A long time coming...

This post is a long time coming. In fact, I doubt anyone ever reads this anymore because I've been sporadic - at best. But my "hit or miss" posts are chronicle our lives, and someday my kids might care. So, I post. Randomly.

I like California.

I am not such a big fan of typical public schools. Oddly, this surprises me. It shouldn't, but it does. This opinion is an old one, well formed, researched and entrenched. It began before I graduated from college while still in the Department of Education at CU. I did my practicums in middle schools and the Juvenile Justice Center and I saw things. These things disturbed me and kept me up at night. Mostly, I discovered that, while school was okay for lots of kids, many, many others suffered there. Literally, suffered. Anyone who fell outside one standard divination of the bell curve was well and truly marginalized. Gifted. Learning Disabled. Short. Chubby. Physically handicapped. Clutzy. Poor. Doesn't matter what the metric for normalcy is; kids outside of it suffer.

Actually, my own public school experience was kinda sucky. So, maybe my opinions started far before college, and were formed in Kindergarten, when I fell outside the norms. If people had been in to diagnosing ADHD then I might have received the label. But I was ADD before it was trendy, and I was a girl. I was well behaved. I just struggled. I felt stupid through high school, and it wasn't until college that I realized that I was actually smarter than most of my peers. Luckily, I had a really stable home life and my parents made some good moves to help me negotiate the war zone. I survived public schools, and even have a few fond memories. Yet for me, on a very basic pimal level public schools = scary and unsafe.

Now things have changed since I was a kindergartner, and even since I was an undergraduate. Policy has sifted. No Child Left Behind rules the day. Standardized Testing guides the classroom. Now kids on the margins shouldn't fall through the cracks. But they do. Oh, but they do. School isn't a good place to be something other than Standard.

Before, these opinions were largely academic. Here and now it has become deeply personal.

I have a child on the margins, and I watch him suffer.

Last year Caleb was a first grader, and a homeschool kid. We home schooled that year out of necessity, not from a place of joy. Basically, I brought the curriculum my kids were using at school home, and we did school at home. (Which, if you are a homeschooler you know, is not the same as homeschool, but that is a post for another day). Anyway, I watched Caleb progress slowly. I kept telling Eddie, "Something is not right here." But Caleb was basically content. By the second semester I knew I needed a shift. I started moving back to true homeschool (or at least true to me homeschool) and I had Caleb evaluated for ADHD. We put him on stimulants and watched his academic performance excellerate rapidly. Unfortuantely, the meds had sidefeffects that were intollerable. Caleb couldn't sleep. His eye began to twitch, which I later discovered was "ticking" and often a precursor to the onset of true Tourettes syndrome. Anyway, we took him off the meds, and hoped that we would find solutions and relief at the Gifted Charter school he would begin as a second grader.

Westgate (the Charter school) is a school based on universal design and employs the best practices of both gifted education and special education in the typical classroom. And, um, there were a lot of quirky kids there. Basically, it was a school for kids on the margins. Quirky was cool, or at least very acceptable. Caleb was doing okay there even without the meds -kinda.

Then we moved, and put Caleb in Public School.

And within a week we saw him flounder, fail, and begin to sink. He developed headaches, stomach aches, nightmares, and serious school anxiety. He was really, really behind and confused. I watch him walk around in a fog. Actually, thinking back, I remember the fog. it's a feeling I haven't had since my own public school days. Phychologists call it disassociating. Basically, I checked out. My body was there, but my mind and heart were elsewhere. School sucked, and though I physically had to be there I could choose to be elsewhere too. On those days I lived my life in 3rd person. I have seen my son do the same, and I remember the pain that was the precursor to the fog. And I am determined, my son will not live a life in 3rd person, he will not be a person of the fog.

So we've looked back into medication. And we've found a med that works for ADHD that is a non-stimulant and doesn't lower the threshold for ticking. For now, Tourettes is held at bay. And the new med is working. We're seeing slow and real progress in Caleb's ability to attend.
We've also had him evaluated by an audiologist and found that he does have a real auditory processing struggle. The sound of school is a challenge for him - it's a jungle of noise. For now, he has no guide book, compass or map through it. The school has been responsive, in their slow and beauracratic way, but they teeter on gray legal area, and they are a machine that will not be deterred. They are a locomotive on the tracks of standardization and policy, and my son might be a casualty.

I am faced with 2 options.

A - Hop on the train, like a ho-bo. And use my influence to direct the choices of the school. But like a train it has mass and inertia that is not easily influenced.

B- Get off the tracks, and help my son without the resources or policies of "THE DISTRICT".

And it's decision time...

Fasdblink

this is our life.


http://daysofwonderandgrace.wordpress.com/category/prenatal-exposure/2011/07/20/personal-best-is-not-predictive/#entry

Easiest, Hardest, Most Surprising.

Yesterday I asked Eddie what has been the easiest, hardest and most surprising thing about this move. It was a pretty good question, I thought. Here are my answers:

-EASIEST
-Finding a church
-Finding my way around a new area
-getting unpacked and settled

HARDEST
-Helping the kids navigate really hard school stuff
-Watching Eddie struggle with acclimating to a really difficult job
-Finding time to exercise

SURPRISING
-We found a big, pretty traditional church that we are becoming acquainted with. "Big" and "Traditional" have not been the adjectives of our recent church history, and we didn't think a church like that was our speed. Yet we are finding community, and stability and worshipfulness in this place.
-How much I've enjoyed intentionally hanging out with the family.

Abby's Ballad

"I'm (n)inja Abby.
I'm Inja Abby.
We are the Inja Girls.
The spiders are sad and my mom is working on her ipad
I PAD!!!!
It makes me happy!
I am a precious girl, girl...
watch me I (know) how to jump!

She's an original, that girl. And I'm the only one who got to hear that particular song; and it's a one and done kinda thing. No one will ever hear that particular song again. I am the lucky one.

So anyway....life is bumpy post-move. We're kinda taking a pummeling. Caleb is struggling in school. Emma is struggling in school. Ethan isn't actually struggling much, but he likes to complain sometimes anyway. Abby and I are pretty much sick of hanging out with each other - we are the only people we know and we've henceforth been too busy with survival to meet anybody.Eddie is treading water at work, busting his *ss to keep afloat. So last week I'd had it. HAD IT! I decided I was done watching my family take a beating, and I would not sit idly by and watch it happen.

"Dammit", I said. And I really meant damn-it; like Satan, you and your minions are headed to Hell, and let me help you on your way. You will not wreak havoc on my family. So I've been getting up early and praying, praying, praying.

God and I had a little heart to heart.

"You said you wouldn't leave us, you said you'd never forsake. GOD, do you hear me? We are drowning here! Show up!"

I've been reading this book off and on; It's called "When God Interrupts". When I don't hate it I really like it. The author says, and I paraphrase, "When you feel as though you've been abandoned by God you've only been abandoned by the God of your own making. Not the real God. He doesn't abandon and He doesn't behave how we believe he should. He's the Jesus that showed up after Lazarus died, not before. He's the Jesus who waited till after the grief and loss to make an appearance, and He's the mysterious one who doesn't abandon and never forsakes. He is the One worth knowing."

And though we are in the thick of it, and we are still taking a beating, I do believe we have not been abandoned. More than that, He has been gracious in his blessings.

-We found a church we like (an ironic story for another day)
-We got a great doctor, and some teachers who are really on the ball sorting through the crisis with Caleb.
-Abby (or theoretically special needs child) is doing really well. We found her a preschool too.
-We live in a beautiful place, and somehow it soothes when the suckage here gets pretty intense.
-Eddie has someone at works who understands.
-Caleb made a friend. So did the other kids.
-A lady I met invited me to coffee; I might soon have a friend in this fine state.
-Wine is yummy and cheap when you live this close to Napa.

So it's a mixed bag. Hard stuff. Lots of blessing too. Then more hard stuff.

On Community... or lack thereof.

We love Colorado for lots of reasons. The climate. The mountains. The blue sky. But, mostly, we love the people.

California has lots to love too. The Pacific Ocean. Need I say more?

It does not, however, have our peeps. We have a real live grandma and grandpa and great grandma and grandpa in Colorado. We have aunties, and uncles and surrogates by the dozen. We were loved by and love some really amazing people in the fine state of Colorado.

And that is a wealth that is hard to come by. So our search for community in California has begun, and we feel like those poor blokes in the gold rush. Treasure isn't easy.

We started our prospecting at church, because as much as I sometimes hate church, I love it more. Our dearest friendships, and most loyal war buddies have nearly always been forged at church. So we went. And there was a choir, and some of the women wore panty hose, and a fair number of the dudes wore ties. I had some PTSD-type flashbacks to my Baptist roots. I begged Eddie not to make me go in while we were still in the parking lot. Eddie told me to put on my big girl pants. So, I did. It wasn't TERRIBLE. I actually liked the hymns, and watching my 8 year old rock out to the orchestra.

Alas, this was not our community.

We miss Gary Duncan greeting us with a warm smile and an off-color joke as we walk in the door to church. Where can you get that, I ask?

Do they even make churches like that in California?

I hope so, because we could use a little church without the varnish. We don't have the time or inclination for the spit and polish. We'd just like to meet some folk who love Jesus. Like REALLY. LOVE. JESUS. You'd that church would be a good place to look.

Then maybe they could come over, and grill burgers and drink beer, and lemonade. And we could be friends.

I guess I'm thankful that I know what the mother lode looks like. I know the taste and texture of real community. I know the good and gritty of true, deep friendship. I know what I'm looking for, because I know what it's like to live rich - the affluence of love.

So if your a praying person, pray. Pray, that we will find this treasure, and our kids will live this treasure too. We want this kind of wealth for their future more than the type that will buy a glass mansion teetering on the edge of a the hills overlooking The Bay.

Rich friendship.
Real community.
To know and be known.

Head in a Cardboard Box

I don't have my head in the sand.

