The confession is in the title.  I skipped step 11 when I wrote the directions.  When I told Bill today he said, "I wasn't going to say anything, but I was pretty sure that was what must have happened."

Dear beautiful, sparkly-eyed bride, may you live with a love that does not call you out on your mistakes at unproductive times, is not quick to blame, and just keeps driving til you get where you need to go.  Even when Murphy rides your coat tails all the way there.  

Choose Your Own Adventure Parenting

Wouldn't it be nice if parenting approaches could occasionally be chosen like choose-your-own adventure novels:

If you are going to "drop the hammer" and issue a consequence, turn to page 8.

If you are going to overlook this mistake and use humor to diffuse the situation, turn to page 12.


Just like I did with choose-your-own adventure books, I'd want to read up on each outcome before committing, to see which one I liked better.

Page 8 might say, "Bravo! Your child learned the seriousness of the situation and was spared greater harm later." But if it said, "Nice going, control freak!  Your heavy-handed approach alienated your child and constructed walls that your little hammer is no match for now." I would go straight to page 12 that says, "While surprised and grateful you didn't "lose" it, your kid knows you mean business and won't be going that way again. Win-win. Well done."

But in parenting, we're not reading the story.  We're writing it.

That's not even right.  It's more like we are dictating it stream-of-consciousness into a mini recorder for someone (a therapist in twenty years?) to have to sort out.

If I submitted our parenting narrative to an editor they would have to wonder, "What were you trying to do with the mom character here?"

Here she's laughing about his random use of the word poopie butt, and over here she's doling out consequences for his refusal to leave potty talk in the bathroom.

In this chapter she lets him leave her home with pants on backwards, in a too-small shirt and sandals with black socks blithely saying, "Pick your battles," but over in this chapter she's making her whole family late for church by insisting that he change into something nicer.

In this part she seems perfectly content to let him pour his own breakfast milk and cereal, but several pages on seems to find it intolerable that ice would fall all over the floor when he attempts to use the external fridge dispenser to put ice in a water bottle.

Here is the letter I would receive after they read a manuscript that covers even a month of my parenting story:

Dear Ms. Brown,

Thank you for submitting your novel, Where's the Mom? for consideration.  We are unable to publish it because we feel that the mom character is not believable enough.  She seems more like an amalgamation of many moms you may have known, instead of one person with a consistent outlook and predictable response pattern.  How will your readers learn to love her if they can't ever be certain which direction her character is going?

How, indeed?

Back to why I think my parenting narrative would only work for a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel.  And even then, a lot of the outcomes may be less than satisfying.

I guess the word I'm going to hang my hat on is "Adventure" and enjoy it for what it is: a real, true, messy, beautiful, mixed-up, wonderful life.  That I get to choose.  My own parenting adventure that I'm making up as I go along.

If you agree, turn to page nine.

Just kidding.

The First Scoop is Nothing

"Begin writing about nothing," she said, "and see where it goes.  Don't wait until you have something very specific to write about."

Sage advice for the girl whose blog is called "Along this Beautiful Path," don't you think?  I mean, don't paths meander?  Aren't the rambly ones with unexpected twists and turns the most fun to explore?

And just the freedom to not be profound is like opening the bulk bin at a whole foods store and being told to scoop away with no heed to the fact that the item is $18.97 a pound.  Go for it.  Who cares if you scoop up dry little mullety seeds that you'd only want to serve to the birds?  Just scoop away!

So write about nothing.  And if you get a bunch of random words that don't stick together into something cohesive....well, maybe they can be scattered along the path like seeds to help me find my way back to more meaningful trails.

And so I look in my raw materials bin tonight....and it's a crazy trail mix of things I could write about:

Do I dare scoop up the story of how my nipple was squeezed by a near stranger today to find out if I was nursing?

My latest Kindle read is begging to be given some good press.

And speaking of Kindles, am I convert?  A seeker?  A fence-straddling pragmatist?  Kindle has changed my life and I really didn't see that coming. I'd so love to hear from others on that topic!

