Dec 24, 2007 | This Life
It’s officially Christmas Eve. I’ve wrapped no gifts. Done no baking, unless you count the kiddo’s birthday cake. Haven’t grocery shopped. Still need to make the switch from birthday tree to Christmas tree. IZ is miserable with a sinus infection (and now no doctor to see!) and the boy woke up with 102 temp accompanied by vomiting. Oh and our cat decided to sneak outside for a walk about the neighborhood this evening, which means I’m still waiting for her naughty self to saunter back home so I can go to bed.
I’m ready for December to end.
On that note, I am officially calling the year over on this blog. I’ll be back in January, which sounds like an eternity but is really only a week away. It’s difficult for me to leave this week, it’s probably my favorite time of year to write. But this December has not been kind: hurricanes and flus and crazy encounters! Oh My! I’m ready to leave this retched month behind. I can’t quite bring my self to “feel it” this year and there is little point in forcing myself to smile like I mean it. What I am feeling is the urge to hibernate, hang out with my boys, and collect my thoughts a bit. Maybe actually sew something. . . craft a little, sleep a little, eat a lot! I think I’ll run with that for a week—a wee bit of self care goes a long way. Might I suggest some of you consider some self care too?
I hope that this holiday brings you peace and you face this New Year with a sense of hope. Thank you all for your love and presence this year. You’ve made writing this “little blog” so worthwhile. For your comments and laughter, friendship and support, I am eternally grateful. I couldn’t have a better community of readers.
Hark! I hear the tinkling of little bells on my porch. Unless Santa is a day early, that will be Snickers wanting in and my signal to say good night and au revoir. Until the New Year, I am wishing all of you a lovely holiday.
Joyeux Noël ,
Wendelynn
Dec 21, 2007 | This Life
First, I want to thank all of you who sent email or called. Your support means a lot to me. What I appreciate about each of you, is that to the one you didn’t sugar coat my stupidity—but loved me just the same.
We’ve all had those moments where we’ve metaphorically found ourselves strolling down the aisle of Safeway with the back of our skirt tucked up into our waistbands. In a hurried attempt to salvage our pride, we glance around to see just how exposed we are. Tugging down our skirt, rearranging ourselves in an attempt to restore our composure, we discover that we were alone in the aisle. Whew. That was close. Oh, sure, there is a nagging thought about who might have seen us before we discovered our stupidity. I mean, how many times has our mother told us to always check the mirror before going out the door?
My mom’s best friend in her young adult hood found herself in an desperate need of a bathroom while driving on the freeway with her husband. Central California is full of tumble weeds and acres of alfalfa, but certain stretches of highway are devoid of facilities. Her husband pulled their car over and she promptly jumped out, put her head in a bush, and squatted to pee—fully exposed to oncoming traffic.
I know! Her husband was just as shocked, “Why didn’t you turn the other direction?” It’s here that I ruin the story. Because, this woman was witty and smart and on her toes and had a very clever comeback. I’m far too punchy today to remember it correctly (forgive me mom, I’m failing all over the place here!) but the implication was that she couldn’t see passing cars and they couldn’t see her. They weren’t likely to remember her backside either.
Me? I’m in the aisle next to you, the aisle that features a BOGO deal on humility and a 50cent coupon off on shame featured in the weekly flier. It’s packed over here—half the town is crammed in witnessing my demise. Their making an awful mess, munching on cheetos. . . because of course my fate would play out in the chip aisle. (Ok, that’s damn clever, and you’d better appreciate it! The lengths I go, people!) It’s a real temptation to pull the skirt over my head and pretend that they are not there.
But they are. And, in processing this most of the night (there’s a reason I’m punchy, sleep deprivation is an acquired taste.) that is probably what gets me most. I am completely cognizant that my blog is read by locals. Locals who lurk. Locals who may or may not have my best interests at heart. I’m paranoid enough to assign ill-intent. This is not news, we’ve established I’m unhinged. But my reasons for thinking so, are not entirely unfounded. I’ve just not bothered to catalog the splinters in the eyes of my neighbor—there’s a damn log in mine!
And then I go zen, breathing grace into the universe, hoping it will breath life back to me.
I cannot control these people. I can’t assume intentions either. Although, to quote a famous Dane, “It reeks in here, I suspect fish.” I can only try to protect myself. I have no doubt there is more processing I must do. IZ has spent hours extolling the logic—long time readers will know that I am heart centered, and logic only goes so far with a person working from that space. But beyond my grief I have words to say about Grace and our ability to see it. About Reconciliation and our ability to offer it. Words that would ordinarily be meant for open consumption. Words that would not be censored. Words that would be offered with good will, in hopes of changing just a small part of the world. Words hard earned and laboriously honed.