It's in a cardboard box . Figuratively. Figuratively - ish. My head has been in a cardboard box, literally, more often as of late. But figuratively, my head has been in a box too. Or maybe there are boxes in my head. The analogy is crummy, but the fact is still true. Moving across the country has consumed all of my headspace.

Today I listened to NPR and discovered that the economy sucks in Europe and its affecting the Euro. Yeah..missed that one. Probably most other stuff too. 'Cause, as I said, my head has been literally and figuratively in a box.

I would like to re-emerge from corrugated cardboard, but I feel it may yet be weeks away.

Week 2 in California

Week 2; status report:

-The kitchen is unpacked.
-The bedrooms are unpacked.
-The bathrooms are unpacked.
-There are still boxes.
-I am tired of boxes.

Mostly, these remaining boxes contain pictures, mirrors and other wall hangings. There is also a smattering of office supply boxes and a few boxes of unpacked books (for which we have no shelving). In another 2 weeks I am hoping to be living in a box free home.

The biggest unpacking frustration is the lack of a good linen closet in our new house. Our current "linen closet" looks remarkably like a large cardboard box. It contains towels, sheets, Children's Tylenol and toilet bowl cleaner all mixed up together. The packers were men who didn't understand the finer points of linen closet packing - apparently. Or, maybe the just didn't care, and dumped everything into a wardrobe box figuring we'd be in California and too far away to hunt them down - yeah, that's probably it.

What this new abode lacks in linen closets it makes up in location. We are literally right next to an open space. A 1 minute walk up a small hill yields views of the bay. At sunset it is breathtaking. B.R.E.A.T.H. T.A.K.I.N.G. And if by chance you walk a minute down the hill, you will cross a little bridge and discover yourself walking on a path lined on one side with blackberry bushes....which taste yummy in scones. As I said, the kitchen is unpacked. If you keep walking down the blackberry path you'll cross a road, and enter Lake Chabot Park and Open Space. There are miles of trails, great fishing spots, and importantly, a snack shack that sells Push-up Pops. Ethan cannot wait for his friend Jonah to visit. Jonah loves to fish. Ethan loves push-up pops. The days have been planned, furthermore Jonah's entire future has been planned, as the kids have decided he should become a Park Ranger at Lake Chabot. Actually, that might be a good gig for Jonah, but as he is 10, we will give him a few years before he has to decide.

This is Small Town, USA - the neighbors are friendly, and charmingly nosey. The old guy down the street brought over beer to share with Eddie. They sat on the porch shooting the breeze for a couple of hours. Freshly picked orchard apples have been left on our porch. Flower's delivered, and a dozen of introductions made. Nice place, this.

But it has not all been sunshine and roses (or blackberries and sunsets). We still don't have our internet working. The California branch of ATT must hire employees from a pool of high school drop outs and losers. We are under-impressed. Our cable doesn't work, either. And pretty much nothing is straight forward. There are big emotions and their coinciding behaviors happening round here. Eddie's work is overwhelming, and challenging. I don't often see him legitimately "frazzed" (I just made up that word). The dude can handle more responsibility and stress than most everyone I know. But he's "frazzed".

Today, we're finalizing the kids school enrollment. Tomorrow should be there first day. We are all freaking slightly...the poor kids have to start another new school, and mid-year this time. Here's betting a therapist will here about it 15 years from now...

So breakfast needs to be served, and I am the short order cook round here. I must be done. More to come...

soon

It is Tuesday evening and the truck pulls out on Friday morning. Hyperventilating here.

I said goodbye to my mom and my sister and my best friend today. I love them all dearly. Bittersweet.

My husband is in Castro Valley and I am in Northglenn. We are states away, and I am sick of it. Lonely for him.

And in the middle of it am feeling so blessed. Because I have a husband I miss. Because I have a family to love and who loves me.
And because I have a friend who has loved me through many seasons. Because I have a God who never changes and never abandons and he is good yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Amen and Amen

Funny thing just to remember and 13 years.

Abby is cute these days. And sweet. She's just loving preschool and is a sponge. I need to post a picture and tell the stories so I don't forget 4 - it's worth remembering how she sports the superman suit with pink cowboy boots and pig tails. It's worth remembering how she is so proud to write her name.

While Eddie and I were house hunting in California my parents and dear friend, Dawn split kid watching duty. My dad overheard this comment:

" Grandpa has curly hair, Mommy has curly hair. Abby has normal hair. Dad just has a head!"


Love it.

But that daddy with just a head, is her favorite. They've got a special thing going on the two of them.

Caleb - because he is himself, did a funny thing too. He wore his pajamas to school because he thought it was Pajama Day. His siblings told him that it's actually next week. I suggested that he wear jeans and pack jammies just to be safe. But he was surely sure it was today. He was wrong. Luckily, Caleb wears hand-me-down karate pants as jammies, so no one even noticed. Well I'm sure someone noticed, but not for the reason Caleb thought. It's just that red spiderman t-shirts, white Karate pants and brown hiking boots are kinda a fashion statement in and of themselves. He was so utterly unflustered by the whole thing, I wonder if his feet touch the ground at all some days. When I was his age mine rarely did. The drummer in this kid's head plays a rhythm few others hear....and I like it.

Ethan is 5 foot 3 , give or take I figure I have until he is twelve to still be taller than him. How can this be so? I rocked in my arms and then I blinked. He is a young man to be proud of, and I can measure my life in his inches. The Silicon Valley is only a bridge away from our town, and I'm thinking it's just the place for him.You should see the things he invents - he's brilliant and I pray the world will not squash it.

Emma had the good sense to be born in the daytime, and not interrupt my sleep. Emma has good sense. Always. And opinions. Always. She is her father and my sister, Amanda, wrapped up together - though I most distinctly remember giving birth to this child - it's not a thing one forgets. Still she is practical, and hard-hardworking, and a cheerful and sweet. She is a rock-star babysitter even though she is technically too young, she is old too; she's worn a lot of responsibility. Emma is not so much like me but is so many things I admire in the people I like the best.

I'm feeling sick to my stomach sad, and torn about moving next week. It's the big hairy unknown that looms and its autumn in Colorado - my favorite. We are leaving so much. But my favorite things are coming with me. These 4, and the man I love.

And in case I forget in the craziness Happy Nearly Anniversary, Eddie. These 13 years have been a breath and a lifetime. I'm too much a cynic to believe in love at first sight, but with you it was a near thing. And its only gotten better, richer, sweeter, and deeper. I'd move to the moon to be with you.

Beautiful Things Out of the Dust

I haven't blogged for months. I've been busy. And I've been in denial. But reality has a way of rearing its ugly head, so here I am, telling the truth.

We're Moving.
Out of state.
Like Northern California out of state...
In 10 days.

Thus the busyness and the denial.

The Reader's Digest Version of the story is this: Eddie had been traveling to good ol' CA for months, and the bulk of his work had shifted west. We missed him, and decided we should all live in the same state all of the time. We're making it happen quickly, because, right or wrong, we've embraced the "rip the bandaid off" approach to trauma management.

I should have emotions about this. I am sure that I do, and they are likely strong and overwhelming emotions. But I am not feeling these emotions as they are nicely stowed away in my knapsack called Denial. Every once in a while they creep out and I am paralyzed by their force. So back in they go; I'll carry them across state lines and unpack the loneliness, grief, and sadness there. After the boxes.

I tote the knapsack - it will HAVE to be unpacked. But I carry with me these two true things as well. 1. Just because I know the blessings I am leaving here, doesn't mean that God doesn't have some (yet unseen) blessings in store for us in Northern California. 2. God always creates beautiful things out of dust. It's kind of his M.O. So what feels like loss, can and will be something lovely - someday.

And their are the views of the San Francisco Bay, and the lovely walking paths around Lake Chabot. And Muir Woods, and Napa Valley, and my darling Mediterranean style house with all the french doors and a lemon tree. There is the actual real diversity of people and people groups, and there is sleeping next to my husband every night of the week. Plus, there is the story being lived out in front of my children that just because it's hard, and scary doesn't mean you don't do it. Good adventures are always hard and scary, the safe ones are never the stories worth telling.

Weekend at Bernies and the Death of a Church

I'm going to tell you a story about the death of a church.

It's the death of the church that we love and have served. So it's personal.

About a decade ago a bunch of people from Chicago land decided to plant a church. Now Chicago isn't exactly the Bible Belt,but it is steeped in a traditional church culture. So these adventurers were looking some place a little less churchified, a little more heathen, to start a church. Someplace like Thornton, Colorado. And they were spot-on. Many of us living in North Denver are nominally christians, if that. Many, many more of us just don't see that great of a need for God in our life. These Chicagoan were up for a challenge when they decided to plant a church in a community that didn't particularly like church.

But still, they had vision to help people "find their way back to God." So they up and moved their families across the country and did, in fact, start a church. And that church did, in fact, help people find their way back to God. There was a season of life in this community. There was a season when people who would never typically darken the door of a church would be welcomed in and introduced to God. People were excited, lives were being changed.

Now church looks like Weekend at Bernie's. The few of us that remain shlep around this dead thing, and pretend it is alive. I'm not saying God is dead, or that he is no longer at work in the lives of the people in our tiny community. He is alive. We are alive. And He is at work. But I AM saying that this entity that began in the hearts of some folks from Chicago is well and truly dead.

Toast.

None of those people from Chicago are still here. They are all gone. All of them. And their vision is dead too. And this death, in this way, brings with it a cacophony of emotions.

