Why I Never Needed to Use Drugs

My dad used to yell at me. Frequently. I could never figure out why. There I was, just reading a book, and all of a sudden, someone's screaming at me.

At least, that's how it seemed to me. To my poor dad, I had been ignoring all of his reasonably-toned attempts to get my attention. Yelling my name from just a few feet away was the last resort.

I'm not sure he really believed I didn't hear him the first 10 times. So, Dad, the truth: I really didn't hear you. Because I wasn't actually sitting in the living room. I was inside that book (whatever the book was at the moment), and everything around me had long ago faded away.

Because that's how it is with me. If a book is engaging, well-written, and tells a good story, I just climb right in. I lose any sense of my eyes taking in the words. I'm just there, wherever there might be. (And truthfully? It doesn't even have to be that well-written. It does have to better written than Dan Brown, though. I just can't get more than a few pages into The Da Vinci Code, no matter what the best-sellers list says.)

Sometimes people who don't read much say admiring things to me about my reading, like reading is some virtue I have cultivated. It's not. It's just a thing that grips me. That lets me escape. That relaxes me. That gives me something to do when I'm bored. That brings excitement to an ordinary day. That shows me beauty, or darkness, or humor.

I've just finished re-reading Diana Gabaldon's Outlander books. There are six of them, each the size of large doorstops. And as sometimes happens when I'm in the grip of a fictional world, the narrator's voice seems to run in the background, even when I'm not reading. Not like someone's narrating my life, I'm not as quirky as all that. No, it's more like a murmur, like I'm half in my world and half in the book. Like the book is going on without me. I can see why some writers either don't read similar works or don't read at all when they're in the midst of a writing project. After a good six weeks or so in Gabaldon's world, I could probably write in her voice.

The escapism part is why I mostly read fiction, and why I don't read a lot of highly literary, er, literature. I can and do enjoy nonfiction, but if I can't get lost in a book, if the world doesn't fade away within a few minutes, I don't feel like I've had my reading fix.

If I don't have a book in progress for a few days, I get jittery. Something's missing. I read magazines, but they're just not the same. If I can't get to the library, I start looking at the books on the shelf. Are there any I haven't read yet? Any I wish to revisit? Because I need a book, and I need it now.

Sometimes my reading interferes with my life and my relationships. I run late to places because I just needed to finish a few more pages. I'm annoyed with my daughter or my husband because they have the gall to want my attention just as I hit a particularly good part. Dinner is late and the ironing undone because "just a few minutes" stretched out to...well, till I could drag myself away.

And it does feel like dragging. Or waking up suddenly from a particularly vivid dream. I'm groggy, and my mind moves slowly, still half caught up in another time and place, and coming back to reality only gradually.

So people who know me well know better than to admire the fact that I read a lot. They know how this addiction affects me, and they're not impressed.

In fact, sometimes they even yell at me.

Of Mitochondria, Tesseracts, and Nephilim

Madeleine L'Engle died last week, at age 88. I don't remember the first time I read "A Wrinkle in Time," probably because I've read it so many times. But I followed the adventures of Meg and Charles Murry through the "A Wind in the Door" and "A Swiftly Tilting Planet." I actually liked the latter two better than "Wrinkle." I didn't find "Many Waters" until I was older--it was an unexpected treasure.

As an adult, I've dipped into a few of Madeleine L'Engle's memoirs, and her book about writing is simply beautiful.

But hearing of her death reminded me of her Murry books. I identified with both Meg and Charles Wallace, feeling myself rather a misfit, not quite being able to figure out the social complexities of my peers. Quite apart from the intriguing mix of fantasy, science, and spirituality in the books' plots, the Wrinkle in Time books showed the younger me that not fitting in was survivable. Poor, misunderstood genius Charles Wallace had it much worse than me...and Meg grew from wild hair, braces, and spectacles into a beautiful, confident woman with a husband who adored her.

Plus, you know, between the two of them, they saved their father, each other, and the world. Pretty good for a couple of social outcasts.

I think I'll see if the library has the L'Engle books. I'd like to visit with the Murrys--and with Madeleine L'Engle--once again. If you haven't read L'Engle, I invite you to do the same.

Kindergarten Kid

Katrina started kindergarten on Tuesday. She's attending the same Montessori school she has for the last two years, but kindergarten is a full day, from 9 to 3. She was very excited to start school, to be the "big kid" helping the little ones--one of the characteristics of the Montessori multi-age approach.

And she does look big. An early-summer growth spurt took her right out of "little girl" sizes and into the next size bracket. The one with styles geared more to precocious preteens than to giggly 5-year-old princesses.

I didn't think I was going to be all emotional. After all, she's been going to preschool since age three. But I did get a little teary--after she gave me a cheery peck on the cheek and hurried into the classroom to see her friends. Because time is getting short. Those long days with a baby or toddler at home, the ones that stretched forever (often not in a good way)...those are over. The long afternoons at the playground, walking in the woods, staying just a few minutes longer...those will be more rare. She skipped into class with a smile, and just like that, 13 years of schooling began.

I read somewhere that for parents (particularly stay-at-home ones) with young children at home, the days are long but the years are short. I understand that now. Now, we are entering a time when the days are short--my time with Katrina per day just got cut by three hours. But somehow, I don't think the years will be any longer.

No Greater Love Has a Man Than This...

I was talking to the mom of one of Katrina's friends at the playground this week. Her husband is getting ready to deploy to a not-so-dangerous place. For the first time, he'll be gone over the holidays. But, she said, considering the number of years they've been in the military, this being the first holiday seperation is pretty good.

