Bad poetry a la dishwashers

Yesterday began with a smoking dishwasher. (smoke,yes)
And a smokin' mad mamma.
I may have, perhaps, hurt some feelings on my evil rampage.
Perhaps.
Which thus led to our suckiest homeschool day on record in the state of California.

belligerence is contagious.

I am determined that it shall not be repeated today.
It will be sunshine and Lollipops even though the forecast says rain.
Such determination is generally met with opposition...
Yet I maintain-sunshine and lollipops!

Because, Dorothy ( whom I virtually stalk), says:
" it's about connection not control"
And I tend to believe her.
And really, my fuming did nothing to limit the smoke pouring from said dishwasher.
It only scorched the heart of one little guy who felt responsible.

Jesus, Jesus grant me grace even for days wrought with smoking dishwashers
If you can stop the sun, then surely you could stop my mouth, yes?
For it is in your Mighty Name I pray. amen
And Amen!

This is my Portion

Yesterday, I went to the doctor to have my prescription for anti-depressants filled. So, I started counting back. Emma is nearly 10, and it was after her birth that I first went on anti-depressants. I rock post-partum depression, and am prone to depression even without the "post-partum" piece. It's been the better part of a decade then, that I've walked this path. I've not always been on medication but major stressors trigger a chain reaction in my head. Depressions hits and I don my cement boots, and I've not found any way to chip away at the cement except to pop a pill that the changes my neurochemistry. I'm okay with that.

For the last 3 years I've been on 1/4 of the recommended minimum dose of Wellbutrin for adults. It's a really, really small dose. One that, theoretically, shouldn't really have any effect at all. But it seems to help me.

Actually, I think I'm nearly at a season in life where I could be without medication. But I'm not ready to try life unmedicated until I my foot is better and I can run again. Excercise is part of my own anti-depression plan. So is sleep. And a healthy diet. And living in community. And no major stressors. When all of these are in play, I can make it without meds. And I'm learning that the discipline of gratitude may just be as good of an anti-depressant as any SSRI on the market. So me unmedicated, may be in in the near future.

This last ten years has been full of babies and toddlers, and sleepless nights. It's been a season of physical and emotional exhaustion. Which, obviously, would contribute to depression. But I think another thing that factors into my neurochemistry is how I sometimes wear my life like an itchy sweater. I am learning to accept where I am, to sink into it, and be present. I am a dreamer and idealist, and there are dishes to do. The mountain of laundry I face every week laughs at my lofty thoughts. So I am learning to be here. With the dishes. With the laundry. With these 4 and that sexy bald man. To mis-quote Anne Voscamp, "this vortex of ordinary can be inverted into a cathedral."

And that is what I meant to say, when I started talking about anti-depressants.

Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup
you have made my lot secure
The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.

PS 16: 5-6

Public Record: These are Joy

-Fairy tales told by 4 year olds.
-Flowers blooming purple and white.
-10 year old girl making paper chains; content
-Pasta bar: Ethan makes buttered noodles drenched in hot sauce and eats it like its the best thing since sliced bread
-a resistant reader wanting to read
-reading to my children

Purple Space Bubble

FASD behaviors play out in lots of different ways in our home. Some of them are funny.

Being 4 years old, having sensory processing challenges, and impulse control issues is tricky business. Sometimes, without even knowing it, Babycakes annoys her siblings by being oblivious that she is encroaching on their space. She smooshes in, talks too loud and generally bugs. So, we've been talking about each person having their "personal space bubble." I have the big kids hold out their arms and slowly spin in a circle. We call the space within that imaginary circle our "personal space bubble". We always have the right to ask someone in our "bubble" to leave. People need their space.

I felt like we were getting some traction with this concept.

Then, the other day Abi-bo-ba-be came to me in tears. An older sibling had hurt her feelings with harsh words. "Hims popped my purple space bubble." she sobbed.

Okay, we are still working on the concept of personal space, and the subtle, yet important, differences between that and purple bubbles.

Here's another one. A prediction Emma made. Emma said, "Someday, when Abby is a grown up she'll be driving and a police man will pull her over. He'll say, "Ma'am, do you have any idea how fast you were going?" Then, Abby will chirp, "I got a new kitty; hers cute."

Eddie busted up laughing. Because it is so true. Funny and sad.

Abby is sweet natured. She doesn't hold a grudge, but neither does she make the connection between her actions and their potential consequences. And she's impulsive. Very likely, she would be genuinely puzzled by the officers frustration. And very likely, she'd strike up a totally irrelevant conversation. She's friendly, and her default when confused is to be charming - so dangerously charming.