-Relief. We're tired of carrying around a dead thing. It's hard work with little payoff.
-Deep sadness. Because it was a good dream, and it was a good thing, and people did find their way back to God. And now it's gone. Plus, we love the pastor and family who planted this church, and we know that this will hurt them. And that sucks.
- Failure. We wonder, "Could we have brought this thing back to life?" "What did we do wrong?"
-Frustration. There are those in the Thornton area who used to be part of this church, but left it. Some of them are tipsy on the sips of gossip of our failure. A In all my arrogant self-righteousness I want to shout, "We were in it for the long defeat. Sure, we made mistakes, but we inherited your mistakes as well. Who are you to feel vindicated by death?"
-Fear. What's next for us?
-Anticipation. What is next for us?
-Responsibility. How do we do this well? How do we honor what was, but not pretend it still is. How do we help those of us left to process the grief and move on to a new season in their journey?

It feels like an autopsy needs to be done. What was the cause of death? How can we determine it? It's like the guy who spends years eating donuts and then dies of a heart attack. The donuts didn't kill him exactly. But they contributed to death. And I want to look at that -not to blame or shame, but to be real. Because we need to know the donuts that compete for the vitality of a church. We need to know the poison with sprinkles.

But I don't have the energy for that yet. Not yet.

I 'm 35

Why does 35 sound so much older than 34? I know 35 isn't old, but it does land me smack dab in the middle of adulthood, and that's just strange.

Yesterday was my birthday. It was a typical day - or almost typical. I went out at about 10 with Abby to run errands and when I came home a little after 11 I had a surprise waiting. The kids had made "6 Margaritas" the Happy Birthday version of 5 Margaritas Mexican Restaurant. This one day restaurant was complete with a hostess stand (w/ mints), tableclothes, candles (unlit), and a homemade menu.

Have I had better mexican food? Yep.
Did the wait staff nibble on my nachos? Yep
Were my microwave enchilladas piping hot. UM...not so much.

Yet I felt loved and special, and my kids made 35 memorable. Just thought you should know...

If money were no object...and such.

It's more FASD and special needs for today. Skip it if you'd like.

The thing about FASDers is they can be successful when their environment is set up for success. Provide the necessary support and they function quite well most of the time. This is a double edged sword. Because when it looks like these kids are doing just fine people get hesitant to pay for the services that make the success a possibility. It's the functional equivalent of saying to a wheelchair bound kid, "You get around just fine, why do you need that dumb wheelchair anyway." Well, it's pretty obvious the kid has mobility because of the wheelchair. You take away the wheelchair, you lose mobility. But somehow the same logic doesn't apply when the supports look like a Occupational therapy, speech therapy, picture schedules, sensory diet, and therapeutic parenting techniques.

So the challenge for me is to build in the right supports to help our little girl succeed without her appearing so functional that the schools won't pay for services and develop an IEP (individualized educational plan). She needs support, and early intervention is our best bet to capitalize on brain plasticity. It will require a sophisticated ability to work the system. This is a particular specialty of mine. It's how I got through college with great grades and little effort. Seriously - if there is a rule to be bent or twisted to my advantage then I will find it. It's funny that this quirk of mine could serve my daughter well.

Anyway, if I had my druthers these are the interventions I would use.

I would have Abby continue with OT, and add in speech therapy at Children's. I'd also have her receive OT and speech at preschool. Plus, she might need a para just to keep her safe, and the kids around her safe. Also, I'm interested in pursuing NeuroReorganization type therapy with Anna Buck and then top it off with iLs. Plus, of course, we need some therapeutic parenting tools for ODD type behaviors. Also, I'd like to go to the Children's carseat clinic for an Abby-proof carseat. And I think we need better locks/alarms on our doors. Plus, Northglenn's police department can give me an Abby tracking device. (You can, indeed, microchip your kids) I'm not quite sure what she will need in an IEP, but you can bet that I'll figure it out.

Link a dee loo

My blog has been just cram packed with FASD stuff lately. I do occasionally think of other things. Yet this is where we are as a family. And if you know my family in real life it's helpful to understand this stuff too. Here is a great LIhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifNK.

McDonald's Playland

WE WENT TO McDONALD's PLAYLAND!!

It was busy with moms and kids looking for a break from the heat and cheap entertainment. I was hesitant. Many days a trip like this would be disastrous. But Abby was well regulated today; I knew it. I took the risk, and .....SUCCESS. No drama. It was so utterly normal.

That's the thing...sometimes it's normal,and sometimes....well not so much. And I get all jumpy and hyper vigilant trying to guess what will happen. I can almost always "talk her down" if I catch "it" in time so I'm always tuned in and keyed up for the potential trigger that lurks. It's a weird way to live.

In other news...

I've been running. I was so pathetically and ridiculously out of shape when I started that running for 2 minutes made me suck wind. Now I can run for 25 minutes non-stop. To true athletes out there this is totally unimpressive, but this is huge progress for me in 4 weeks time. I will, indeed, be able to run the 5k when Eddie does his first triathlon.

The thing about running is it is really really helps with my depression. It works better than the meds (which I'm still on) and has the side benefit of being good for my heart. I gotta stick with it. The temptation is to do too much too soon. So far, all my body can take is 3 runs a week. My knees and shins ache if I do more. So as a person in her mid-thirties, I need to honor this. I need to take a "long haul" approach to things. In an effort to do this I'd like to start swimming. It's good cardio too, plus it's a nice upper body workout to augment the running, and low impact. Trouble is: I suck at this too. So I've decided to figure it out. To hell with looking cool. I 'm gonna just look stupid and chubby till I get it...because otherwise I'll just stay chubby because a was too big of weenie to look stupid. If Eddie can do a sprint triathlon, then I can too. I can. It's just gonna take awhile.

fasd

"FASD is devastating. What disability results in sufferers being good at small talk but without substance? Then add a kind heart but a violent temper, complex needs but no insight, a small frame with big expectations and perhaps worst of all, a damaged mind but a beautiful face."

- Elizabeth Russell

Downward Mobility

"To mature as a follower of Jesus means to be led to the same powerless places he (Jesus) was lead. It means the road of downward mobility in the midst of an upwardly mobile world. I do not say this with sadness, but joyfully, because the downward road of God is the road on which he reveals himself to us as God with us...

Nobody wants to be on the road to downward mobility. It costs too much. If you aspire to it, you don't understand it. It runs counter to the road we desire to travel - the one that leads to upward mobility. By right, we should get to pass important mile markers that measure our success - marriage, babies, career, house, better career, bigger house. We should be on our way. So why would Jesus ask if we love him, and then, if we get the right answer, promise that we will be carried to a place we don't want to be?"

-M. Craig Barnes, When God Interrupts

I've been thinking, "How do you make church relevant in culture?" The question is tricky, and the answer is even trickier. Here's why:

Doing "relevant" church runs the very real risk of becoming "McChurch, I'd like fries with that." We can become Drive-Thru Jesus.com because we want to speak to the American Consumer. So, we are tempted to make church into a product to be consumed. Makes sense, kinda. Phenomenal messages, excellent children's ministry, hip worship done well, these things DO get butts in seats. It looks like success. The problem is that once the proverbial "butts" are in seats, they stay there - mollified by the spiritual equivalent of Krispie Creme Donuts. Our church communities become anemic, malnourished and obese all at once, and we have done it in the name of relevance.

The Good News that God is With Us,and For Us is utterly relevant. But God is on the move and if we are to be Christ-Followers then spiritual butt sitting will not do. In a place like Colorado, an invitation to join a spiritual journey/adventure appeals. It fits with the culture of this place. We ski, and hike, and mountain bike, and kayak. We do adventure.

Except...

The road of the disciple is one of downward mobility. Always. And that is not an easy sell to any culture anywhere. It's one thing to tell a people, "Get off your fat asses and join the adventure." It's quite another thing to say, "By the way, the road we're traveling will likely put to death the dream you had for your life. It will be harder, longer and more treacherous than you ever imagined. In the end, it will cost your life."

"Would you like fries with that?"

McChurch, and real discipleship don't mix.

This does not mean our messages should be lame, our worship tacky and outdated, and our children's ministry pathetic. Excellence matters. But I'm not sure we can ever be trendy. "Come and die" doesn't lend itself to trendy. A promise of downward mobility doesn't make for good copy in brochures and door hangers.

Case in point:

-God called our family to adopt.
-We did.
-It was hard.
-It will become harder.
-Hard will last forever.
-Part of that hardship was the fact that the dream I had for my life had to die.

Today, we met with the physician overseeing our daughter's multi-disciplinary evaluation. I was expecting one diagnosis. I got 4. And one more looms in the future. We have a virtual alphabet of disorders with acronyms. These acronyms spell out a future full of therapies and challenges, challenges that will never be outgrown.

In our daughter we received the gift of downward mobility. Moments of this have been excruciating. Yet, I have found the quote I began with to be true. As we have followed Christ on this path of downward mobility, I have encountered the Living God more frequently, and more potently than ever before. I have met my God here, on this road littered with the skeletons of dreams decomposed.

Put that on a brochure.

waiting...

Waiting sucks.

Every time there is an unknown around the corner I get fidgety.

Adoption is full of waiting. I was so much more comfortable with the process of adoption when we were in a season of doing. Homestudy. Classes. Fingerprints. These I could do, but I hated the seasons where my only task was to wait. And there are months of waiting.

More recently I applied to have the kids enrolled in a charter school. There was a fair amount of paperwork - which was fine by me because I got to DO something. The cruddy part for me was when there was nothing left to do but wait.

Now I've done everything I can do to get this job I might maybe want. But now I have to wait. There is nothing more to be done. And hence...I discover yet again that I am not a peaceful waiter. I'd rather do than wait for the script of life to unravel like a scroll.

Funny thing. I actually feel pretty much okay with going back to work or not. I could live with either. There is an upside and a downside to both. What I HATE is the wait. I'd like to know, or at least hold on to the illusion of control by doing some task, no matter how banal.

A theme emerges, does it not? Maybe I should think about why I hate to wait, you know, while I'm waiting...