"But, listen," she said, "how this deployment happened."

Her husband sits side-by-side with another officer at work. One day, their commander came around. "We need one person to deploy to [a not-so-dangerous place] for about four months," he said.

The co-worker looked at the husband. "He has a wife and kids and I'm single," he said. "I'll go."

A few days later, another announcement. "We need a guy to deploy to Baghdad."

The single officer looked at the husband. "He has a wife and kids. He can go to [the not-so-dangerous place]. Send me to Baghdad."


You know, the sheer repetition of "support our troops" can get old. Until you have contact with them and their families every day. Both of these men deploy in the next month. Whatever you think of the war, pray for them, and all of the others. These are quality people.

Mom's Decision Trees

When Grandpa was visiting last month, Katrina and he were "doing art" at the kitchen table. Katrina wanted to write letters and then play post office and deliver them, and somewhere along the line, she wanted Grandpa to draw her something. Fresh from teaching a class on business practices in Frankfurt, Grandpa gave a lively explanation of a decision tree, sketching the boxes and arrows on brown construction paper as he talked. And Katrina listened to every word.

Recently, that construction paper decision tree came to mind. If I had the technical and graphic skills, I'd put this entry into a real flow chart, but alas, I do not know how. So you'll have to use your imagination.

Decision Tree #1: Mama, My Tummy Hurts!

Question from Mom no. 1: Does it feel like you have to throw up?
Answer: No ==> Go on to next question
Answer: Yes ==> Let's get to the bathroom--QUICK!

Question no. 2: Do you have to go potty?
Answer: No ==> Go to next question.
Answer: Yes ==> Then go potty, please.

Questions no. 3, 4, 5: Are you sure you don't have to go potty? When was the last time you went? This morning when you woke up?
Answer: (Answer doesn't matter) => Go sit on the potty and just try, please. (and the really savvy mom acts surprised when this solves the problem.)

If tummy still hurts:

Question no. 6: Are you hungry?
Answer: No ==> Go back to question 2.
Answer: Yes ==> Let's go get a snack (or breakfast/lunch/dinner).

If none of the above helps, try to remember the last occasion and quality of child's poop. Then push fiber-rich foods and/or give Metamucil-type medicine prescribed by doctor. Distract child from tummy, if possible, and breathe sigh of relief when she stays in bathroom for more than two minutes.


Decision Tree #2: Mama, My Ear Hurts!

Question no. 1: Are you sure?
Answer: Yes ==> Call doctor, get appointment, get antibiotics.
Answer: No ==> Wait until she complains about it again, usually within a few hours. Then call doctor, get appointment, get antibiotics.


Katrina is now taking Zithromax. Again.

The End.

Five Years Old

Dear Katrina,

You turned 5 on Sunday, a day that must have seemed anticlimactic to you after your birthday party on Saturday. Papa mentioned that you actually, truly didn't turn 5 until sometime shortly after midnight here, since you were born round about 6 pm Eastern Standard Time five years ago. I had to laugh at his detail-oriented brain. But I think you also have his attention to detail, so maybe you'll be interested in that bit of trivia if you ever read this.




Yesterday afternoon, you wanted to sit on my lap as you watched TV. Your head rested just below my chin, and your legs stretched almost the length of mine. Your feet reached the top of my feet. I told you that, once upon a time, your whole body fit on my chest and stomach. Even I find that hard to believe, and I'm the one who remembers it.

At five, your personality is already well-established. Looking back, I can say with certainty that it was established when you came into the world. Determined, gregarious, energetic, enthusiastic, confident, observent.

I've told you so many times, "You have a sharp eye," that you now say it about yourself. It's true: we recently went to Rheinland-Pfalz State Fair, and while walking down the street, with a parade going on beside us and people all around us, you pointed upwards and said, "Look! Somebody lost a balloon!" At least a block ahead of us, high up in a tree, a blue balloon was indeed caught. It took us a good few minutes to see it ourselves.



What I often think, but don't say, is that you are a force of nature. When I watch you run, full-out, I think that nothing can stop you. When you demand something, and jump up and down and scream when denied, it's just "the dark side" of the determination and passion that marks your character. And I pray that your Papa and I can help you channel those intense feelings in positive ways. Because if we can, with God's help (and only with God's help), you could truly be a force for good when you grow up.



We've had some difficult months this year, you and I (and sometimes Papa, too). As you've gotten more articulate, you're also more capable of talking back, of taking on a tone of disrespect, of being outright defiant, and usually about what I think are small things. And yet, you're also still young enough to go into a full-on tantrum when pushed too hard or when you're tired. Our personalities clash, sometimes, my darling, but not in the way you probably think. Because in the moment you think I'm the meanest mom in the world and you the most put-upon child. But I feel my wavering, my wish to give in to you to keep the peace. And my secret admiration that you have the gumption to stand eye-to-eye with an angry adult and stand your ground. I don't have that kind of natural determination, dear heart. You are teaching it to me. You probably wish you weren't, though (for despite my wish for peace and quiet, giving in could be disasterous, for both of us).

Ah, but when you're happy, the world lights up. You've taken to saying "Mama, I love you," at random times, out of the blue. I think it's your way of maintaining a connection when you're unsure of yourself or me, or when you want to talk but have nothing much to say. You've also become more physically affectionate since you've gotten older. Now that you know how to sit still once in a while, you're more amenable to hugs and kisses. I'm certainly enjoying more cuddle time.



Maybe it's just mother's bias, but there is something about you...some spark that I don't see in most other children. When you're at your best, you draw others in...adults as well as children. You want to share your enthusiasm with everyone around you. I suppose that is a mark of your outgoing personality, but you do seem to end up leading your friends (and random kids you introduce yourself to on the playground) into whatever pretend adventure your creative mind dreams up.



