The Universe told me to write...

The Universe told me to write.

"Karla, this is the universe. Start writing."

Seriously. She sent me a text message.

That was the latest message.  She's been sending me messages for the past few weeks, months, years probably. And lately her messages have been more blatant, more obvious. Less subtle, less casual, less chalk-that-one-up-to-serendipity.

But even with her hounding, her pushing, her reminders, I've felt stuck and paralyzed. What is it that I could possibly have to say? I think this at nearly every turn. What, what, just what in the world am I going to write about? What in the world do I have to say that anyone else would want to listen to?

And yet.

One of the Universe's more obvious messages came through the writer Anne Lamott and her latest Facebook update. She's talking about writing and perfectionism and the voice of the critic, of our parents' expectations, of the naysayers that we carry around in her head. And she says this about her writing:

"Yet, I get to tell my truth. I get to seek meaning and realization. I get to live fully, wildly, imperfectly. That's why I'm alive. And all I actually have to offer as a writer, is my version of life. Every single thing that has happened to me is mine."

I get to tell my truth, my version of life.

I guess that's all there is, really. And I guess that's all that matters. 

Since the first day of this year, literally, the message has been hounding me, pursuing me. Write, you have something to say. Write, take note of your life. Write, sort through, work through, your life. Write, you have beautiful stories within you. Write, there are scenes, images, so alive so alive.

So, I will. I am. I'll try. I'll try to show up. Try to take note. Try to put words to the stills, the images I take away from my days. 

Okay, Universe? 

Swimming lessons

            Today is Haven’s last day of swimming lessons for the summer.  Slowly and with success, she progressed through the first two levels of the preschool lessons – she jumps in (let’s be honest, it’s a belly flop each and every time), swims with kicks and paddles, pops her head up to breathe, glides across the pool in a superman pose, dives down to retrieve a pool toy.  All of it.  She does all of these things.  She looks like a wiggly pink fish as she propels her body through the water, more diagonal than straight, more effort than grace.

            We’ve had Haven in lessons all summer long, a half hour every day.  The every day part is getting a little long – I’m kind of tired of the rush of swimsuits, sunscreen, ponytail – but it’s just one of those life skills we thought absolutely necessary, especially when the grandparents have a pool.

Besides, I just can’t fathom not knowing how to swim. Something in me feels like it has always known how to swim, how to be in the water. I remember being in a swim class with my mom at three or four years old, swimming underwater like a little turtle. I remember following my older siblings off the diving board into the deep end of the pool, with little hesitation, knowing that they would be there to assist me to the side, if needed. And I remember – and love – that end-of-day exhaustion that comes from spending an entire day out on the water, sunburned and tired, my body still rolling and swaying as I’d drift off to sleep in my bed. From hotel pools on road trips to summer swim lessons to days on the lake while we camped at a state park to the wave pool nearby, I grew up to love the water.  I’m not sure if it was the buoyancy, the ease and glide of swimming, the refreshment of the water, the sun, or the fun, but I would often giggle, just giggle, for the first few minutes in the water.

I’m not sure what my children’s experience of water will be like. I grew up in Minnesota, where you run into a lake at nearly every turn (no lie), where water is plentiful, and summers are sacred.  My kids are growing up in California, in the desert, where summer is nearly year-round.  Ocean swimming is different from lake swimming.  I’m not saying that one is better or worse, land of lakes or desert (well, not entirely); it’s more this realization that Haven will not have my childhood. I want her to be confident and at ease in the water, I want her to find delight in diving into a pool, I want her to giggle when she jumps in because she just can’t help herself. And she may – or she may not. Sometimes it is weird to think that she is building her childhood with a whole different set of blocks than I used to build my own. I know that sounds obvious, but isn’t that often how we see things, through our own memories, our own experiences, our own context? This, of course, extends beyond just my kids’ experiences of water – it’s weird to think they will not know the luscious greenness of summer, or falling asleep to a thunderstorm, or waking up to a fresh snowfall, or freeways that are merely 4-lanes or 6-lanes instead of 8-  or 10-lanes.

So maybe California is a good reminder for me, that their childhoods will be different from mine. Because, even if I were raising them in Minnesota, who knows if we’d spend as much time at the lake or at the pool, camping or waterskiing or traveling? Maybe this is a good reminder that their childhood experience of water starts now and it starts at this big aquatic center and at the in-laws’ pool and at our friend’s pool and at the beach and in the kiddie pools and sprinklers in the backyard. It will look different than my experiences, my memories, but, so far, they are smiling and giggling when they are in the water.  Not bad.

sapphire sky

the sun slips away behind us as we
lean into each other near the dance floor.
his beard tickles my forehead,
our hips sway just a little.
we sip our drinks
and watch the bride
hitch up her dress and dance. she laughs, twirls.
the sun, quiet, slides behind a hill.
i press my head into the curve of his shoulder and notice:
where the sun had been there is now a glowing ember.
it does not fade
and the sky around it deepens to a sea of sapphire.
he rests his hand on the round of my hip.
i sway, rest my hand on his.