Many things and wide open space

My brain is a whirlwind. There are fragments of thoughts and new ideas blowing around in disorder. Writing is how I nail those pieces down and begin to mosaic them into some sense. Right now there are so many pieces that I've not blogged because the prospect is daunting. I'm not sure I can arrange all the thoughts and ideas into a pattern that makes sense. So this one is not for the grandparents. It's not for anyone else. It's just me. Nailing down some stuff. A first attempt at order.

I'll begin with Thursday. Thursday was the beginning of the long awaited evaluation at the Child Development Unit at Children's Hospital. I love that place. They are amazing, and they understand kids. End plug. Anyway, we spent our morning with a team of psychologist who did IQ type evaluation with Abby. Before the testing they spent time playing. The room with the testing was a pale green shade and the florescent lights were off. They fitted the table and chair size just for Abby and took breaks for "heavy work" ( a regulating technique we use at home ). Essentially, they set her up to be successful. Which, as a mom, I appreciated. But I found it interesting to watch how they understood she needs an adjusted environment. She just does. And it's work. Now, granted, all kids do there best when set up to succeed, but florescent lights and background noise wouldn't derail my neurotypical kids.

So, with Abby, it is a constant dance; we go before and behind her making adjustments along the way so that she can be successful. To most people they are invisible, these adjustments, but if we slack off (and sometimes we do) her little world quickly unravels. The psychologist got this. And they commended me on my bag of tricks. It brought tears to my eyes, because what most people see is a sometimes out of control kid, with parents who don't appear to be disciplining her. It felt good to have what I see validated, and what I do appreciated. Because very, very few people get it.

We have more testing and we'll be seeing more specialists, but the IQ testing was revealing. She absolutely aced some of the language testing. She even seemed to get some of the analogies. But there were holes in her visual spacial reasoning and her ability to grasp complex directions. The scores haven't been tallied, but they reveal a pattern consistent with data on prenatally exposed children: Strong expressive verbal skills, challenges with math and abstract reasoning.

So I am highly suspicious that we will, indeed, get a diagnosis that is on the Fetal Alcohol Spectrum. I'm glad of this, and sad. A diagnosis explains behavior. It gives me tools to advocate for Abby as far as an Individual Education Plan and public schools. It has protective value for her as an adult, and will give her access to services and support. I can look into therapies that are appropriate to this type of brain damage. BUT. BUT. It ain't going away. It's forever. And the implications are far reaching. Sometimes they will be subtle and sometimes they won't be, but they are forever. Forever feels like a long time. For her, and for us.

One of the challenges for me to accept as we parent Abby is a need for a stripped down version of life. She thrives on simplicity and routine. She always will. I think that this is boring. I feel guilty that my bigger neurotypical kids live with a stripped down, simplified version of life too. I feel like they miss out. They do miss out. Just recently, I read an article from a brain researching MD, specializing in trauma (Bruce Perry), and it was encouraging. Because he said boredom was good for kids; it's the catalyst for creative play. Play is great for all types of brain development. So those long afternoons of legos and pretend are nothing to feel guilty about. They were an opportunity in disguise.

The challenge remains though, how do we keep life simple for Abby, but allow opportunity for my older kids to stretch their wings? For us, part of the solution is Westgate. School offers respite for them, because Abby is not an easy little sister. I'm praying for good friends and fun experiences, because I cannot do it all. In the past God has brought people and opportunities into our path when I didn't have the bandwidth to meet every need. I will have to trust he'll continue to do that for us. For Eddie and I. For the "biggers". And for our peanut too. (By the way Dad, your camping trip with the "biggers" falls into this category of meeting needs I cannot. Thank you a thousand times. It's huge for us.)

Another piece of the mosaic: this job possibility. It's looking quite likely. I'll hear very soon. I ran across this position on accident, and it looked like such a good fit with my passion for adoption issues and my background in education that I applied. It's the kind of job I've dreamed about. Yet,as the possibility sits on my doorstep I find that it's not an easy decision. Simplicity and me working do not go hand in hand. It definitely complicates things. Just as the kids need respite from a life of catering to special needs, I find I need it too. And that is guilt inducing, because those needs aren't going anywhere and they do need attending to. I wonder if my decision to work will complicate things in a not so okay sort of way. Yet...it'd work great with the biggers, and I do have good options for childcare.

There are other pieces too. Like Eddie traveling, and church, and upcoming adoptions, and family etc. But here is my start, my nailing down of a few. More to come.

The jury is out...but I might like to run

Eddie is training for a sprint triathlon. Not me. I thought a 5K would be a legitimate first step from my former coach potato status. I'd never been so out of shape. It was down-right yucky. I had to do something...something drastic.

So I've been "running" (and those quotation marks are appropriate) for about 4 weeks now. I am slow, and slowly getting into shape. But I'm discovering that I actually, might actually, maybe quite possibly could like this thing. Jury is still out. I'm not committing, but I feel so much better after a "run" that it makes me want to do it again.

Really good running shoes help.
30 minutes away for kids double help.
Potential to get my fat a** in shape, or at least less fat is quite motivational as well.

If I can do it so can you...think about it.

For the Grandparents

I've been slacking in my blogging lately, so here's one for the grandparents. It's a quick "what's up" for those who care.

-Eddie is going to travel again. He starts next week, and continues traveling every week for the foreseeable future. This time he'll be headed to northern CA.

-We're going to try to squeeze in a summer vacation and crash his business trip one week.

-I was called back for a second interview for a part time job I've been pursuing. It's a cool job; I applied on a whim. I think there were a lot of applicants, and I'm surprised it's gone this far.

-We've been hangin' with the Crocker girls while Matt and Gretch house shop in NJ. They've found some cute houses in cute subdivisions (townships?), but I'm gonna miss those Crockers.

-Tomorrow is Abby's appt. w/ the Chidren's Development Unit. Pray she acts out. Really. Because so much of the time she's sweet, but we want them to see when we see her acting "off".

-The big kids are looking forward to a camp-out with Grandpa next week.

-Caleb is the winner for the "most teeth yanked" award. He's had 3 pulled so far. He's going in for 3 more, and then, after that 6 more will get pulled. 12. sheesh. Here's a quick shout out for good dental insurance....

Kota our Hungarian Sheep Dog (aka PULI) is working on her dreadlocks, cause that's the hip look for Pulik. I'm feeling sorry for her though because her coat is so hot during the summer. We may shave her down, but then instead of looking like a tough Puli, she'll look like a poodle, and Eddie is not a fan of that look..

-Haven't even started the summer reading program for kids at the library. I want to do it, but Abby throws a fit at the library, and it's anti-motivational.

-School's back in session the 20th of August. I have a feeling we'll be shocked at how quickly that sneaks up on us.

I have dark eyes and you have blue

Everyone says Abby looks like me. And she does...in a your Native American and I'm a white girl,we share no DNA, sort-of way. I like that we look alike(ish). It's nice to share brown hair and high cheek bone with my little girl, and it makes things easier to look similar.

Yet...

Abby has been taking inventory of those in our family with blue eyes and those with brown. So far its 5 to 1 blue to brown. Except for if you count the dog (and we do) then its 5 to 2.

The point is: she knows. She knows she's different, and she gets a confused and sad look in her eyes. I adore, adore, adore my little girl, and I love her dark eye, but I think she wishes she had blue eyes. And for that hurt there is no "kiss it and make it better." trick in my bag. I could never wish away such a beautiful feature, I love who she is...but I would wish away the hurt and confusion in a heartbeat.

The Desert

I struggle with contentment.

Always.

Maybe this is everyone's story, but it is, most particularly and poignantly mine.

I have my dad's wanderlust, and creative spirit, but with a mother-heart need to nurture. It chafes. And I am raw with twisting. I look for some breathing room in this straightjacket life - this crazy blessed straight-jacket life.

The need to create stability and predictability for my crew is at odds with my dreamer me - the other one who get's so little face time. Case in point : the only class I nearly flunked (aside from high school physics - which doesn't count) was home economics. This is not my forte. I strongly and passionately dislike home economics. Strongly. Passionately.

That 1950's image of motherhood sticks like popcorn wedged in my gum. I can't sew. I hate to craft, and flunked out of scrapbooking (sidenote: how is scrapbook a verb - tell me this). I never send thank-you cards or birthday wishes. I only learned to bake because I like cookies. I can cook and like to, but my family would rather eat hot dogs. I refuse to iron. Laundry is a bane. I like a clean houses; I just don't like to clean it. I suck at coordinating play dates. I hate planning birthday parties. And I do not particularly enjoy playing nice with other parents at my childrens' sporting events. Hotwheels drive me crazy. I vacuum up Barbie shoes. I'm not even the finance person in my marriage - balancing the budget is Eddie's job. He does it better.

Luckily, I do like to garden - so there is that.

I need a homemaker wife, wife #2 or something. The details of this proposition are still a bit obscure seeing as I am dead set against polygamy, particularly in my own marriage. It would help if I got to be the head wife, and wife #2 was fatter and uglier than I am. But still, it's problematic don't you think? So the kicker is this: somebody has got to do the homemaking. Homemaking is important and necessary work. I just don't want to do it.

But I love my kids.
I love my husband.
I love them so much it hurts.

I am good at things too; they just aren't homemaker-ish. I'm a good teacher. I can write. I can manage complex projects and solve complex issues. I'm more creative than most. I can paint. I can sing. I can write a curriculum and I am an adept student.

Can't iron!

I have a little girl who thrives on structure, and simplicity. She does well with order and slow, measured steps. When we live like this she blooms, she blossoms into the best version of herself.

But I am dying here.

I cried out to God -
"I see desert. For miles and years stretched out in front of me. If I take the next step my following step will be the same - blistering my feet with the redundancy. 40 years of slow measured steps and crock-pots, is this it? Is this all I get? Because I cannot do it; this long obedience is too long. I see sand, and beating sun to the horizon, and my soul shrivels at the thought. Hope to dust and blown away. I need a new vision. Something less sand and heat,and not this barren land of same slow death."