And you do have a creative mind. Your current obsession is Star Wars, with a healthy dose of princesses thrown in for good measure. You are Princess Leia or Queen Amidala or Aurora. When you're not a cat or a mouse, that is. You love to be read to, and ever since I made a story up to kill time waiting for you to finish in the bathroom, you periodically ask me to "read me a story from your MIND, Mama."

And how can I forget the sheer number and variety of questions you ask in a day? You may not want to narrate what you did at school, but you sure want to know where the water goes when you flush the toilet, why God is a spirit, how sausage or houses or flour or paper is made, what animal the meat on your plate is from, why Rapunzel would marry "the bad guy" in the newest Shrek movie, why bad guys are bad, and why and how people die. Both practical and philosophical, you have demanded to know on a number of occasions exactly when Jesus is coming back and why doesn't God talk to us like he talked to Moses in "The Prince of Egypt."

Your teacher says you're a happy child, and a confident one. I hope that confidence stays with you. I think it will, for I recognize the same combination of optimism and confidence in your Papa. Your teacher also says you have a "boy brain," which I found hard to believe given your refusal to wear anything but skirts and dresses, perferably pink. But looking closer, I agree that you are a girl of action, much preferring hands-on experience to sitting still at a desk. You also seem to have an affinity for numbers over letters. You're already beginning addition and subtraction, and asking you to count something is a sure-fire way to capture your interest. And your many questions about how things work sound like a little scientist in the making.



In the fall, you start kindergarten, which is all day here. I worry that it will tire you out, that all day is too much. But you will probably thrive, as the oldest in your Montessori school and eager to help your younger friends. September is just the start of your all-day school experience, and the end of weekday afternoons spent on the playground or at the library or at a friend's house. We'll still do those things, but time will be shorter.

I remember little about my own younger childhood, but I think you will remember much more. I hope you'll remember a few of those long, sunny afternoons running around the playground. I hope you'll remember the picnics, the pool, the hugs, the strawberry patch, the dinosaur park. I hope your preschool memories are hazy in that wonderful way summer afternoons are hazy. I hope you'll forget the times I'm impatient with you or lose my temper. I want your memories to be good.



Just after we moved here, when you were three, we walked a trail through the woods near our house. You broke into a run, and I watched your ponytail bobbing and your little arms pumping as you ran ahead, eager to see what was coming up next. I thought then that that sight would become a familiar one, and I was right.

Mama and Papa will always be behind you on your life's trail. Just don't run too far or too fast, baby. I'm not quite ready to let that little ponytail bounce out of sight.

She's Big in Japan

Katrina's Favorite Part of the Louvre







Well, that and the mummy.

About ten seconds after Jon took that last photo, two Asian ladies literally RAN across the courtyard toward Katrina. One knelt and took Katrina's hand, smiling. The other lifted her camera and took pictures of her friend with Katrina. Then they reversed positions, smiling all the time, and talking gently to Katrina in, we think, Japanese. Katrina was a bit bewildered, but smiled for their cameras all the same. Then they said "sank you," giggled a bit, and walked away.

I've told people before that random Asian tourists take pictures of Katrina whenever we're in tourist areas here in Europe. I'm sure that others think I'm exaggerating, until they see it happen. It's a little disconcerting, but the picture-takers are usually women, and Katrina is usually confused but not shy or frightened. I assume the attention is due to her long blonde hair, but, as my mother-in-law said in this case, if these women had traveled all the way to Paris, you would think that they'd have seen blonde-haired children before. Who knows? Perhaps they had just arrived.

So, Katrina is probably in several vacation photo albums across Japan or other parts of Asia. "Here's the Eiffel Tower, and here's the Arc d'Triumphe. Here's the Venus de Milo, and here's a Leonardo di Vinci painting. And look at this girl outside the Louvre, feeding the pigeons. Imagine! Blonde hair! We just had to take her picture. No, we don't know her name or where she's from. Look! There I am, holding her hand!"

Katrina and the Venus de Milo. Both renowned the world over.

15 Things About My Husband

1. He's an incredibly loyal friend. He chooses his friends carefully, and he considers them friends for life. Even if he hasn't seen them for awhile, even years. Even if he doesn't keep in touch as often as he'd like. If friends are in need, he will be there.

2. Same with family.

3. He has a tender heart. It's well-hidden, and sometimes I blunder into piercing it, thinking he is invincible. He's not.

4. He has this innate sense of self-confidence and optimism. Even when things look bad, he knows that everything will work out one way or another. I envy this.

5. When I'm with a group of women, talk sometimes turns to husbands. And human nature being what it is, often the stories are negative. And I sit there, with little to offer. Except this:

6. He hates cheese. Except on pizza. And sometimes on enchiladas. But other than that, no cheese. Also? He has a myriad of other food rules. I just learned a new one this year, by violating the rule with a new recipe. I blame his mother. :) Unfortunately, his little food quirks get me exactly zero sympathy from other women on the continuum of "things my husband does that drive me crazy."

7. He thinks very logically. He looks at many angles of an issue before making a decision. Often, he has thought about something for a while before he even mentions it to me. Nevertheless, he always asks for my input, and sometimes I even come up with something he hasn't thought of. (He, of course, usually comes up with about three things I haven't thought of.) We make all big decisions together, and most of the little ones, too. We were married for some time before I realized that this is not always the norm.