---karla schuh, july 2012

Today's Run Brought to You By: Kari, Marchell, and Sarah D

Oh, about a year ago, I told you about my silly notion to get fit by way of Richard Simmons DVDs.  I mean, why not?  It's fun, I can do it at home, the kids can dance along.

Needless to say, it didn't work.

So this summer, I thought I would take up running.  I mean, once upon a time, I was a runner.  Surely, I could summon that inner runner once again, right?  I did a run/walk program for one week during my retreat in Oregon and it was G L O R I O U S.  Those minutes that I ran, I ran like the wind through pine-scented forest, pounding the dirt road, steeple-chasing over fallen logs, swishing past dainty hot pink wildflowers, listening for rattle snakes with one ear, Brandi Carlile with the other.  I loved it - it reminded me of all that I loved about running and cross-country skiing when I was proficient at such things. Gliding through the woods all by my lonesome, my heart pounding, just me and my thoughts and the repetition of my feet or my skis and poles.

It felt so good to think I could do this again!  I could capture some of those things that I once loved and enjoyed again in my life!  This run/walk app, with that sweet feminine British accent coaching me right along, this could work!

And then I went back to Minnesota and the glorious feeling went to shit when running (on grass! not pavement!) nearly killed my knees.  Poop.

But somewhere in that glory week, I realized that I enjoy working out, I enjoy moving, and I enjoy having someone tell me what to do and when.  And after a month this fall where I just about lost all of my marbles, I decided to return to this small gym in Pasadena that I went to for a bit just before I had kids.  This gym offers personal training as well as small group classes called Bootcamp.  And I love Bootcamp. It's 45 minutes with no more than a dozen people and it's a mix of treadmill workouts and floor/strength exercises - and someone (the trainer, both of whom are great!) telling me what to do every minute of that workout.  I respond well to this.  I'm convinced the only reason I ran in high school was because I had signed up and therefore had to be at practice and while at practice really had no choice but to do what my coach said to do.  Dutiful.

I spend about half of the workout on the treadmill, staring out the big windows at the nearby intersection, the San Gabriel foothills, the trees and the bright sun.  Or, at night, my own reflection in the windows.  And at first bootcamp was agonizing and, because no segment lasts longer than one minute (the sprint or the climb or the crunches or the squats), I'd think "this isn't as bad as a contraction, this is easier than labor, you can do it!"  And sure enough, I could.  And over time, the exercises didn't feel as much like a comparison to labor, which I think means I'm making some progress.

And in all of this, in my persistence to show up at least twice a week, the treadmill has become my favorite part, especially when it's just a flat, all out run.  Because, you see, I'm not ever running alone.

Here's what happens:

Sarah D.  Sometimes when I'm scrambling to get my workout clothes on, my shoes tied, clean up the breakfast dishes, make sure Haven washes her hands, change a rather full diaper, fill my water bottle, give a few instructions to whoever is watching the kids, grab my keys and run out the door - sometimes in the midst of that, as I'm throwing my hair up in a ponytail, the ponytail ends up a little higher on my head.  I don't notice this nor care until I'm on the treadmill.  The high ponytail swings and bounces.  It is light, it is joy.  There is no stopping it on its mission to swing widely from side to side. One evening when this happened, the swinging ponytail, the joyful, smiling, fun ponytail reminded me of you, of what it might be like to run with you next to me (I realize I've not run with you, and I realize this may not be at all what your running style is like - but it reminds me of you, nonetheless).  And so I ran that night, watching the eastern sky fade to dark, watching the mountains sink into the night, watching cars drive stop and start through the intersection.  And I felt my legs get tired and heavy, my breathing labor, my arms pump harder to keep up, and my ponytail swinging carelessly to and fro.  And I thought of you and your smile, your joy and laughter, your kind and childlike presence, and decided I could run for one more minute, up one more mountain, with you on that treadmill next to me. Since then, whenever it ends up being a high ponytail day, I run with you on my mind, grateful for your presence, even for just a silly treadmill run at a loud-music gym.