I cried to God tasting the salt as grief escapes. There is shame in this, so I never let the grief out. What kind of mother wrestles with her role, and shake her fists like I do? Good moms don't. But at last the grief is a torrential downpour. And my tears water the desert.

The desert stays.
I have no other landscape.
God did not remove it.

40 years stretch out and it's all desert. The same desert. Simple, slow life. Unseen service. My feet on the ground moving in the same direction; long obedience is the calling.

When I quit my teaching position, I was so terribly sad to give up a job I loved. I knew it was best for my family; I didn't think it was best for me. Yet God showed me that hard things were for my good too. He could bring me into a spacious place, a place with elbow room and a chance to breath deep. I had hope.

I didn't know the spacious place would be a freaking desert.

I prayed to God for a new landscape. He said no. There will be no wife #2- fat and ugly. I am to be the homemaker. Yet the desert is more than I can perceive, and he has offered to walk with me through it -to open my eyes so I can see true. Desert land is more than redundancy. It is a land of great intensity, and variety. It's hot by day, and cold at night. And the desert blooms with spring rain - flagrant color. It is nocturnal animals, clever amphibians, survivalist tendencies and divine design. The desert may be arid, but it is not barren. It is not barren. There is life here in this place. In this calling there is hope. Strangely, I find that I cannot see these things if I walk away from the God of the Desert - even but a step. I see sand and years away from Him. But when the steady hand of Divinity entwines my vision gets tangled too. And I see with His eyes: the desert is a place of beauty.

Hi, nice to meet you...think carefully before you agree to be my friend.

I used to be kinda hip and fun, and generally a low-maintenance friend. Not so much anymore. Because anytime we choose to care for kids of trauma we adopt their trauma too. In fact, a very large majority of people parenting FASDers end up being treated for post-traumatic stress. Trauma is contagious. And this makes for a messy life. Messy is not terribly attractive. And, sadly, I do understand why casual friends won't choose to stick around. They miss fun and hip. Heck, I miss fun and hip.

I read a statistic just recently that said 80% of families who adopt special needs kids find themselves abandoned by friends, family and church. They literally become outcasts. When fun and hip become broken and messy people head for the hills.

I feel so very blessed that the story of the majority is not our story. We have great friends who love us even in the mess. We have a church community who has not run for the hills. And our families, though they sometimes think us nuts, have not been scared off yet.

It's part of the job, but it's in the fine print

When I signed up for this motherhood gig I thought the job was mostly about rocking babies and pushing jogging strollers. Really. I was THAT clueless. But there nothing like "living it" day in and day out that helps to bring reality into focus. And apparently, this parenthood deal is a bit more complicated than I first assumed.

I am Butt Wiper in Chief. I have been wiping other peoples butts for over a decade now. Yes, it's been 10 long years of monitoring the elimination patterns of persons who um...aren't me. We should be closing on this season of Derriere Care, but in a cruel twist of fate, our youngest has a prognosis that includes extended potty training years. But someday, maybe even someday soonish, there will be nary a diaper in the place and I'll never here, "Mah-ummmm (my kids can make mom a 2 syllable word) I need you to come wipe my buns." Moms of older kids remind me that I'll miss these days, but I can't imagine grieving the title, "Butt Wiper in Chief."

There is another role that was probably in the fine print of the job description - the fine print I never read. It's a role that IS rather extraordinary and unfortunately a challenge for me. It's that of a humble listener. This weekend was crazy, and today my kids need me to be present, and available. They've all needed to come over and sit with me awhile. Abby just sat snuggling and talked my ear off for 20 minutes. The others have done the same. Kids need to be heard and seen -they need to know I think they are worth knowing, not 'cause they are my kids, but just 'cause they're cool.

I was really grumpy this morning, especially about the chaos of our house. Messiness makes me crazy. My kids LOVE to wallow in messiness. It's a difference we have yet to resolve. So as the morning went on my anxiety mounted as I realized I was losing the battle. Just in the nick of time (almost - I bit the heads off of only two of my children for general slobbery.)I quit caring. It's just mess - the mess will always be here. My kids, probably won't always want to sit on my lap and tell me about their lego creations, or the book their reading, or pretend to feed me plastic food. Carpe Diem right?

What is normal?

I haven't been blogging much lately because all I have to say is sort of depressing and un-fun. Depressing and un-fun is okay now and then in bogger-world, but really, nobody wants to read that all the time. I wouldn't want to read it all the time.

So you have been duly warned.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store with my littlest. This is always a challenge, so much so that I have totally forgotten what it's like to buy groceries like normal people do. I know as I go from isle to isle people think, "That is a seriously bratty kid, why doesn't her mother put a stop to the behavior." Several years ago that is what I would have thought if I had seen someone like me walking through the store. But I have learned that what you see is not always the whole story.

First, you must know, grocery stores are almost intolerable for youngest. There are unusual and unpredictable sounds. There are too many people. There are weird florescent lights and transitions at every turn of the isle. It is overwhelming on every level and Abby becomes dis-regulated quickly. Dis-regulated is therapeutic parenting speak for when a kid cannot manage what's happening on the inside (i.e.anxiety or nuero-chemical wackiness) or outside (environment) appropriately. Disregulated kids shut-down, or rage, or act really bizarrely.

Now all of us are constantly "regulating" our responses to internal and external stimuli. For instance, loud parties stress me out and make me feel anxious, so I prepare mentally before I go. I find corners to hide away in when the noise becomes too much. I "regulate" my response.

The trouble for kids of trauma, SPD, or brain damage is that they are working with severe disadvantages. Their cortisol, nor-epinephrine, dopamine, and seretonin levels can be totally wacky. From a chemical standpoint they are unable to regualate. Add in a little post-traumatic stress, or dysmaturity and you have a DISASTER in the making. And were not even addressing the sensory regulation that should be happening in the brain stem (but isn't) or the frontal cortex that misfires and causes poor impulse control. Bottom line: what you see as the behavior of a bratty or weird kid, but there is so much going on behind behavior that makes it impossible for kids to meet the expectations of society.

So when you see my kid screaming and hitting at the grocery store please know that both my daughter and I are working extremely hard to keep it together. We've worked hours to even be at a place to make it through. Before we even get to the store we have done "heavy work" or spent time in the therapy swing. We've done joint compression to change brain chemistry.

My daughter will probably go through an entire pack of gum because the chewing motion changes brain chemistry too. She might be wearing tight leggings and no shoes. I do not need your two cents about how to keep my child warm. Her lack of footwear is intentional. It helps her regulate. She might have a potty accident or two, or she might be four years old and wearing a diaper because she literally cannot manage "potty" stuff with everything else going around her Abby might be belligerent, run away, or scream and yell. Please know that we do not allow the behavior, but spanking is entirely ineffective. It might look I am using distraction or bribery; I am. Because when my daughter is overwhelmed typical consequences cause her freak out even more. It would be like trapping a wounded animal in a corner... a stupid thing to try.

You take going to the grocery store for granted, but for us it is a major feat. It takes 2 hours, and one melt-down screaming tizzy fit is progress for us. We've worked hard for that. We will both come home exhausted. We will talk it through, and roll play appropriate responses. And next time it may, or it may not, go any better.

4 year old in the house.

It's Abby's birthday today. She's 4, and my how time flies. Just yesterday we brought her home, it seems.

Birthday festivities were simple, b/c simple is the best plan for Abby. We had hot dogs, watermelon and french fries for dinner. Her choice. Then we ate Umizoomi Birthday cake and opened presents. It was just the 6 of us and she was happy with that. I am not a lover of birthday party planning.I hate it. So it does my heart good to prepare a simple little affair for Abby and know that it was the best possible choice for her as well. Motherhood sans guilt, it doesn't happen often so I enjoy the moments when they come.

Abby is a challenge. She is. So it helps that she is so stinking cute I cannot stay frustrated. Plus, she is so loving and sweet. Her trouble with transitions and sensory input sometimes hide the kindness and goodness that motivate her. Abby just wants to please, and shines with affirmation. She finds pleasure in the simple things and has just about the best belly laugh I've ever heard. She is affectionate and silly and absolutely crummy at holding a grudge. We so love her and feel so blessed she is part of our family.

Happy Birthday Sweet Girl.

Unicyle

I bought the kids some flip-flops for our upcoming camping trip to The Sand Dunes. They were cheap - even for me, and I'm pretty much the master of cheapness. $.50 is a price that can only be beat by free. Anyway, the kids wanted to know if they were girl or boy flip-flops. "There unisex," I replied, "both boys and girls can wear them."

Emma caught on quickly, "So when I outgrow mine I can give them to Caleb, and when Caleb outgrows his he can give them to Abby."

Caleb took a minute to ponder this one, and then joined in. "That's the great thing about unicycles."

Quick update

I STILL don't have anything cute or pithy to say. But I know the few that read this are looking for updates with kids etc. Inquiring Grandmas want to know...

-We are foster parents now. Of kittens. Gretchen suckered me good, and now 3 little kitties have taken up residence in the kids bathroom. They are so cute. The kids love them. I like them more than I let on. Eddie is entirely ambivalent, but he is gracious. Because the people he loves love them he tollerates. The kids are pushing to become permanent kitten foster parents, wherein we get a new batch as the "old" ones are leaving. We shall see...

-Spring fever has hit and motivation is waning. I would feel guilty about this except I know the same is happening in every homeschool, private school, and public school across the nation.

-Abby got into the preschool we wanted her to go to for FREE. We don't meet the income requirements for a subsidy, but her history qualifies her.

Yesterday was the preschool evaluation. Abby peed her pants on the way in. Then she started to meltdown but good because they transitioned her through 4 rooms in 30 minutes. Abby doesn't do transition that quickly; those teachers started to catch on as Abby's eyes flooded with tears, she pretended not to hear (or comply), and went off to play with the off-limits kitchen set.