People see Abby's cute little frame, and big brown eyes. She's just adorable, and she chatters merrily, stringing along a whole bunch of infatuated grown-ups. She's 4; it's cute. But it is also troublesome when she receives compliment from a random delivery man, and then declares, "I love that guy." And she means it from the bottom of her innocent little heart. Abby doesn't meet strangers. And when she is 4 that is probably just fine, but when she 16 it could be absolutely devastating.

We're in a conundrum about school for her next year.
-Private christian school is the better part of a grand each month. Lil' pricey - that.
-Public schools here have a great special ed program - that Abby doesn't qualify for. After all she knows her colors, and shapes. She can write her name and charm the socks off any therapist in sight. Abby would have ZERO classroom supports. She could get no supports until she demonstrates consistent failure in a typical setting. Lovely. Also troubling: FASDers do what they see; chameleons. Ethan is in one of the better schools in the district, and this year, in his classroom kids have been given detention for, cussing at and hitting the teacher. Yelling is par for the course. My neuro-typical, gifted, and totally confident kid comes home fried after a day in the classroom. Doesn't seem like a good place to send my little chameleon, now does it?
-We're left with letting Abby be a preschooler as a 5 year old, and buying us another year for her to mature, and us to decide. Sounds okay, yeah? or homeschool. That's a "maybe" too.

Naming Grace

If you were to only read this blog I think you might get the idea that life has been rough since moving to California. And you would be correct - mostly. But there IS good, and lots of it. Let me name the grace for you:

-Giggling children after dinner. Giggling unto tears!
-Snuggling with children on the couch
-A daughter who is learning to love to read again
-Kids who's favorite TV shows are Myth Busters, How It's Made, and Nova...we're cool like that!
-Homeade lemon meringue pie...beautiful... and made with my daughter
-Kids growing and their sense of humor growing too
-Abby kisses
-Family time
-Gorgeous weather, gorgeous open space, and beauty the stuns me almost every single day
-Abby songs
-full pantry, full tummies...enough
-a husband who is still my best friend
- an encouraging email
-choices
- new friends
-sisters coming for a visit
- Caleb becoming quite a swimmer
- a new day with no mistakes in it

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Fish Vomit and Grace

This week has been a fish vomit sort of week.

-The lovely house - our "home" house - in Colorado was under contract. But the contract fell through. Again. Something with the buyers financing, but whatever. The cost of keeping the house on the market has put a huge strain on our finances; the emotional strain is equal.

-Eddie has had to work TONS. And while I generally have a decent attitude about his long hours I really needed backup this week. And he was gone. And I was, well, kinda pissed. Because we moved out here so we could be with Eddie. I felt ripped off. Cheated. I, actually, really do believe that Eddie wants to be with us, and he shifts and juggles things to be present as much as possible, This week it didn't happen. And the bitterness is crescendo-ed because we have such a flimsy support system here.

-And my foot is still swollen so I can't run. While I have a love-hate relationship with running I know it contributes to my emotional health and stability. It is a necessary ingredient to sanity.

-I am feeling the weight of the consequences of our move more potently than ever. FASD is dancing through our home upsetting tables and overturning expectations as it makes its merry way through what once was stable. I don't know anyone in the state of California who even remotely understands what this means to us. I feel alone in it.

-And we have mediocre options for schooling the kids. Mediocre and costly. And it weighs heavy.

Which brings me to the fish vomit.

In he midst of my pity party this week I started thinking about Jonah - you know, the guy who was swallowed by the whale. I started thinking about how absolutely disgusting that experience must have been. Vile, dark, clammy and smelling of fish vomit. But the crazy thing of it was that it was GRACE.

It was grace, and it smelled like fish vomit.

Grace for Jonah - the pansy prophet.
Grace for Ninevah - the culture of degenerates and reprobates
Grace for those Sailors - the bad luck crew who had the misfortune of hooking up with a guy who had a bone to pick with God.

It's the retching of our faith, and the irony of God, that sometimes Grace-Wild-Grace smells of fish vomit.

And the trick of it is to name it correctly.

GRACE.

It rarely looks as we think it should.

The narrative of its most compelling display showcases:
a chopped off ear,
flagrant betrayal,
a sword in the side,
and looting and lude soldiers at the foot of the cross.

Grace was death, and why are we surprised when the grace of God feels like death.

But it is STILL grace.