And Kari.  Running at bootcamp almost always makes me think of track, of running the half-mile on a black track of chopped up rubber.  And nearly always, that makes me think of you.  When I run, watching my form in the mirror, keeping my feet light, my stride long, chest high, shoulders down, arms not-flailing, I sometimes see your silhouette in the window too.  I can see, remember, your stride, long, strong, long arms pumping, carrying you down the track or across the field (cross-country).  I remember the curly q's that developed around the edges of your hair (probably recently dyed, with me, on a Friday night in the downstairs bathroom at your house). I can see your face, serious, determined, focused, spit gathering at the corners of your mouth as you pushed your lungs to their furthest limit. But often times, when I look in the window, I see myself running the last 200, coming around that long corner, seeing the line that marked the straightaway, chasing or being chased, collapsing at the finish - and so often, you are at the finish.  You are there for me to drape my arm over, to walk me across the infield.  You are there to smile a congratulations, to hug a leg-breaking run.  And so, when I run on the treadmill, I'm often running again with you.  I stretch out my stride, imagining that we are running sprints and intervals and crazy-all-over-CR runs together again.  And it's so fun. (If only I did something that simulated skiing, because that would bring back even more fun memories!)

And Marchell. As has become obvious, when I do these treadmill workouts, I watch my silhouette in the window and imagine that I am once again at a track meet.  Anchor leg of the 4 x 8, pounding hard through that final lap - that final corner, the finish straightaway.  In my imagination, it's a cool, cloudy spring day, and it is just the sound of lungs puffing and spikes scratching as I start into that last curve, chasing, chasing, chasing some opponent. My lungs are burning and I want to slow down my pace but then I hear it, I hear you on the sidelines - "Come on, KJ!  Let's go! You've got it!  Let's go, KJ!" And with that, I push through, pick my knees up a little higher, turn my stride over a little faster (and let's be honest, I'm really just trying to not fall off the treadmill, which is an honest fear of mine).  Oh, but I can hear your voice, Marchell; it's distinct.  It carries with it this tone that believes, above all else, that you can do it.  There's not a hint of doubt - it is genuinely optimistic.  Nor does the tone carry the least hint of disappointment.  You can do it!  Let's go!  And if not, I'll still be so proud of you for running your little heart out! And let's be honest again, I hear this voice not only when I'm on the treadmill.  It calls out at other times too, times when I most need someone to cheer me on, to help me work through the pain and the exhaustion, your voice comes through again - Come on, KJ! You can do it! I believe in you!

I realize that these might be kind of silly or sentimental things - I mean, I'm just doing a short treadmill workout! But it feels like such a gift to run with each of you once or twice a week, to be surrounded by women, by friends, that I'm so proud of, so honored to have in my life, both past and present.  Women that bring joy, strength, and encouragement.

So, thanks.  Thanks for running with me.

Love,
kj

Burning heart

(just finishing this up now, but I wrote this way back in September...)

September 2, 2011

This morning, after breakfast, I had a lump in my throat.  Like I'd eaten something that hadn't quite made it's way all the way to my stomach.  It burned each time I tried to swallow more until it dawned on me that this was actually a case of heartburn.

I guess it's been awhile since I've had heartburn like this and I was a little mystified as to why it showed up after eating a pretty typical breakfast.  Hmm...time to find the Tums (which, we can all thank Aaron for insisting that we keep Tums on hand in our household for moments such as this).

Today is the Friday before Labor Day weekend, the last hurrah of summer.  At least, growing up in Minnesota, it was the last hurrah.  This is the weekend of one last trip to the State Fair.  The weekend of a few more late nights.  The weekend of packing, re-packing, and then maybe again double checking the backpack for school.  The weekend of choosing outfits for the coming week, those decidedly fall pieces of clothing - sweaters, corduroys, long sleeves - that I so desperately wanted to wear even though the daytime temps would still be pushing 80.  It is the weekend of waning daylight - nearly two hours of daylight have slipped through our fingers in the past weeks but it's this weekend that the days start to feel short again.  This is the weekend of summer warmth that can still officially be called summer but there is the merest hint of fall in the evening air, in the morning dew.  So much anticipation for what the new school year will hold while wishing that the long and easy days of summer would linger just a little bit longer.

It doesn't feel like that here in southern California.  Sure, there's anticipation for the new school year.  Sure, the days are shorter here too.  But it's blazing inferno hot.  And the sun, well, it's different here.  The light is different.  And the evenings don't hold quite the same promise of coming crisp, cool air that Minnesota does.

After we moved here, every September, every Labor Day weekend, I'd feel the same sense of anticipation and excitement.  My body would crave the September weather of the midwest.  I would stare longingly at my long pants and heavy knit sweaters.  It knew.  My body remembered those deep red 7 o'clock sunsets that burned away while I cracked open my algebra book, digging in to equations and theories that were more familiar a few months ago.  My body remembered that, while it felt like sweatshirt weather in the morning, by afternoon it would feel like the middle of summer.

It took a long long time to forget this and forget I eventually did.  I could conjure up the feeling, sure, but my internal calendar had grown used to summer peaking in September and lasting well into October and sweater weather not showing up but for that one day in late January.  Jeans you can wear in November but you can still wear your flip-flops then too.

I'm sad to have forgotten this because I love fall.  I love that anticipation, the excitement of a new year.