The evaluator was gracious; she'd sat through evals. with hundreds of typical kiddos, and new something was up. I filled her in a bit. Then she wiggled around the numbers in our favor and got us into the preschool that meets the needs of special ed kids. She did NOT have to do that.

"Hold up", you say. "Special ed?" Yep (though Abby will be with typical kids mostly). Abby does fabulously with experienced teachers who get her need for help with transitions. Teachers who understand giving choices, not ultimatums, have an easy time of it. Teachers who use simple language, create routine, and keep things structured and quiet will have no trouble. Special Ed teachers know how to do that. Brand spankin' newbie teachers w/o the training will be given a run for their money -by a four year old. I promise. So we got into the school we needed to be in, and I'm thankful for it.

-I want to go back to school. Grad school. I'd like a Master's in Social Work. I'm looking into it. But I know I need to hold off for a couple of years - probably. Tell me this: why is grad school so expensive even for a MSW? Social workers make terrible money, and they pay a lot in tuition to do it.

The kitchen sink

I have nothing important or interesting to write about.

So here is a bit of the uninteresting and unimportant:

We will likely be getting a significant chunk of change back from our taxes because of new adoption tax law. Getting a lump sum like that is sort of weird. What to do? We are STILL paying for the eviction of our tenants in our rental house. The responsible thing to do would be to pay that off. How unfun! We might do a little of that but we are also planning on re-doing our kitchen.

We like our house, but our kitchen is a lame 2 butt affair (My family measures the quality of kitchens by how many butts can comfortably fit in them. And by that metric ours is a serious loser). This little kitchen is dumb, because our house is pretty spacious, and there are lots of us. And we like to invite people over. The two butt kitchen makes things more than cozy. We bought the house in spite of the kitchen with plans to re-do it. Now, 4 years later or so, we're getting around to it.

Our basement is an apartment. This summer it will be empty. Seriously, how many people are lucky enough to have a spare kitchen for when they remodel the main one?
I'm looking forward the project beginning and dreading it. We're knocking out walls people and I despise dry wall dust.

As per our M.O. we are doing things on the cheap. Eddie will do the labor. We're getting the granite counter tops for free. We found a smokin' deal for high quality semi-custom maple cabinetry. (Maple b/c it's pretty and NOT trendy - trendy seems bad in a kitchen). I'm searching craigslist for new appliances - stainless steel.

Hopefully, if we do it right, it won't throw our lives into upheaval for long. But then again there is that all too true construction maxim: It always takes longer and costs more.

funny things

story 1 - I have a jar I keep full of nuts, like cashews, almonds or pistachios. It's easy and healthy snack food for skinny kids. So Caleb was recently busted for putting the pistachio shells back into the jar of uneaten nuts. The boys is quick on his feet, so he responded, "I was just putting them back in case someone found a nut without a shell. So they would be able to put a shell back on it."

Ummm... skeptical.

Because usually when I find a unshelled pistachio I try to put a shell back on before eating it.

Funny guy.

Kitty Kitty

My sister fosters kittens. Kitten are unfathomably cute. Seriously. WAY CUTE. So I'm considering expanding my orphan care passion to kittens. I'm allergic to cats, but kittens I can handle. And remember....WAY CUTE. Plus, my kids are big enough to really be helpful, and Gretchen insists that its easy and low maintenance. My biggest hang up...I think kitty litter and cats are kinda stinky. Any cat lovers out there who know what to do about that? Cause I WOULD win mother of the year for allowing kittys at home.

Another good post I didn't write.

HERE is another good post. Somehow when talking/writing about prenatal exposure its easier to refer to others. I've done the research. I've got crazy documentation that no one will see but Eddie and I. I am not a loon, at least at not in this regard.I know what I'm talking about. However, I FEEL like a crazy lady, like what I know and have learned is somehow not credible.

Babycakes is in a really good season. We've incorporated some parenting techniques that are transparent to others but essential for our family. No one sees what we see. But they WOULD see behaviors if we weren't doing what we are doing. Invisibility - it's one of the trickiest parts of this whole deal. It's like catching mist.

Well said..

She said it better than I could....so just read it HERE.

Not Your Neurotypical Kid

I finally got an appointment.

We've been waiting for our littlest to get an evaluation by Children's Hospitals Child Development Unit. It's multidisciplinary, multi-day evaluation is the best at diagnosing the cause of quirkiness neurological issues in kids.

Let's be honest: we've all got quirky neurological issues.

But my baby girl has diagnosable issues. I've hesitated to share them here, because I wanted to preserve my daughters privacy. It's her story, and there are many pieces of her story that will remain hers alone. But there is a need for the people that love her and interact with her to understand what is going on, so they can help her.

Abby has organic brain differences - damage. It's caused by exposure to damaging substances while she was carried by her birth mom. Most people would not be able tell by looking at Abby that her brain works differently. And, in fact, IQ tests would not identify these issues. She's got a normal IQ; counter intuitively, this does not negate the damage.

People with this kind of damage have predictable behaviors that are a result of organic brain damage. They include:

-Poor impulse control. They will steal, because they have the impulse to take with no thought to the consequences, or even that it's wrong to take what doesn't belong to them.
-Difficulty with cause and effect reasoning. They literally do not always learn from mistakes, so punitive disciple is totally ineffective. Punishment doesn't work because it assumes cause and effect reasoning.
-Difficulty understanding abstraction. Concepts like money, time and ownership are a challenge.
-Rigidity. Abby has a strong need to finish things, or do them in a certain order. She really, really struggles to make transitions. Almost any change is stressful. This is very typical.
-Sensory Processing Dysfunction.
-Auditory Processing Dysfunction. They may appear to understand you, but chances are decent that they haven't understood fully at all.
-Dysmaturity. Often there developmental age is far younger than their chronological age.
-Memory Problems. What was that rule again? Oh and it applies at home and at school?
-Communication Problems. Their oral communication surpass their ability to understand language. So it appears that they have good verbal skills and are understanding instructions, but they don't. This is often mistaken for defiance.
-Difficulty regulating sleep wake cycles.
-Unpredictable good days and bad days.


All of these struggles present in behavioral problems. On a bad day it appears that children with this kind of brain damage are spoiled, naughty, and out of control. As adults, the same behaviors can land a person in jail. It is all too common.

Eddie and I are learning that to effectively parent this little girl of ours we MUST look beyond behavior. Behaviors are cues that tell us she needs help. So we're learning NOT to parent behavior, but instead parent needs. It's a gigantic paradigm shift, and difficult to do.

So when Abby gets out of bed 6 times after we've told her not to, we are tempted to give her greater and greater consequences. It's usually totally ineffective. Warn. Spank. Bark orders. Threat more consequences - it just doesn't work. We've got to remember her brain is damaged so sleep is hard for her. Impulse control is hard for most preschoolers, and nearly impossible for her. Plus, she truly may have forgotten (though in her case - I doubt it.).

What works? Predictable routine. Simple language. Repetition. Warm milk. Melatonin supplements. Baby gates. It is far easier to avoid the problem all together, by setting up our daughter for success.

We would accommodate the needs of a child who is a paraplegic. We'd build ramps, and buy wheel chairs, and modify the layout of our home to allow for the most independence and success. Organic Brain Damage must be seen in the same way. The brain is somewhat pliant, but the damage is permanent. We must create an environment for success.

We keep our home calm. We establish routine. We lock up dangerous items, and secure doors. We use simple language. We repeat. We offer grace. We model correct behavior - try to move daily independence activities into long term memory. We minimize transitions, and are careful to not take Abby places where she will go into sensory overload if she's having a bad day. We learn techniques to help her regulate.

And most of the time, if we're doing our job well, and she's having a good day, you wouldn't be able to tell she is anything other than a typical kid.

Pithy Quote

I had a pithy quote I thought I'd blog. You would have been impressed with my whit. But it's upstairs. I'm downstairs. And if I go upstairs, one of "THE FOUR" will ask me for a drink of water, or an extra "tuck in". They might even ask me, "What's for breakfast tomorrow?"

No thanks.

I'll stay down here, where they're less likely to venture. 'Cause here's a dirty little secret: I hate bedtime routines: the tucking in, the glass of water, the prayers, the whole shebang. It makes me crazy. Because I am so DONE with kids by bedtime that I don't usually have the tolerance for the "I'm scared.", "I'm thirsty.", "I need a band-aid." crapola my kids dish out at this hour. I am sympathy challenged at my best. So, I have absolutely zero feelings of charity and empathy towards kids who think they need water after I think I'm entitled to "clock-out" for the evening.

And there goes my Mother of the Year Badge.

You think, "No, surely not. The Stephanie I know is compassionate, and empathetic."

Um. Not so much. Here's Proof:

Emma comes in crying, "Mom, Ethan is picking on me."

I say, "Stop being an easy target."

Or how about this one:

"Mommy, I hurt my head."

I respond, "Are you bleeding?"

"No."

"You're fine. Stop crying."

Yep. Yours truly has uttered those words.

But this is the perennial favorite.

I say, "How many kids are there?"

"Four", some sheepish kid mumbles.

"How many mommys do you see?"

"One."

"Get in line, kid, I'm doing the best I can."

Yep, that mothering award isn't casting long shadows around here this evening.










.

We're IN!

Yesterday, at precisely 5:01 PM, I received an email. It's the one I've been waiting for a forever of 6 weeks or so. And we're in, just like that.

We've homeschooled, mostly, and dabbled in private Christian school and now we'll be doing public charter school. Because all 3 of my big kids drew "seats" in the lottery for this fabulous charter for gifted and creative learners.

I love the idea of homeschooling, and have, at least in seasons, loved the actual doing of homeschool. But it's not the best choice for my kids now. And christian school is pricey. We've loved Christan school too. But it does tend toward creating "Club Jesus" and that is not what I want for my family or children. The neighborhood public school is bad, and actually not in the neighborhood. The district buses kids from our subdivision to a rough neighborhood. That would be throwing my kids into the deep end - not going to happen. So what to do? Well we found the answer in this little charter, and we prayed we'd get in.