Then my newest theory of housework has been percolating and I think if I tried to defend it, I'd be able to see if it is valid: it is actually harder to keep a home if you are a stay-at-home mom, not (as I originally imagined) easier.  And when I say "keep" I mean keep clean, keep organized, maintained, and even at times, happy.  My perceptions and reality have had a head-on collision since I came home fulltime with my second born, and we're all still filing our grievances before we settle up.

And what about the beauty of a friendship that can pick up effortlessly after being timezones apart for eight years?  (I do so love you, Shawna!)  How does one even stay properly grateful for treasure like that?

And what about the beauty of a friendship that will never fade no matter how far apart for how long we are? (I do so love you, Beth!)

And what about the beauty of one that gave me a never-to-be forgotten experience that only could happen because you said yes to something that asked you to be bigger, braver and more flexible than most of us want to be? (I do so love you, Ali!)

And who gave me permission to scoop into my empty head in the first place to sift around and find gratitude there?  (I do so love you, Laurel!)

It may be next to nothing to anyone else.  But to me, I'm pretty happy to be snacking on gratitude and good memories.

The World According to Landon

In an exceptionally curious mood, Landon was asking about everything he could see out his window on the way home.

Since I was a passenger, too, I had more attention to give, more details I could provide.  

Horses spotted: "How big can horses get?"

"Different sizes.  It depends on the breed.  Draft horses, for example, are really big."

"Oh, WOW!  Where do those live?  In Africa?"

I am completely confused about what is so exciting about draft horses, and why he randomly guesses their home to be Africa.

"No, they live here, buddy.  In the United States."

"I've never seen a giraffe-horse before.  Do you think some day we could go see them?"

What?!   Ahhh, DRAFT horses, not giraffe horses.

Yeah, your idea was cooler.

~~~~~~~~~

Landon poked his head into the laundry room and said,

"Do you know what concerns me about this room?"

Did my four year old really just ask me that?!

"No, what concerns you?"

"That pipe.  I'm really wondering what it is, where it goes, and stuff."

Yep.  That's a concern, alright.

I kept folding clothes.  He proceeded to narrate a complicated life story for the mysterious pipe to himself.  I think when it was all over, torpedoes, flooding, and catching air were all involved.

It sounded like he got his concerns resolved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Me: They will bring the bad guys to justice.

Landon: Who's Justice?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mom, I am creating a wheelchair accessible firetruck!

Why, buddy?

So when the firefighters rescue someone in a wheelchair, this little lift thing can help them onto the truck.

Cool.

Wait, when did he learn the phrase, "wheelchair accessible"?!  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mom,  what happens when you die?

Okay Then.  Here we go. Biggie in the middle of a random moment.  Let me collect my thoughts.

Oh, I know, actually.  Your body stays still and your spirit self rises up in a little ball and says goodbye to everyone and then goes up in the sky to heaven.  Just like in Epic when that flower queen died.

I think we can go with that one for now.  Thank you, Epic. It was a rather lovely way to show it.

Early Morning Ambitions

I heard a tap-tap-tapping at my window.

It got incorporated as a sound effect in my dream. (Right? Hasn't your alarm clock been a truck backing up?  Endlessly.)

So I'm not entirely sure how long my patient son was standing there, fully clothed, tapping at my bedroom window.

I dragged my sleepy self over to him, wondering if/how I'd missed my alarm clock.

"Mom!  I'm just going to be out here (in our backyard) kicking the soccer ball around, kay?"

"Sure thing, buddy.  Have fun."

Here's my gauge: If baby ain't up, mamma ain't up.  The rest of you ambulatory people are just gonna have to kick it a little on your own, kay?

Kay.

Great.  With all that tapping, now I'm gonna be dreaming some creepy thing about a raven, only this and nothing more.

Might as well get up before the baby after all.

I've got Mr. Soccer's breakfast of champions to clean up.