But I'll admit, I was also relieved to realize I'd forgotten the first year it happened.  The start of the school year was also stressful - what would my schedule be like, where would my classes be, who would be in my classes, who were my friends going to be, who would be my locker buddy, what was my combination to my locker and what if I forgot it (I can't tell you how many dreams I have where I can't figure out my locker combination or how exactly to spin the combo to get it to open.  Sheesh.).  It was a lot of stress and anxiety, actually, though it usually settled down within the first couple weeks, once I got into the rhythm of things again.

Even on good years - years where I was excited to go back, had plenty of friends and knew they'd be in most of my classes, felt comfortable with navigating the school and teachers and activities, had a place and belonged - even then, excitement mingled with anxiety.

So here I am with this lump in my throat, trying to figure out why my regular ol' piece of toast would give me reflux.  I ponder this while I brush Haven's hair, while I help her pick out some (matching) clothes, while we brush our teeth, while we wait with a mix of excitement and anticipation for my mother-in-law to arrive to babysit Sebastian...so that Haven and I can go to her preschool for the first time.

It is Haven's first day of school.

And so this lump shouldn't be such a surprise to me.  My summer in Minnesota this year has retrained my body to anticipate fall, dying light, cool mornings and warm afternoons.  My body is ready for the packing of the backpack, new schedules and new classrooms, old friends, new faces, the whirlwind that is the first day, the first week of school.

And there's a little girl in me that senses this anticipation, knows the appointment that is on the calendar for today, and she is remembering all of the highs and lows of the first day of school.  Feeling alone and somewhat lost, even in years where I wasn't alone and knew my way around.  She is carrying the weight of all my first days, school, work, parenthood, and there's a lot of excitement, nervousness, anxiety all bundled up in her.

And there's the me now, the 30-something mom of two young kids, who's a little bit exhausted, a little bit bewildered, and a lot a bit wildly in love.  The me now who is wishing that becoming a parent didn't mean a lifelong process of nurture and release, of bringing them close in order to help them fly on their own.  Thus far, the releases have been small, incremental, almost a relief - I didn't realize this step would come so soon.

I swallow the lump in my throat once again as Haven walks into her new classroom with a marked mix of caution and curiosity.  My heart burns as I, mustering all the sweetness and joy that I can, wave goodbye.  "See you in a little bit!" I lilt, as her new teacher gently guides her away to play with new friends.

I know that she is safe, cared for, and loved in this new place.  I know, too, that it is only a short time out of our week and I'll grow to enjoy the time apart.  In the meantime, I'm grateful for my burning heart, grateful that it's just a little bit hard to let go of that which we love.  This lump in the throat will subside, I'm sure, but for now it makes me excited for the hug I'll get when I pick her up from her first day of preschool.

I'm going to be a mess when she goes away to college.

Declaration

Saturdays are officially Park Day.  I don't know how she does it, but Haven took FOREVER to fall asleep last night and then was up super early this morning and yet she has more energy than a volcano (and somewhat as explosive).  I'm just tired and don't have the energy to keep up this morning.  I have no desire to engage with anyone this morning, much less a chatty, constantly moving 2.5 year old.

Thankfully, my friend Colleen is visiting and Colleen and Haven just headed out to go play at the park/playground.  Last Saturday, Julia took Haven to the park in the morning and Tyler and Traci took Haven in the afternoon.

So, I'm declaring Saturdays as Park Day.  She needs to run out the energy.  I need the break.

Something in the Wind, Part II

A year ago was one of the worst weeks of the year. Truly, it sucked.  Aaron was out of town for a month.  My parents, who can drive me batty after a time, had been in town for almost a month.  Our truck-fixing-saga still continued to suck money right out of our savings account.  I found out I was having a boy and my initial not-so-happy reaction surprised and shamed me (to note: I LOVE my boy and can't believe I was ever sad about the prospect of a boy. At the time, I knew that I would eventually come around, but in the moment was sad and felt so ashamed of that reaction.).  I burned my hand taking something out of the oven.  I learned that a good friend was moving to Japan.  I was TIRED, so very pregnant tired, and got in a disagreement with my mother-in-law over whether or not Aaron was more tired than I. I'm pretty sure I pissed off my sister-in-law, who then got into a car accident that same day - not related events but I sure felt like they were.  Aaron accepted a gig to shoot a music video with two close friends of ours and as soon as the dates were set, I had a break down and realized that all of my energy had been completely spent.  This would cut into what little free time/break/vacation that Aaron had had in the last year and I just couldn't keep up on my own.  I was a mess and Aaron had to say No after already saying Yes.  A disaster. And then, to top it all off, that was the week that Haven decided she didn't want to nap and I so desperately needed her to nap and proceeded to tell her such with a bit of frustrated yelling.  Not my finest moment.  Such an ugly week.