We did.

This is big news. I'm thrilled - mostly. And a little sad for what I am losing. To a non-homeschooler this would make no sense. Believe it or not there are some sweet moments unique to homeschool. I'll miss it. Really, I will. But we're in a new season...a good new season, but still.

A few good reasons to homeschool

-We may (or may not) be a traditional school family as of next fall. It would be a good thing. However, there are some fairly fabulous things about homeschooling. For example:

-If you get a pair of rollerskates for your 9 year old birthday and you want to wear them while doing school....NO PROB! Roll on over.

-If you need an extra 15 hours or so in your life so you can research and then build a space station from Legos, then homeschooling is just your speed.

-If you have a cold and need to sleep in...no worries...stumble on down at 9AM.

-If your the teacher and you have a cold you can (and should) declare it a late start day.

-If you want to do you math in red felt tip marker you probably can.

-You can read science magazines for an hour and half before you fall asleep at night and it counts as school.

-If you need to stop to play with the puppy or you just need a break it can be arranged..

-Your mom just might let you pick your reading material for language, and it just might be the graphic novel version of Nancy Drew.

-Frog and Toad.

-Making cookies for math.

-etc...

When "Hell NO!" becomes "Whatever..."

I'm clumsy at using foul language - embarrassingly, so. Eddie, who grew up swearing like a sailor, can cuss proficiently (It's like riding a bike, apparently). So, my husband finds it "cute" when I am trying to be vulgar. It's irritating.

Mostly, I don't mind being a crummy at potty talk. I have a big vocabulary, and it's never posed much of a hindrance. However, there has been a few times in my life when my "no" has really been "Hell, NO!" Often, it's while metaphorically shaking my fists at the Almighty when I feel like he might be leading me someplace I don't want to go.

There was (still are) a time when I was (am) quite comfortable applying Christian principles to life's decisions and calling it "good enough". Fidelity, responsibility, stewardship, respect, these are good things. They are comfortably "christian". Yet, my God was not content with this from me.

He wants it all.

He's jealous like that.

And so I say, "Hell, NO, I won't go."

I will not live the radical adventure.
I will not choose the costly.
I will not uproot my dreams, and allow you to plant a new vision.
"Hell, NO, I won't go."

Because You will wreck my life.

Wreck it.

But time and time again I have been wooed to the "whatever." I am overwhelmed by the tidal wave of YHWH. His Love. His immensity. And I find my "Hell,no.." becoming "whatever." As in: whatever you have for me, where ever you take me, when ever you say. Because, in the end, there is nothing else that matters.

And the great tidal wave of YHWH tears through my life, and wrecks it. Every. Single. Time. Decimation. And then he rebuilds a new plan, a new vision, a new hope.

I'm talking in obscurities. The nuts and bolts of it seem a little too real - too raw - to share here in Podunk, Cyberspace. But I feel my most recent "Hell, NO!" slipping. Hands clenched are loosening, the ash of me dusting. It's the fine mist of a life I cannot hold.

The new vision is fuzzy. Unclear.

But the "whatever" is looming.
Whatever it is.
Where ever you take me.
Whenever you say.
No matter the cost.

M&Ms

Abby calls M&Ms: "L-M-N"s.

Sometimes having a three year old is absolutely magical.

What if...

I've been reading this book, "Irresistible Revolution." The copyright says it came out in 2006 - so I'm reading it in the wake of it's first run. I'm hip like that...missing trendy by half a decade or so. But I digress.

The book is good. Well it's good in a, "Oh Crap." sort of way. The dude (aka Shane Claiborne) is a hippy from Tennessee, and more recently Philly. Maybe he wouldn't own that title "hippy". But really: homemade clothes, dread-locks, and community garden = hippy, or neo-hippy. I went to school at CU Boulder; I know these things.

But Claiborne poses this question,and it chafes. What if following Jesus really changed the way you live - turned it upside down, even? The earliest disciples were absolutely wrecked for ordinary once they decided to follow Jesus. Many lost their homes, many lost family, and businesses. They were forced into exile and some died for their allegiance. They lived lives of radical community and wild adventure. They were NOT addicted to Netflix,or x-box. They didn't drive Beemers, and they were scare in covenant controlled communities. Just saying...

What if the American church was less interested in drawing a crowd, and entertaining? What if we were into transformed lives,and a call to risk everything for the only thing?

That hippy from Philly casts a vision that rumbles.

Now here's the grit of the thing: It sounds kinda pretty, but it's FREAKING hard to do. Because I do live in safe suburbs. But our house is full with 2 families - one of whom is is led by a newly single mom. It's a hard gig, that. And the messiness of it spills out into my life at the most inconvenient times. The answers aren't simple, or cookie cutter. Sometimes it isn't even fun. At all.

Then there is pumpkin of a three year old whom we call our baby. We adore her. Yet the trauma we were unable to protect her from will affect her all of her life. Invisible disability. And the brokeness of our world spills over in our living room.

Now most of Christian culture applauds this kinda stuff - at arms length. They are uncomfortable with the ambiguity. There is no, "kiss it and make it better." for urban poverty, generational addiction, foster care, and mental illness. Solutions are messy and costly.

Few are willing to roll up their sleeves. Pick up a shovel, and start shoveling out the sh**. And that's what we need.

Sometimes I'm one of the few who has been so transformed that I cannot wait to serve. But sometimes I would love comfortable suburbia, and I hold tightly to my latte and SUV. So this "Irresistible Revolution" feels very truly "resistible" for me. I've dabbled in it. I know the price tag; let's not be coy about that. It will cost my life. This kind of Jesus-loving is a destroyer of the American Dream.

I CAN say they times I've followed Jesus into place the Pro/Con chart would never recommend I haven't regretted it. It's good. Amazingly Good. Life but costly.

If I have not love...

Yesterday, Caleb went to a birthday party. He'd been excited all day and constantly checking the clock, so we wouldn't be late. Finally, it came. At 3:00 I dropped him off at his friend's a bouncy, happy seven year old kid. When I came to pick him up a couple of hours later he had the gate of Eyore.

"I didn't have so much fun."

"What happened?", I asked.

"Well no kids wanted to play with me. And when we played flag football no one would pass the ball to me." he said, trying to play it "tough".

"Ahh, Bud I'm sorry. Nobody?"

"Yeah well, a couple kids did sometimes, but no one really liked me. I'm not a good sports kid"

My kid, my cute-as-can-be seven year old, was hurting. The truth of the matter is that Caleb is not a "sports kid"; he inherited his mom's coordination (which did improve somewhat in adolescences). But adolescence is a million years from seven when your hurting.

"Yeah, that happened to me sometimes too. But I noticed that you're really funny, and a good actor. You've got a good ear for music. Maybe you won't be a sports kid, maybe be you'll be a music guy and learn to play the guitar - like Will, and Scott and Wil and John. He perks up. Those guys are hero material, and they DO play the guitar. I think I've won, but Defeat never gives up so easily.

"Nah, I'm gonna be the "no friends kid."

He is seven.

Seven.

#############################

"That heavy beat of failure, that pounding bass of disappointment, it has pulsed through my days and I've mouthed the words, singing it to myself, memorizing the ugly lines by heart. They become the heart. For years, I tried medication, blade, work, escape all attempts to drown out that incessant, reverberating drum of self-rejection. All futility, acidic emptiness."

Those are the words of Ann Voskamp - but they could be mine. I RAGE that the "heavy beat of failure" would pound against my son. He is seven. The assault is full - too heavy for little boy shoulders. It is wrong - I know it.

So what is the solution when I see the vibrations of Self-Hate course through the veins of my little boy? He thinks the song is His own. That vile tune of Shame seeps into the heart. Hell's song.

I need a new melody. A stronger one - one that will shake the gates of Hades.

CS Lewis argued that the most fundamental thing is not what we think of God, but what he things of us.

God says,

You are precious.
You are honored.
Gifted.
I love you.
You are mine.
I'd die for you.

"I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness." It's the Siren Song of God. It's the strong melody to overpower Hell's furious beat.

This melody must course through my veins and pound truth into the broken places. It heals. It frees. It overcomes.

If it were the catchy tune that stuck in my head, and I hummed it through my day, maybe my son would learn it too.

Precious. Loved. Gifted.
Precious. Loved. Gifted.
Precious. Loved. Gifted.
You are God's own child, set apart for the Great Adventure.

I could drown in that.

The ENOUGH

⁵ LORD, you alone are my portion and my cup;
you make my lot secure.
⁶ The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.
⁷ I will praise the LORD, who counsels me;
even at night my heart instructs me.
⁸ I keep my eyes always on the LORD.
With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.

⁹ Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
¹⁰ because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful^b]">[b] one see decay.
¹¹ You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

****************************************

I'm always trying to get my littlest to eat real food; she would be content to drink only milk. Maybe, many decades ago, my mom struggled to get me to eat my dinner too. But I doubt it. I like food. I like to grow food. I like to prepare food. I like the smell, and feel of food. I especially like to eat it.

If I am not paying attention it's easy for me to eat too much. Sometimes, I think it's because I don't actually pay attention when I eat. I'm trying to grab a bite between the many tasks and people who compete for my attention. I consume, but I forget to savor. I hardly taste. And in the end I'm left craving, for I never tasted, never savored. Forgot to chew -nearly.

All this to say - food metaphors work for me.

"Lord, you are my portion and my cup; you make my lot secure....You will fill me with joy in your presence."

So is God my enough? Does he alone sustain? Even when finances unravel and health is precarious, is he enough for me? When depression leaves me empty can He fill? More. Have I found joy in His presence. When a dream dies is He the bigger, greater vision. Have I stopped to taste and see that the Lord is, indeed, good. I know craving. I know longing for more. Have I even tried to find satisfaction in Him?

This sounds poetic. Because it is. But the truth of it is hard.