8. Last week, he cleaned out and vacuumed the interior of my car. He even wiped down the dashboard. And he takes out the trash every week, which is a much nastier and more complicated endeavor here in Germany, especially in the summer. (Rotting food and maggots and flies, oh, my!) That? Is true love.

9. He is the strong, silent type. But when he talks, I listen. Because he always has something valuable to say.

10. He is a spectacular gift-giver. Me? Not so much. Poor guy.

11. Sometimes we can crack each other up in the middle of a fight. I love that. It tells me that even when we disagree, even if we hurt each other, we can find our way back. We're in it together.

12. He gets up at 7 am on Saturdays and Sundays with Katrina and lets me sleep in. In a way, he has no choice, because Katrina considers weekend mornings to be Papa time. In fact, she's been waking up earlier on Saturdays than on weekdays, so she can have more time with Papa. When I get up with her on the weekends to try to let him sleep, Katrina cries. That's because:

13. He is an amazing father. Patient where I am not. Gentle where I am edgy. And what little girl wouldn't adore being swept up in those strong arms, especially when Mom can barely lift her now?

14. He is hard-working, at home as well as work. He keeps our finances in line, and is careful about saving for the future, giving to others, and having a little fun now. Plus did I mention he cleaned out my car?

15. He has unshakeable integrity. He doesn't make promises he doesn't intend to keep. He tells the truth, even if others don't want to hear it. When he makes a commitment, he keeps it.

We've been married 15 years today. With the divorce rate in America so high, one might wonder what it takes to maintain a marriage that long. You know the secret? Choose a good man, and then appreciate, love, and respect him. I know I don't always love Jon as well as I should. It's easy to get into a rut when life gets busy.

But I did do one thing right: I chose well.

Let's Play!

Mama, I'm a puppy, and you be my owna! A puppy doesn't know how to wash its hands. You have to help me. A puppy can't brush its teef, Mama! You bwush my teef. OK, I can climb in bed. Tomowwow when I wake up, I'm still gonna be a puppy, OK?

Mama! Let's play with this (Polly Pockets riding horses)! Mama! You be the blue one and I'll be the pink one. AWWW! Her hat won't stay on!!! Mama, can you help me? Mama, I can't get this dwess on, you put it on her. Mama! It's your biwthday pawty and you'we my sistew and I'm going to go buy your pwesent. Ding-dong! Open the doow, Mama! Happy Biwthday! Hewe's your pwesent! Now I'm going to make your cake.

Mama! Fiwst we have to eat what's good for us. I'll have pizza and you can have a cheeseburger. Our fwiends (she lined up about seven small stuffed animals complete with plates, tea cups, and a single piece of hard candy on each plate) can just eat that candy. OK! Time for cake! Blow out the candles! Oh, they'we the candles that light back up. Blow again! No, they'we still lighted. Let's both blow on them! No, they still came back. Let me do it. OK, they're out. Want a piece of cake? Oh, that piece is too big for your plate. That's bettew. Now my cake. The amimals don't need cake. They just eat their candy.

Now it's time for our sleepovew pawty! Mama, move this table! There's not enough woom for our sleeping bags. OK! Time to sleep! I need these amimals to sleep with. Which ones do you want, Mama? OK, now it's time to sleep. Sssh! Don't open your eyes!

BOO! Wake up!

(Later) Mama! I'm a secwet agent looking for a lost kitty. A WEAL lost kitty, not a stuffed one. Kitty! Kitty!

Look, Mama, I found the kitty (cradling a stuffed cat)! I'm a secwet agent, and I have to keep the kitty safe fwom the bad guys. No, I don't want to take a bath because I'm a secwet agent.

Mama! Keep watching that kitty! The bad guys want to TAKE it! And they want to take its collar, too.

Mama, I'm a gekecktive! I look for lost kitties and lost PEOPLE. I'm a, a, kee-gec-tive.

Oh, no! I forgot the kitty! Come hewe, kitty.

Mama, why did Wapunzel mawwy the bad pwince? (I took her to see Shrek 3 today) Why did hew haiw fall off? Was she weally a boy? What happened to hew haiw?

OK, Mama. Good-night. I love you.

Lyrical Friday: Moving On

Make new friends
But keep the old
One is silver
And the other's gold

A circle is round
It has no end
That's how long
I will be your friend

Across the land
Across the sea
Friends forever
We will always be



The kids sang "Make New Friends" at the preschool promotion ceremony last week. In the context of military life (and all of her classmates are connected to the military in some way), that last verse is especially appropriate.

Today is Katrina's last day of preschool for the year. In September, she will start kindergarten at the same Montessori school she's attending now. Many of her current classmates will not, however. Some are moving, in the inevitable round of PCS-ing that is part of military life. (PCS is short for Permanent Change of Station and is usually used as a verb "We're PCS-ing to Japan".) Most of her PCS-ing classmates this year will be moving back to the States, to DC, to Colorado, to Alaska, to Washington state, to Illinois. Some of her classmates will start at the Department of Defense schools on one of the bases here.

Only a few of the kids Katrina's age will continue into kindergarten with her next year. (Many of the younger kids will stay on, and there will be a few new kindergarteners thrown into the mix.) A number of kids will remain in the area, though, so I'm hoping that I can foster some ongoing friendships despite the school changes.

As someone who spent nearly all of her growing-up years in one town, in one house, in one school district, and with basically the same group of kids from elementary school through high school, I'm not sure how to handle the inevitable comings and goings among Katrina's friends.

Even if we were back in the States, changes would be common. The DC area--perhaps any metropolitan area--is prone to more transience. People move in and out all the time. Rural areas seem to be the only places where people tend to stay put. But there are not a lot of computer consulting jobs in rural areas.