By comparison, this one year anniversary week of that sucky week has actually been pretty good. All things considered.  Aaron is out of town, again, and this has been our first week without him but I've done pretty well (pat on the back for me).  The kids have been in good spirits, the house is in one piece, I've managed to feed all of us with pretty good food, and I've been getting a decent amount of sleep.  I realize this won't last forever, but I'm proud of our week.  It makes me feel like we can make it the entire five weeks that Aaron will be gone.  We may be a little worse for wear in the end, but hopefully not too bad.

There are winds forecast for this weekend, appropriate for this anniversary.  While I (still) dislike wind, it serves as a reminder to me of god's presence in all things - good weeks and bad.

Spring breeze

(a little late in publishing this...it's from last month)

I wish I had something profound to offer today but I don't. This has been a good day. Aaron is home and has afforded me lots of time to myself and it's been good.  I just had lunch with a good friend, as well as visiting my sweet friend Julia at her office.  I also ate a burrito from Rick's and it was good.  I'm starting to feel a little more freedom in my days - I can be away from Sebastian for a little bit longer stretches.  It's kind of nice to feel like I might get a little bit more time for myself someday.

Courage

This afternoon, I was reading Garrison Keillor's intro to a collection of poems he had put together - Good Poems for Hard Times.  The introduction was fantastic and reminded me why we need poets and good literature - good stories - in our lives.  And how our lives, in general, are good stories if we bear witness to them.  And how, in an age of zippy computers and information overload at our fingertips, the written word can be so refreshing, if we were to just slow down and pay attention.

Here's a little of what Garrison had to say about the meaning of poetry:

"The meaning of poetry is to give courage.  A poem is not a puzzle that you the dutiful reader are obliged to solve.  It is meant to poke you, get you to buck up, pay attention, rise and shine, look alive, get a grip, get the picture, pull up your socks, wake up and die right.  Poets have many motives for writing...but what really matters about poetry and what distinguishes poets from say, fashion models or ad salesmen is the miracle of incantation in rendering the gravity and grace and beauty of the ordinary world and thereby lending courage to strangers. This is a necessary thing."

Eating my cake

I started this blog three years ago around the time of my birthday.  And my first story was about how someone stole my leftover birthday cake out of the refrigerator at work...stole birthday cake from a pregnant lady.

I'm happy to report that this year, I am eating my cake (well, technically cupcakes) and am happily eating the leftovers, which no one has stolen from me.  Mostly because Haven doesn't know they exist and Aaron is busy working and can't keep up with my rate of consumption.

Three years has gone by quickly.  I'm kind of amazed by how much has changed and yet how much stays the same (for example, I'd still be upset if someone stole my cake...and my pants still don't fit, at least not all of them and not in the same ways).

I'm grateful for you, my audience, for allowing me this space to write and reflect.  I appreciate your kindness and attentiveness to my musings.  And for sticking with me even through blogging droughts...that is, if you are still here?  Anyone reading this anymore?

Anyway, happy birthday to me.  Happy birthday to the blog.  And happy birthday to some truly delicious cupcakes.

Kindness

We sang this song at church a few weeks ago.  We are attending a Mennonite church these days, albeit rather sporadically.  I've not been terribly excited about church for, oh, the last ten or twelve years for a lot of reasons that I don't really have the time to try to articulate right now.  But this church, when we attend, we find to be warm and welcoming - and I find their message to be a little bit more in alignment with what I've been pondering and looking for over the past number of years.

And this song resonated with some of what I've found or been thinking about the last few years, too. 

With Kindness (by Brian McLaren)

Christ has no body here but ours
No hands no fet here on earth but ours
Ours are the eyes through which He looks
On this world
With kindness


Our are the hands through which He works
Ours are the feet on which He moves
Ours are the voices through which He speaks
To this world
With kindness


Through our touch our smile our listening ear
Embodied in us Jesus is living here
Let us go now
Filled with the Spirit into this world
With kindness

Tired

If there were a theme to my life these days, it would be simply this: tired. I'm so exhausted and I'm waiting for it to not be this way any longer. I so desperately want more sleep.

And if there were a secondary theme, it would be: change. If you know me even a little bit, you know I'm slow to warm up to change. So to live a life where some variable is always up for grabs - teething, sleeping, napping, potty training, eating, feeding, growing, cribs, beds - is to feel like there is little stability. It feels like the horizon continually has something new for which I have to prepare. And I'm tired of always getting ready, always making adjustments.

Honestly, though, I think I could handle change better if I weren't so damn tired.

This too shall pass, right?

A tooth

(First, an apology.  It's my goal to get at least one blog post up a week and I've been off the past couple weeks!  I'll keep on trying.)