Because it might just mean that when I pray for the bonus, and clean bill of health I've got it wrong. When I pray for the easy and convenient I might have missed the point entirely.

He is the ENOUGH.

Really?

When a mother loses a child? Crushing depression? Divorce that ruptures a child's security? And for every abandoned child who finds a home many thousands languish.

Is He ENOUGH then? Is joy possible even in the darkest? Even when it all falls apart?

Sure. Sure. This world is not as it should be? And we can pray, should pray, "Thy Kingdom Come". We long for that which we were created? And God does heal; he does make right even in the now.

But not always. Not always.

And then He is the ENOUGH, the JOY that spits in face of circumstance.

Living Free

So I've been thinking...

Living free is a hard thing.
Like Lazarus, alive yet in grave clothes;
Gasping: That's me.
Tomb opened, the deep inhale, oxygen.
I am alive.
Because I do believe (want to believe):
He IS the Resurrection and the Life.

Yet I trip on the linens that mummify.
What's worse, I wrap myself in these death-clothes as if I were dressing for the senior prom. Vain in my religiosity.

Pride.
Insecurity.

(The same fabric really - woven in the belief that somehow it's all about me.)

Fear.
Shame.
Complaint.

And I am bound.
Saying yes, but living the no.

Holy God, FREE ME.

Teach me the language of liberation.
You, God Who Breathes Life,
Whisper your melody.
For I have been bound in grave-clothes

living pungent death.

If I reach out will your hand entwine?
Pull me near?

I've been thinking....

If my pulse could tangle in your heart...
If my breath was your last exhale...
So close to taste your sweetness...
Then. I could be free.

Phonics Song 2: It's stuck in my head

The latest in bullet points

• Abby stuck a pinto bean up her nose. It took an hour to convince her to blow it out. Otherwise we were headed to urgent care - for a pinto bean.
• I am sick. It sucks.
  
• The dog has developed the dangerous habit of hopping on the table after dinner to check out if there are leftovers worth scrounging. This is dangerous. Eddie is likely to kill the dog if she does it again.
• Abby gave herself a shiner. She was spinning around to make herself dizzy and plowed into the cabinet head first. It looks like we beat her. We did not.
• We ate leftovers for dinner. I'm afraid I'll be needing to cook in the near future.
• We watched our friends kids last night and today. They have four kids; doing the math that makes for 8 children. It was surprisingly easy.
• It, oddly, hurts my fingers to type
• I hate the flu.
  

Long Love

He's not my childhood sweetheart. Though, looking back, its seems we were both barely out of childhood. But I can relate to this post.

I know what she means.

Because while we've been at this for over a decade, and we've got four little people to prove it, I still feel a bit "twitterpated". Only better, deeper, more.

Gospel Truth

The gospel is the dynamic for all heart-change, life-change, and social-change. Change won't happen through "trying harder" but only through encountering with the radical grace of God.

-Tim Keller

Special Needs and Bazooka Bubble Gum

So kid number 4 has a challenges regulating, and transitioning. Sugar-free gum helps. I know it's weird, but it's true. I mentioned that gum theft had been on the rise in our house to our therapist, and she pointed out that chewing gum actually helps sensory seeking kids regulate.

So we bought lots of Trident.

Whatever works. And, oddly, gum does work.

Unfortunately, kid #1 recently purchased Sugar-FULL Bazooka bubble gum at the Dollar Store with Valentines Money. Now we've taught our older kids that if they really care about something it needs to stay somewhere unattainable to kid #4. We'd love to guarantee that personal belongings are shown respect in this household. We're working on it, but in the meantime, you better just hide the stuff you really like.

Bazooka Gum did not get hidden properly.

Now Abby-girl has an earlier bedtime the rest - it helps with our sanity. Unfortunately, she was in non-compliance mode. We put her to bed. She snuck out of her room and promptly proceeded to chew 20 or so pieces of Bazooka Sugar-FULL. Now, as your probably aware, most people cannot fit 20 pieces in their mouth simultaneously. This is the case with our small-boned 3 year old. So, being the clever problem solver that she is she chewed 10.

And then she stored those 10 in her HAIR while she then proceeded to chew the other 10.

Abby is sporting a new, and rather cute bob haircut today.

I just got the scissors and cut a chunk of hair out (it could be fixed later), then loaded kid #4 up on extra melatonin. (Melatonin is the herbal supplement that doubles as miracle drug for families parenting kids from hard places - WE ADORE IT.)

Now here's the weird part:

The consequence for blatant naughtiness was a cup of warm milk and these words, "That gum belongs to Ethan. It doesn't belong to you. And gum is not for bedtime."

Because I know she'll swipe stuff again. I know she will wander the house again when she is supposed to be sleeping. I know we won't take gum away from her. I know that stiff consequences won't fix a thing.

Sleep issues will be the norm.
Trouble understanding ownership will be the norm.
Impulse control trouble will be the norm.

In these early years it is Bazooka Sugar-FULL. NOT A BIG DEAL. And I pray that God will protect my child as the years progress, and weight of consequences are much larger than we can imagine.

So it's baby gates, better hiding places and more melatonin. It's prayer for wisdom.

This is so not how I would have parented #1,2 and 3. And it's impossible to know where to make allowances for brain differences and where to enforce tough consequences. We're winging it here.

So if you see as making weird parenting choices. Offer grace. It's possible you do not know the whole story. It's possible that it is not as simple as you perceive it to be. It's possible that in our shoes, you would be making the same decision, and praying for wisdom too.

Aspergers

Today I met a kid on the autism spectrum. He explained to me why some pennies are shiny and some are not. It's some kind of chemical reaction, or something. I didn't get it.

A minute or two into this explaination and he got a "look" from his mom. "Too much.", she said.

He sighed, stopped, and explained, "My mom has a "3 facts a day" limit."

Then he walked out the door.

Awesome.

My One Word

A friend and mentor of mine challenged me to NOT make a New Year's Resolution this year. Instead, she said, "Pick a word." Just one. Where is it that God is at work in your story? Where is He trying to weave in a new thing, or, perhaps, develop a thing that is anemic, starving from lack of attention? So I picked one word.

It is February, and I have decided that "one word" is more difficult and more freeing than innumerable resolutions (resolutions, that would surely be broken by now). Because once fear, shame and guilt have been unharnessed they are useless in driving me. They lose their pull, and I find that my own self-discipline is not enough to move stubborn habit, wheels entrenched in mud. Still, this letting free of shame, guilt, and fear has been a good exchange. Because while this trio, well harnessed, can move a thing they also trample the soul. They crush and suffocate. Stifle.

So now here I stand, having let go of my former motivation, only to find that I do not have the strength, the emotional hudspah, to get" it" done." It", illusive "it", is almost everything. I have the muscles of an amoeba.

My word? My non-resolution?

Dance.

Let me tell you a story.

Years ago, pre-Eddie, I found myself in a long, weird and utterly dysfunctional relationship. I'd love to say I was innocent, and throw this former boyfriend under the bus. But, as any good psychologist will tell you, no man can be a verbally abusive, dehumanizing, devaluing, selfish ass of a boyfriend by himself. I stuck around. Way. Too. Long. And in the process my self-confidence took a pummeling.

Now at the time of this Dr. Phil-ish relationship it was hip to go out to West-Coast and East-Coast Swing Nightclubs. You know, like Dancing with the Stars, only less impressive and with more clothes on. So we'd dance. I knew the steps. I knew the moves. And on the dance floor I got yanked around. My arms felt like they would be yanked out of their sockets. This guy couldn't lead. I couldn't follow. I danced in fear of the next yank, trying to anticipate the next move so I could preemptively move in sync, avoiding the pain. And when I erred I was yanked and belittled. The result was a clumsy, disjointed imitation of the real swing, hardly dance at all.

Eventually, I got a clue, and left this relationship behind. He grew up. I did too.

I met Eddie. Some of first dates we went dancing. Eddie knew how to dance, and he knew how to lead. I knew the steps too, but I was used to harsh treatment, yanks and humiliation. I couldn't follow. Couldn't. It was a process, for me, a process of learning to trust. He knew what he was doing. He wasn't going to hurt me. I wasn't going to be embarrassed. He led me gently, surely. I could rest in that. With him I could dance. And I learned to dance without the hiccups of fear, and the jolts of insecurity. I knew what to expect of him, even in while learning a new move or spin, or flip. I grew accustomed to his touch, and responsive to his lead.

Eddie has always been like this, in dance, and in our relationship. Good to me. And I am a better me. I fell hard for this man; I'm still falling.

So, back to my one word: Do you see it, this parallel in my mind? I learned to dance with my husband, but sometimes I think I have not yet learned to dance with my God. I am not yet accustomed to his touch, responsive to his lead. I anticipate, making a preemptive move to avoid a yank. A yank that would not come. I have not always lived the spiritual sigh, lived safe as I am, in the hands of one who loves me. I have been, at times, bound to fear, and shame.

I want to dance.

I want to hear the melody He whispers in my ear. I want to join my heart to the cadence he offers and let my feet follow his sure-gentle lead. I want to dance, entwined in the steady hand of divinity.

Happy Valentines Day

-This morning's beverage of choice: hot cocoa with heart shaped marshmellows. Healthful, I know. But no one 'round these parts complained about the artificial colors or flavors.

-The kids were in a "mood" yesterday when they realized that Valentines was not recognized as a national holiday for which school was canceled. The injustice.

-Eddie has the flu. Bad. Romance=NyQuil, and tea with honey. 13 years in we discovered love often looks less like a Hallmark greeting card and a lot more washing the dishes, and bedtime stories.

My husband, of the bedtime stories and on-line bill pay, is my favorite person on the planet.

Hands down.
No contest.
There is no one else is even in the running.

He is my own personal hero, and best friend.

And a good kisser too.

This is my Valentine's Day Prayer: Thank You. He is more than I deserve.