Of course, Katrina handles making new friends far better than I ever did. She is just naturally confident and friendly. Put her on a playground full of strange kids (if they're near her age and speak English, that is), and on a good day she will be directing the play within minutes. A few weeks ago, she did just that. She ended up playing with two girls who were a head taller than she was, which tells me they must have been at least a year older. But Katrina was definitely the leader, and the other two were happily running along after her. She has a knack for either joining others in play or drawing others to her.

Which makes me think that all this ruminating about friends moving on is more about my own fears from my own decidedly less people-friendly personality. In any case, I'm sad about the school year ending, even as I look forward to not having to roust us both out of the house every morning for the next few months.

Plus, next year she's in school every day from 9 to 3. My miracle baby is growing up. She's looking forward to being the oldest at school, and she's already been helping some of the younger ones. No, it's me who wants time to slow down. Just a little.

Busy, Busy, Busy

This is what our week looked like.

Tuesday: "Goin' to the zoo, zoo, zoo. How about you, you, you?"





After the zoo, a quick wash-down and then dress rehersal for Katrina's dance recital. They didn't turn on the stage lights for the rehearsal so the pictures aren't great. They're dancing to "Monster Mash," hence the orange costumes.





Wednesday afternoon we spent at the pool. We were there about four hours, and still Katrina didn't want to leave.

Thursday afternoon was at the playground. We were there about two-and-a-half hours, and still Katrina didn't want to leave. I'm sensing a theme here.

Friday morning was "Promotion and Graduation" at the preschool. You know, I generally think the whole "kindergarten graduation" is kind of stupid. But darn if those little graduates weren't the cutest in their little caps and gowns. All the kids got little sashes and diplomas, and the teacher got teary-eyed talking about what a great year they've all had. She called this year's class a "gold year" and said it was the best class she'd ever had. It's certainly one of the best-looking groups of kids I've seen (but then, I might be a little biased).






Today at one is Katrina's dance recital. We're taking the video camera and the regular camera, and probably jockey for position with the other parents. We've turned into the stereotypical doting parents. But, hey, everyone here has relatives living thousands of miles away. The videos are for them, not us, right?

Lyrical Friday: Influence

I can taste the fruit of Eve.

I'm aware of sickness, death, and disease.

The results of her choices were vast.

Eve was the first but she wasn't the last.

If I were honest with myself,

Had I been standing at that tree,

My mouth and my hands would be covered with fruit.

Things I shouldn't know and things I shouldn't see.

Remind me of this with every decision.

Generations will reap what I sow.

I can pass on a curse or a blessing to those I will never know. ...

To my great-great-great-granddaughter, live in peace.

To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace.

--Generations, by Sara Groves

I could write about more than one song on this CD. I listened to it over and over when I first got it, in 2001. Some other time, I'll tell you about "Painting Pictures of Egypt," which practically became my theme song that year.

But in the midst of the hardest time in my life, "Generations" inexplicably gave me hope. I was mourning my miscarriage and our preceding years of infertility. I was losing hope that I would ever bear a child.

And then this song would play, and I would sing along to the repeated bridge: "To my great-great-great-granddaughter, live in peace. To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace." And a spark of hope ignited.

I listened to this album almost at random yesterday, and some of the other songs threw me right back to 2001. I am not in that emotional place anymore, and I'm glad of it. But "Generations," well. Here I am in the midst of it. Every decision I make...every knee-jerk reaction to criticize, every complaint, every spontaneous hug, every silly face...they are all imprinted in my little daughter's memory. And, God willing, someday she will have children, and my mothering will most certainly influence hers.

Parenting also gives you more insight about your family of origin. Both Jon and I grew up in (more-or-less) intact families with parents who did their level best to love us well. So many others did not. The two of us started out with this advantage, and that influences so much about who we are and how we parent, what we expect from family life and from each other.

I hope that we can give Katrina the very best of our families' legacies, and the very best of ourselves. I hope that Katrina will give any children she mothers the best of us, and the best of herself. And I always want to remember...despite the routine, the bad days, the sometime-sense that I am not accomplishing anything, that generations could reap what I sow. What do I want that harvest to be?

To my great-great-great grandchildren...live in peace.

Fear of Falling

We’re going somewhere, but I don’t know where. Katrina and I were just on a train, and then we weren’t. We’re running along the tracks, and Katrina isn’t paying attention. I scoop her off and away from the tracks just before the train catches up with us. Then I scold her. You need to watch where you’re going!

Suddenly, we come to a drop off. The train tracks head down a steep slope. A gray slate slab runs along the edge. I sit down. Katrina stands on the slate. Wait! I say. I’m annoyed. I start to tell her to move back, and lean towards her. Then she is gone.

Time slows as I watch her fall from an incredible height. My thoughts slow, too. I suddenly understand all those times when Katrina threw a temper tantrum because she couldn’t turn back time and fix her mistakes. Why didn’t I just reach out and catch hold, instead of wasting time with words? She’s still falling, almost out of sight, and I think, It looks like she’s floating. Maybe a gust of wind caught her and she’ll be all right. Almost immediately I realize how stupid that is.

I wake with the picture of her falling, so far down, her blond hair swirling around her head, and the terrible knowledge that she is gone and it is my fault. I restrain myself from running to her room and making sure she’s there.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, I pick Katrina up from school. The kids usually run around near the school’s entrance while the parents chat. There are a few steps, a low wall, and a bed of shrubs across from the brick driveway. The kids love to walk on the wall.

It rained earlier, so the top of the wall is more slippery than usual. A mini-van is parked in the driveway. I see Katrina through the van’s windows. And then I don’t.