Last week, at the end of Sebastian's first real cold (more than just the sniffles), amidst congestion, a rather unhappy sounding cough, and cries that just sounded so very very sad, Sebastian sported his first tooth.  Yup, one little razor sharp baby tooth on his lower gums.  There seems to be a second one not far behind, its neighbor, and all of this makes him somewhat unhappy.  He's not generally a very fussy baby and even with teeth it's not that bad, but you can tell it's not a fun time for him...at least, not when the Tylenol wears off.

This is also causing some discomfort for me, which I was surprised to realize. The arrival of his teeth, even just one or two, means he is growing up and I'll admit I'm a little sad for this to happen.  I know I know it is cliche to say that time is passing so quickly, it's just flying by, blah blah blah.  But blah blah blah, it is - and for some reason with Sebastian, his milestones just seem to be coming at me so much faster than Haven's.  He's not hitting his milestones early, either - he's right on schedule - but it just feels fast, faster.  So when his tooth showed up, I felt sad - sad that we are moving so quickly past the little snuggly lump of babyness with their benign gummy kisses and slobbering.  I feel like I'm going to blink and he will suddenly be a little boy, with a big toothy grin as he runs all over the yard, terrorizing Zoe (this assumes Zoe lives forever, because in my mind she does and let's not break that illusion just yet, okay?).  Kind of like how Haven runs and jumps and bounces, smiles and cries and speaks complete stories, sleeps in a big girl bed and will one day (soon) pee on a big girl potty - and once, not so long ago, she was this little bitty peanut of a baby that we barely knew what to do with except to keep kissing her soft soft head.

And so, while I simultaneously wish Sebastian would sleep through the night and Haven would be a little more independent, I also long to hold on to these moments that run through my fingers - moments of baby snuggles and toddler songs.

Sometimes, sometimes, I wish I could stop time.

A mini vacation

Last week, Aaron worked nights all week.  It's kind of a rough schedule for him, especially when we are home and doing our best not to bug him (Haven does surprisingly well at leaving him alone...I do more interrupting, usually when my day as a parent is falling apart).  Anyway, by the time I get to Saturday morning, I'm a wreck - just kind of done with the week and really needing a partner, but after a week of working the night shift, Aaron is busy trying to sleep.

So towards the end of last week, in an attempt to avoid a Saturday Meltdown, I was trying to come up with a plan that would take Haven off my hands for a little while.  And in the midst of my planning, my mother-in-law called and offered, out of the blue, to take Haven for the night on Friday!  Well, hallelujah! Perfect timing, perfect break, perfect perfect.

This still meant I had Sebastian on my hands, but let me tell you - going from two to one is a piece of cake.  Even luckier for me, Sebastian took some really great naps on Saturday (I have a suspicion this may have had something to do with the absence of his big sister).  So while I couldn't necessarily sleep in, I could relax and take a pretty easy pace.  It turned out to be a really great and productive day - here are some of the highlights:

• I could eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted.  This may sound like an odd thing, but when Haven is around, Haven wants to eat whatever you are eating whenever you happen to be eating.  This is generally okay, but sometimes I just don't want to share!
• I could leave whatever laying about the house.  Again, this may sound odd, but each night we pick up the house because when our day starts in the morning, it's off to a running start and if you leave anything out, anything, Haven will find it and play with it.  Magazines, mugs, cup of water, the remote, your purse, whatever.  She will get into it.  So to reduce the number of messes we clean up during the day, we try to pick up at night and put quite a bit of stuff out of reach.  So I was thrilled to go to bed on Friday and not worry about the house and to spend my Saturday morning leaving whatever wherever.
• I spent a lot of time reading, mostly during Sebastian's naps.  But even when he was awake, he requires a much simpler form of entertainment than his sister (for now).  And Aaron helped me out a lot by watching Sebastian (once he was done sleeping) so that I could read.  And I finished my book - and it was so good.  So good.  Aaron was also able to sit and read and drink his coffee - I'm pretty sure that was a highlight for him.
• We got all of the laundry done! Yes!
• We cleaned the entire house - it felt so good to get everything cleaned up and in order and vacuumed and dusted.  Dusted!  I never dust!  And it was so much easier to do without The Great Un-doer following right behind us!

Anyway, it was a nice little break from toddlerdom.  Haven had a great time with her grandparents and we are happy to have her back home.  Although, I think I could have used just one more day...

I like to move it move it

So. I did a workout video this week. 10 minute workout solutions - the perfect amount of time for me. I decided on the Dance Moves Fat Burning something-or-other series and began to follow the instructor.  But silly me, I thought it would feel more like dancing.  I thought it would feel more fun.  Instead, it felt like aerobics, the kind where my uncoordinated self is five steps behind and looks like a certified dork.