Words that are muffled by the skirt over my head. Bottom line, the presence of ill-intentioned people has me running scared, questioning my every move. Re-evaluating every glance, every conversation—seeking meaning in pointlessness.
I don’t know if I will write these words. I do know, that if I do, they will be password protected. I know, I’m sorry. It’s a PITA, but please bear with my wounded soul. When confronted with your transgressions, the wisest most honorable thing to do at the time is to bear that pain. But there is more, more that I am attempting to work out off line, but I know me. . . vestiges of it are going to leach into my work. It’s inevitable. And I want the freedom to say what I need to say, without looking over my shoulder worried some person with an agenda might seek to use it against me.
And long time readers know, that if I threatened to write on a particular subject that I probably won’t follow through. That being said, should I actually write a password protected piece, the password is freely offered to those of you who have commented and been a part of this community. If you are a lurker, don’t bother asking. I’m sorry, but there is a price to be paid for not being a contributing part of this world. You were sold out by another one of your own—and I have zero compassion.
Ask any blogger what they hate most about blogging—the ones with sophisticated stats packages will tell you “Lurkers.” I’ve long held that I’d prefer people to participate, I would! But I understand reading without being a part. I’ve not hidden who I am, boils and all! If anything, this has firmly established that I am human—and I try really hard to be honest about my own limitations. If only as a cautionary tale. People, don’t do as Wende does, m’kay? Lurkers are as much a part of the fabric of blogging as the next reader. It’s when they step into my personal life, even by my own fault, that I draw the line.
As for the rest of you… I adore you. Please know that I’ve read your emails and I appreciate your feedback. I will be getting to them, I will… but this is Friday and I am painfully, woefully behind in all that I must do. The photo above is the vintage fabric I found to make a banner for a surprise party planned tomorrow. Uh. yeah. So not happening. Sadly, the Strawberry cake he requested, his mother will be purchasing at Safeway this year… there is no time to bake it, and considering how punchy I am, it’s probably a good idea for me to stay away from things that could blow up! My most urgent prayer request is that Safeway actually has enough of the cake he wants. Because otherwise, I’m screwed. Joy, joy… guess who didn’t have Strawberry Cake? I can sleep when I’m dead, right?
And don’t worry about my skirt, mom. I’m wearing pants.
Dec 20, 2007 | This Life
Now, if only my view to the holiday was as unobstructed!
(more…)
Dec 17, 2007 | This Life
These are my boys and I have to tell you, I’m fiercely proud of both of them. Yesterday, our church held their Christmas pageant. Boy Wonder was cast in the leading role and poor IZ got roped into being a part of it as well. There was a half-hearted attempt to get me involved, but I demurred, “You have both of my boys, someone in my family needs to take photos!”
Our church habitually does things without much forethought—and usually very last minute. Drives me insane. As much at the photo taking excuse was the truth, I didn’t trust myself not to lose it with rehearsals. I had a year of nuttiness, and I think that exempts me for awhile. I hope. From the tales IZ came home telling, yeah, it was best he was involved not me.
So, this hour long play was thrown together in 4 rehearsals–and had my child on stage for the entire time. He was in every scene. Oh. My. To his credit, he memorized all his lines and delivered them with such style, he had the entire congregation waiting for every line. I know this, because every last one made sure to tell me they thought he had a future on stage. I’m sure he’ll scoop up his Oscar right after he blows up some State University’s Chem Lab. As for the drama, I didn’t tell them he was working under the weather. He spiked a fever the night before and woke up with gastro-intestinal trouble. Still, there he was performing his mighty heart out, and I’m his mother so I’m entitled to be proud.
Some how, and I suspect the work of the Great Spirit as the “how”, they pulled it off. IZ, showing more grace than I’ll ever muster, prompted small children through their lines as part of the cast. There’s my big man, bent over a mike whispering lines to tiny little angels. Who in turn would intently look at him for their lines, and then would turn to the audience to repeat them–gleaming all the way.
And they did gleam. Every last one of them.
Me, I floated around the sanctuary taking photos with a flash. Oh, the atrocity! I’m not a fan of the flash, but that space leaves you little choice. Beep, beep, FLASH! 80 or so times. I thought I was reserved, candidly. I’m sure I annoyed the congregation, but ask me if I care.