It takes a moment for the screaming to begin, about the time I get to her. She’s lying flat on her back, her head lifted up, hands to head, and oh, the screaming. I scoop her up and carry her to a bench, sit her in my lap. One of the teachers brings out ice. One of Katrina’s playmates had seen the fall and said she had indeed landed on her head.

We sit there for at least twenty minutes, with her volume waxing and waning. I see no blood, no goose-egg, on the side of her head, above her ear, where she’s holding on. Eventually we head home. She’s supposed to go to swim lessons in two hours, but I don’t think she’ll be up for it.

She calms down once we get home, but she refuses lunch. She just wants to hold her BeBe (blanket) and watch TV. I get her more ice and then sit beside her. I open my laptop and look up “concussion” on WebMD.

Mama, I can’t see the TV very well, she says. I’m dizzy.

I look at my watch. The doctor’s office won’t be open for another hour.

A few minutes later, she’s asleep. I try to wake her. She opens her eyes long enough to enunciate I want to sleep! I carry her downstairs to her bed and quietly panic. I call Jon, and he looks up “concussion” on the Internet. The question is, do I rush her to the emergency room, or do I wait until I can call the doctor? We decide to wait.

At 2:30 I call the doctor’s office. The nurse says to let her sleep another half-hour, then wake her up and call if she doesn’t seem right. I make myself some tea, go in to check on Katrina a half-dozen times, and get on the computer.

About 3:05, I start to close out of the computer so I can go wake her. Suddenly, I hear, Mama! MAMA! I’m HUNGWY!

Katrina bounces out of bed like nothing happened. She eats a late lunch and has a near-tantrum because she missed her swim lessons. The dream—the dread, the hollow feeling in my chest—still hovers near, but I’m too busy making macaroni and cheese to pay attention.

Lyrical Friday: Growing Up Together

I have fallen for another she can make her own way home And even if she asked me now I'd let her go alone
I useta see her up the chapel when she went to Sunday Mass
And when she'd go to receive, I'd kneel down there
And watch her pass
The glory of her ass

I useta to love her, I useta love her once
A long, long time ago ...

D'you remember her collecting for concern on Christmas Eve
She was on a forty-eight hour fast just water and black tea
I walked right up and made an ostentatious contribution
And I winked at her to tell her I'd seduce her in the future
When she's feelin looser

--I Useta Lover , by P. Cunniffe, D. Carton, L. Moran, P. Stevens




Christmas day, sitting around
Full with food we washed it down
Your thirteenth year my only boy
So grown up and so short a time
Just a simple nylon string
To strum along and get the swing
To wish you luck beneath the stars
I wrote this song with your guitar....

Seems like only yesterday
It was Power Rangers all the way
Then Lego stuff and dinosaurs
This year for you your own guitar
I hope it makes you many friends
Brings you fun for hours on end
Takes you places you'd never be
That's what my one did for me

--Your Guitar, by L. Moran, D. Carton, J. Moran


I wasn't yet 21 when I left for Ireland. Never been on a plane before. Never been out of the country before, except to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. I was newly engaged.

In 1991, you didn't have to be in Ireland too long before hearing The Saw Doctors. They had at least two singles at the top of the Irish charts, and a best-selling album. As I recall, the U.S. music scene was still pretty deep in the cynical, depressing grunge period. Nirvana and all that. The Saw Doctors' music was fun. Often funny, irreverent, always clever, and it made you want to dance. My friends and I went to a Saw Doctors concert not far from Galway. No reserved seats...no seats at all, if I remember correctly. The venue was a big room with a little stage up front, reminiscent of a cafeteria/auditorium in a high school. I was surprised at how accessible the band was. The difference between being number one in a small country and in a large one, I suppose.

Recently, I saw the movie Music and Lyrics, in which Hugh Grant plays a has-been 80s pop star who needs Drew Barrymore's lyrics to make a comeback. It was a sweet movie, though perhaps best appreciated by those of us who remember when Wham! and a-ha were the hottest things going. One of the aspects I liked was that Grant's character was relatively happy being a has-been, performing at high school reunions and smallish theme parks. He told Barrymore that he was depressed, bitter, etc., when his star first started falling. But after some years, when "retro" became cool again, he and his fans rediscovered each other. His fans, now in their thirties and forties, were glad to see him again. And he was glad to see them, too. I can't remember if the character said it or if I thought it, but it was like the singer and his fans had grown up together and were both looking back fondly on their youth.

The Saw Doctors weren't quite as young as I was 16 years ago, but both they and I have gotten older. They are still making music. (At least, the two original frontmen are.) It's still fun. It's still good-hearted and sometimes irreverant. But they've moved from chronicling teen-age crushes to describing a teen-age son.

I still smile when I listen to "I Useta Lover," and as Katrina approaches her fifth birthday, I've been thinking how fast the years fly. And that light-hearted band I heard when I was at the cusp of adulthood had more staying power than I would have predicted in 1991. It's almost like we grew up together.

Happy Mother's Day

I woke up this morning with a pretty bad headache, the first in a long time. Katrina and I both slept late and then snuggled up on the couch watching "Lady and the Tramp II" on the Disney channel, while Jon went to church. Then Jon took Katrina to the Chuck E. Cheese-like place on base this afternoon. Tonight if I feel better we'll go out to eat, probably at the little Italian place here in Kindsbach.

I got flowers from Jon on Friday, and Katrina made a little vase with a rose at school. And it is enough. That little vase with its handwritten tag is pure joy.