In college, I took an aerobics class with Dottie Haugen, one of the physical education professors.  Dottie was in her 60's and had been teaching at my college for quite a few years and she was AWESOME!  She had such a passion for physical activity as a way of loving our bodies, as a way of staying healthy in all ways (physically, mentally, spiritually).  And Dottie's enthusiasm was contagious - you couldn't help but feel positive and excited in her midst.  Her aerobics class was a hit and she just exercised circles around all of us 20-year-olds.  But I loved this class because the aerobics routines weren't so complex or challenging AND she used a lot of Christian songs from the 80's and 90's.  Now, I don't LOVE Christian music, much less from the 80's and 90's, but these songs were so fun and the aerobics moves were so easy to get, that I could just move.  I could just exercise and it felt like dancing.  I didn't have to think, just move.  I could even sing along.  I think I even remember some of the moves to one of the songs (Lift Up the Lord).  I'm positive that in this class, I looked, yet again, like a dork.  But it was such fun, felt so uplifting, to use a kind of corny word.

So, after this week's aerobics workout that just felt like aerobics, I went ahead and ordered some Sweatin' to the Oldies.  One of my childhood friends had these and we would "workout" to them in 5th grade.  And while Richard Simmons is a fruit loop of the first order, I thought this might be as close as I could get to good ol' uplifting, dancing, singing along exercise fun.

It also, most certainly, solidifies my status as dork in the realm of exercise.  So be it.

Spoilers, I love 'em

I just skimmed ahead and read the last chapter of this month's book club book (The Brothers K by David James Duncan).  And I cried at the beautiful ending.

Don't worry - I've been known to do this, reading the end of the book first. It doesn't really ruin it for me, especially not this one since I've read it before.

But it's been awhile and the ending was so wonderful and it reminded me why I love this book so much (which is good, because it was my pick for book club!).  Oh, I just want to sit and read and do nothing else for a few days!

A few small triumphs

1. The rooster did not crow this morning.  Amen.  Nor did it crow yesterday and, thanks to our landlord's initiative and conversation with the neighbors, the damn bird probably won't crow tomorrow.  (The neighbors are keeping him in the basement at night.)
2. Haven slept past 7 am.  And there was much rejoicing!  Indeed, the fact that she slept past 6 am is a miracle.  I think this is directly related to #1, as the rooster lived right outside her window.  Hoping this trend continues - back to a normal wake-up hour!
3. I didn't wake up swearing.  Nor did I wake up at 3:30 or 5:50 or 6:30 am, times when the f-ing rooster has decided that it's morning.
4. Nope, I only woke up at 2:39 am to feed Sebastian.  One feeding, which he had a hard time falling back asleep after...but then he slept until 6:30 am.  Amen.
5. I was able to take a shower and get dressed before Haven woke up.  Hallelujah.
6. All morning routines and timing worked out such that we made it to a music class this morning. almost on time.  Much singing and dancing was had by all.
7. And we then had a play date with some new friends, one of which Haven kept trying to hug and kiss throughout lunch.
8. Haven missed her nap, which is not a triumph, BUT I didn't LOSE it, which is a triumph and not even of the small variety.  Nap didn't happen and the day went forth just fine.  I had to take a few deep breaths, but well, that never hurt anybody.
9. I read a little and napped a little while feeding a sleepy Sebastian this afternoon.  Yes!
10. I made dinner in the crockpot...but it wasn't ready in time.
11. No worries, I made dinner on the stove.
12. Haven ate most of her dinner, or at least parts I didn't think she would eat.
13. Haven was in bed by 7 pm.  Sebastian was in bed by 7:30 pm.
14. Most rooms of the house are picked up (not the kitchen, sorry Aaron).
15. I had a nice chat with my friend, Colleen.
16. I blogged.  One of my resolutions for the new year.  Amen and amen.

New year

Today, I took a two and a half hour nap.  Cozy beneath the covers, I drifted off in the quiet of the house with the sound of a gentle rain outside.  I could have used about 12 more of those.

Christmas break is coming to an end and I'm gearing up to go "back to work" (you know, my non-office job with two small tyrants).  The past two weeks have been great - we've been able to get a ton of projects done around the house (I think we unpacked a good dozen moving boxes!) and we've been able to enjoy our time together as a family.  I feel like I've been able to have a little time to myself and also that I've been spoiled a bit - Aaron has taken both kids quite a bit, to let me sleep in, take a nap, do a little shopping. I'm really amazed at how easy he makes it look to juggle two little ones at once!

With the start of a new year, there's of course some looking back and looking forward.  I'll admit, I'm not so sad to see 2010 go.  While it had some definite joys and highlights (Sebastian!), it also held great difficulty and challenges, challenges I'm hoping to not repeat.  The start of this year does feel different than the start of 2010, which makes me hopeful.  I feel less isolated and more connected than I did a year ago, which I think is a good way to start.  I feel like I learned a few things last year that I'm hoping will set me up to for a new approach in the coming year.  We'll see.