Now, looking at this photo of my boys, all I can say is, “Ridiculous!” This child is turning 11 on Saturday and won’t stop this growing thing he insists on doing. IZ is 6’3″ and look at my child. RIDICULOUS.
Flash or no, these two make my heart sing.
Dec 14, 2007 | This Life
Life does not always go as planned. In fact, I suspect it rarely goes as planned. I don’t think we have much of a choice but to plan, but it’s probably in our best interests to not expect anything to go as predicted.
Or maybe that’s just me. I don’t know, I’ve always done things a bit, uh, backwards. Out of order, not according to plan. Rebellious just because I can be. So, it should not have surprised me when our child arrived in this world 5 weeks early. Three days before Christmas. Exactly what I had planned not to happen.
It did, though, surprise me. He was a much longed for and planned baby—a feat I wasn’t sure I’d ever accomplish. Prayers from many people, of many faiths accompanied me on the journey. If I was going to accomplish having a baby then I had definite opinions about when I’d like that child born. Looking back, I laugh at my insistence that I could do anything “normally”. It wasn’t in my DNA, it certainly wasn’t in my child’s either. Despite knowing this, we made a conscious choice: no babies in December. Our preference meant we “didn’t” do things to make sure that was the case. I knew going in that I was in for an adventure. I just forgot to factor in premature babies. Otherwise, we would have extended all that not doing by a few months.
I don’t know. . . Santa and Jesus are hard company to keep. Especially when you’re a kid. Yet, I’ve met my fair share of adults who struggle with having December birthdays. A lifetime of being overlooked has a way of making December babies wary. They are torn, I think, between wanting their day to be special and all the programming we receive that tells us we shouldn’t be “selfish.” Not wanting to put people out, not wanting to make demands in an already hectic season, I watch December babies shrink to the background, while the rest of us fortunate enough to be born in some other month celebrate birthday weeks or birthday months.
Now, 11 years later, I marvel at my hubris. I marvel even more that it still bothers me he was born in December. I wasn’t ready to have a baby 5 weeks early. Not then. Not now, really. My frustration, in light of his miraculous birth seems trivial. It is tempered by my awe. I remain flabbergasted by the feat of motherhood. . . and I suspect most of you feel that way, no matter how your children arrived in this world.
My child arrived early. A miracle baby. He will turn 11 in a week. As is our tradition, we decorate our tree as a birthday tree first, waiting until after his birthday to decorate for Christmas. It seems a small act to honor life’s unexpected glories, a small tribute to say, “You are special.”
So, for my darling child, who will read this when you are older. . . please know: You are special. My December baby, you were wanted and loved, even if you were planned for January. The very best thing, right next to your father, that has ever happened to me.
And it does not escape me, that your first act of rebellion was committed before you took your first breath.
Dec 8, 2007 | This Life
There was once a house made of ginger and cardboard flavored flour. The builders of this house were firm believers in prefab construction and so they picked up a complete kit for their dream home at their local food warehouse. They would build a house that could withstand storms and winds and trees that swayed. They would build a house that could shine even without power, gleam even without electricity. It would be hard work, but they could do it, together.
Eagerly they tore open the countless bags of candy. Ok, the six bags of candy; dumping the contents into mismatched bowls. At first, the builders took great care to make sure their structure could withstand the perils of their land. A little bit glue here would make sure the chimney withstood any howling winds and a little bit more glue there kept the door from blowing in. . . if it could blow in. One could never be too careful, what with nibbling cats in the region and a naughty terrier roaming the land. Carefully, and with oh-so-much precision, they assembled their new abode, taking great pains to secure their roof. Recent history had taught them that Winter storms were never polite, preferring to steal lids and hats and roof shingles.
But soon, instructions and thoughtfully photographed suggestions were tossed aside.
“I bet I can put more candy on the my side of the house,” proclaimed the younger builder.
“I doubt it!” challenged the other builder. And so they set to work, plastering candy to the sides of their new home. And when they were finished, they stood back to admire their work.
“YOU! You took all the candy for your side!” wailed the younger builder.
“I did not, you had plenty of candy. I just work faster than you.”
“But! But, that’s not FAIR. My side is hardly covered!” the young builder gasped.
“Yes, but you will get to eat my side as well as yours.” the older builder replied.
“Well, then, in that case, you win,” smiled the young builder.
The older builder swallowed her “I told you so” and smiled. Normalcy is not reconstructed overnight. But ginger houses built with love and laughter and lots of sugar certainly make an excellent foundation.