For what seemed like such a long time, Mother's Day brought sadness and a sense of failure to me. Now it brings a profound gratefulness, and a wish to do better, to be more grateful for my beautiful, bright, kind, curious, imaginative, but sometimes difficult, little girl. And also? It brings wishes that time would just slow down a little, that I could replay moments in our lives together and keep them in vivid memory forever.

At lunch today, Katrina said she wanted a sister, and that we should ask God for one. And tears came to my eyes, and I thought of a blog post I read yesterday, and how well it captured the thoughts and emotions of those of us who have experienced infertility and motherhood:

"I look at his face and know that he is enough. He is more than enough. And yet because he is enough, more than enough, to fill my heart and life with such mind-boggling amounts of joy, I cannot help but wonder what it must be like to have that joy times two.

I cannot help but to take his face in my hands and cover it with kisses, while silently praying gimme baby. Please."

Yes, Katrina is enough. More than I dared hope for. But, oh, I wonder. I wonder.

Lyrical Friday: Thoughts on Faith

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
Yeah, the news of my impending death
Any other day might have been ok

I was starting to track with my inner guide
I was getting in touch with my feminine side
But when the doctor starts whistling "happy trails"
Tends to take a bit of wind out of the old sails . . .

I'd built iron man stalls in the northern wild
I'd played cabbage patch dolls with my inner child
Now i'm getting sealed bids for a granite vault
And i'm pretty sure this is my parents' fault

--The Lament of Desmond R.G. Underwood-Frederick IV by Steve Taylor




When nothing satisfies you
When nothing satisfies you
When nothing satisfies you
Hold my hand

--When Nothing Satisfies by Jennifer Knapp


I like to read O Magazine because it has longer, more thoughtful articles than most women's magazines. Don't get me wrong, there are still plenty of pages devoted to such world-changing topics as "stuff Oprah wants you to buy" and "fashion trends that you can follow if you have a spare thousand dollars for this hot new designer dress."

But the real articles tend toward the narrative, personal experiences, and sometimes even a feature article about someone doing some good in the world, rather than the "10 Ways To Improve Your Pathetic Life" that you get in other women's magazines.

The most recent issue of the magazine, though, did its readers a disservice, I think. The issue's theme was "faith." As is the standard format for the magazine, there were a number of articles, most relatively short, written by a variety of contributers. Some of the stories were quite lovely, all were well-written, and at least one brought up some interesting insights. But the magazine had already lost me by that time.

"YOU GOTTA HAVE FAITH" the introductory section said. "It doesn't have to be a God thing. You don't have to be religious. But when you're all alone on troubled waters, you need something to hold on to..."

Seriously? It doesn't matter what you believe in, only that you believe in something?

This sentiment is standard Oprah/O Magazine stuff, and, perhaps the sentiment of a good many people in American society. It goes even beyond the idea that all religions have truth. Because O Magazine says faith doesn't "have to be religious."

No. I just can't agree. The object of faith is important. What you believe (or, as Christians say, who you believe in) in shapes you. The mere fact that you believe distinguishes you from the athiest or the nihilist, perhaps, but even they believe in their non-belief.

And (although "the terrorists" are getting to be like "Hitler" in over-the-top comparisons) I venture to say that Muslim extremists are pretty high up on the "strong faith" scale.

Think about what a person's life would look like who had faith in:

• a vengeful, demanding god


• a merciful god


• his/her own abilities


• his/her own feelings (another Oprah gospel)


• the power of money


• other people


• Mother Earth


• aliens


• nothing

Faith matters, yes. But faith is only the act of holding on. Our lives sometimes depend on what--on who--we're holding on to.

This One's for Wendy

Yesterday, we did some spring cleaning, including going through Katrina's clothes and getting rid of what didn't fit. In one of the drawers, Katrina found a dress that I had put away, oh, about a year ago, when spring turned into summer.

"Look, Mama!! I love this dress! It's my favorite!!"

"But, sweetie, it's a size 5. You're a size 6 now. I don't think it will fit."

"It fits, Mama, see? Can I wear it today? Can I?"

"If you really want to, but it's hot today. I think you'll get hot in it."

"No, Mama, I'm cold. I want to wear it."

"Okay."

(By the way, Katrina pulled this dress off the clearance rack at the BX last year, so I think it is her first non-parent-guided clothing choice.)






Jon says he doesn't understand why I don't like this outfit. He thinks it's cute. I suppose it would have been cute in 1985 at the Deb Shop. And of course, for 4-year-old girls who love both pink and sequins.

Just Call Me Barnabas

8:00 am, Thursday morning

Me: OK, sweetie, time to get up.

Katrina: I'm tiiiiiiired.

Me: I know, darling, it's hard to get up. But we need to get ready for school. Time to go potty and get dressed.

K: I don't need to go potty!!

Me: You need to try when you get up in the morning. Come on...

K: (much mumbling and complaining and dragging of feet)

Me: All right, sweetie, time to get dressed. Let's chose your clothes. How about this?

K: I don't want that.

Me: OK, then what do you want?

K: I don't know. I'm tiiiiired.

(after a few minutes of high-level negotiation, we come to a solution that satisfies both parties, but not without my patience running thin)

Me: All right, time to put on your panties. Can you do it yourself?

K: (whining) I need heeeeelp.

Me: Oh, you can put them on yourself. You did it yesterday!

K: No, I can't! I need heeeeelp!

Me: (steaming) All right, come here. (helps her get dressed)

8:00 am, Friday morning

Me: Time to wake up, sweetie, and get ready for school.

K:I'm tiiiiiiired.
Me: I know, darling, it's hard to get up. But we need to get ready for school. Time to go potty and get dressed.