I made a few resolutions for the year to come - they are small and, thereby, (hopefully) manageable.  And one of them is to go to bed earlier.  So while this isn't the most exciting blog entry in the world, it will have to do for now, while I make my way to bed. 

Happy new year, friends.

Advent

This evening, while rocking Sebastian to sleep, trying to convince him that yes, his eyelids were just that heavy, I sang a little bit of Silent Night to him. A Christmas lullaby. As I sang and rocked him, I was thinking about Advent, the season of waiting, of hope, of joy, and thinking about the Christmas story, a pregnant woman, about to give birth, away from home.

I sat there remembering how the last few weeks of my pregnancy with Sebastian were THE LONGEST weeks of my life. He was sitting so low, I swear he was trying to find a way out through one of my thighs. Every movement felt large and cumbersome. Bending was an effort, squatting nearly impossible, and sleep was elusive. My feet were swollen, my hands plump, and I wasn't sure if my pelvis would survive the ever-widening pressure.

But more than the discomfort and the exhaustion, I grew so tired of reading signs during those final weeks. Everything - every little thing - was an indicator of labor starting or pausing. I poured over my birthing books and what signs to watch for. Was that a real contraction, or a warm-up contraction? Does it matter that I've dilated? Was that trickle my water breaking or did I just pee myself (sounds funny, but so true, so true)? I slept really well last night, maybe the baby is resting in preparation for the big event. I slept really poorly last night, maybe the baby is getting restless and labor will start today. Or tonight. Just when I thought I should call the doctor, the contractions would taper off. Every visit to the doctor revealed that something was happening, little by little, and every visit felt like labor was just THIS CLOSE.

And so, I was thinking about the Christmas story, of how Mary might have felt waiting for her baby to arrive, giving birth for the first time away from home, on the road, on her own (well, I've always been hopeful that she had a midwife in attendance). But more than that, I was thinking about all of god's people waiting, waiting for the one who would bring food to the hungry, healing to the broken, sight to the blind, freedom to the bound. God's people waiting and watching every sign to see if indeed the prophecies would come true, would they ever be saved.

And to think that their waiting was fulfilled - in the birth of a baby. A wet, crying, purple and red little suckling. What a crazy story.

One week (and then some)

(and this post I began about 12.5 weeks ago...sheesh)

Dear Sebastian,

As of this evening, you are one week old. It has gone so fast and I'm afraid to imagine how quickly the rest of our days together will go. I didn't think time could continue to march on at a faster and faster pace, but apparently it can.

You are just about one week old and have caught a sniffle from your sister. It's inevitable since it's next to impossible to contain the germs of a two-year-old. But she is so interested in you and I think you should prepare yourself for when she is feeling better and has more access to you - there will be hugs and kisses and the counting of your eyes and ears, nose and mouth more than you even think is possible.

I've been thinking about the day you were born a lot. You arrived here in a hurry after what seemed like a very long, methodical pregnancy. Your last few weeks in my belly were tiring and somewhat frustrating and discouraging. About twice a week, there would be a night of where you and my uterus would be particularly active, contractions that were noticeable, time-able, and pretty regular...only to peter out just when I was thinking of calling the doctor, just when I thought "This might be it." But no, my body was slowly, carefully working toward birth.

To be honest, your birth taught me about surrender, which I'm learning is a theme in my life. The last few days of my pregnancy were crazy-making and in the midst of it I had a moment of clarity. I realized two things. One, that the long days of slow, careful, methodical labor were a gift. A gift in that I had time - time to enjoy your sister and your father, time to reflect, time to breathe deeply, time to rest. This was it - there wasn't going to be some grand spiritual moment at the time of birth. THIS was the moment, the waiting was the moment, and it was to be cherished. And the second realization was that perhaps the waiting was asking me to surrender. To let go the way the labyrinth had asked me to let go, time and time again. To let go and to trust that I would be held, cared for, loved. To let go and trust that I would be held in safety and in peace, as god had met me in that way before.

And so for the last few days before you were born, I worked my hardest to see the waiting as a gift and I worked my hardest to release, to let go. I wasn't always good at that - the days were still pretty long and trying - but I had that to carry with me.

And then, at the end of a perfectly wonderful day, you decided to show up. Sebastian, your birth into the world was a gift of surrender. There was nothing I could do but holler and fall to pieces and push. There was nothing I could do but follow the cues of my body, the coaching of the doctor and our friends. There were no decisions to make, nothing for which to wait. I simply had to birth you. And we did it. Together, we worked your little body out of my swollen body and what a relief, what a stunning feat to have you, wet and crying, in my shaking arms.

Such a gift, Sebastian. You are such a beautiful gift.

And even now, as I finish writing this three months after you were born, the moment of your birth, the start of your life with us, fills me with awe, with pride, with love.

Thank you. May we always remember god's faithfulness to us in the moments of surrender. May we continue to find the gift of new life in the moments of surrender.