K: I don't need to go potty!!!

Me: Oh, that's right, you're too little. You don't know how to go potty by yourself. Wait just a minute. I have to finish making my coffee and then I'll help you, 'cause you can't go by yourself.

K: (sits up immediately and smiles)

Me: (leaves room)

(I putter in the kitchen, listening to K running to the bathroom, washing hands, running back to her bedroom. I walk back to her bedroom.)

Me: What?! You went potty all by yourself?! I can't believe it!

K: (grins like she put one over on me)

Me: But I bet you can't get dressed by yourself. No, you're too little. Hold on, I need to go do something in the other room, and then I'll help you, because I know you can't get dressed all by yourself. (leave room)

K: (closes bedroom door, gets dressed by herself, runs into the kitchen grinning)

Yes, that's right. My child is best motivated by trash talk. I wonder why I never read about this method in a parenting book?

Lyrical Friday

what am i supposed to do about it now?

past regrets and long laments they find me somehow

o, what am i supposed to do about it now?

what have i to do but fall down?


--Fall Down, by Jennifer Knapp

I Am From

I've been thinking about my childhood lately, and I remembered a meme that went around a while back on some of the blogs I read. It's a simple formula, really, but every one I read was evocative and many were just beautiful. So I thought I'd try my hand at it. Better late than never!


I Am From

I am from weathered mountains and woods of pine and oaks. I am from up the hill, just off Janesville Pike, up near the park. I am from Raggedy Ann with red-marker boo-boos, Little House on the Prairie, yellow stenography notebooks full of ballpoint scribbles, and a long white bookcase crammed with books.

I am from the brick-and-white house on the corner, just as you reach the top of the hill. From the white birch tree encircled with pachysandra in the front yard, and the tulip tree in the side yard, and the maple climbing tree in the back. From the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases around the fireplace and the television relegated to the basement.

I am from mountain pies cooked over the campfire, from waiting till Christmas Eve to eat any cookies, from harmonizing to “In the Garden” in the car, from Penn State football, and from sitting on Gram and Pap’s front porch. I am from one father who walked away, and from another one who stepped up. I am from Bob and Linda, Ruth and George, Harold and Leona. I am from a colorful mosaic created from the pieces of two broken families, with love and commitment as its mortar.

I am from storytellers and readers and gardeners and uproarious laughter. I am from bad tempers, stubborn pride, and even more stubborn loyalty. I am from steel-toed shoes and grading papers and working hard to support your family.

I am from “You’re being antisocial” and “Jenny, will you play with me?!” From “My, it’s quiet—everyone must be hungry” at Thanksgiving dinner and “Let’s go up to the Bellwood intersection” for ice cream in the summer.

I am from Church of the Good Shepherd, over by the football field. From primary choir, junior choir, youth choir. From singing “My Hands Belong to You” two weeks after heart surgery and wondering why the adults were teary. From seeing hypocrisy up close. From seeing faith up close. From Wednesday morning youth Lenten breakfasts, and from singing in old country churches clad in light blue polo shirts and white skirts. From "Ring the Bells" at Advent and "Were You There" at Lent. From Betty and John, Karen, Ron, Edie and Joe, Norman, Craig.

I am from Bethesda Naval Hospital, where a cutting-edge surgeon saved my life almost as soon as it began. I am from the Pennsylvania Dutch, stalwart Germans all. And from mysterious Italian and Swedish forebears swirling unrecognized through my genes.

I am from pork and sauerkraut at New Year’s, homegrown lettuce and spring onions, pickled beets and eggs, patty-pan squash, chives plucked straight from the garden, Way’s orchard apples in the fall, and Grammy’s special Christmas punch.

I am from Pop-pop hearing his mother’s favorite hymn on the radio after asking God for a sign that baby Jenny would be all right. I am from a blind date set up by my great-aunt, with my mother expecting a short, bald man and being relieved when my tall father (with a full head of hair) showed up.

I am from big brown photo albums under the coffee table, from yearbooks stacked somewhere upstairs, from a line of smaller black albums on the shelf, from the framed pictures on walls and tables. I am from the black-framed pictures that now march up and around my stairwell, of grandparents now gone and children now almost grown, and of the new generation, my daughter and nieces and nephews, who will be from somewhere new and yet still familiar.

Spring Break

Diagnosis

It was about a month after my first miscarriage, after hope was extended and then destroyed. My heart still ached, and tears came quick and too often, and I felt hollowed out and old. I went to a women’s church retreat, perhaps hoping that a weekend away would give me some perspective, or maybe even some answers.

I remember that the theme was something like “A Time to Be,” and in the back of my mind I guess I wanted God to come to me and explain why it was not time for me to have a child. But that didn’t happen. Instead, that weekend started a whole different time in my life.

The second morning, I woke in my dorm-like room in the lodge with the worst cramps I had ever had. I spent some quality time in a bathroom stall, which kind of helped, but I still felt pretty bad. I went to breakfast, where I had just a piece of toast (the irony of which you probably can guess). I participated in the rest of the retreat, when I could.

Back at my in-laws’ house (where we were staying for the time between our townhouse selling and our new house being completed), I surmised that I had caught some sort of intestinal virus. I felt terrible for a few days, and somewhat better for a few days, and then waited to get wholly better.

I didn’t get better.

The painful intestinal cramps and diarrhea came and went. About the time I thought that I should really get to the doctor, it seemed to improve. And so I put off the doctor’s visit. It didn’t help that I had no primary care physician at the time, and it just seemed a bit embarrassing to spring these symptoms on a stranger.

And then, of course, it would get worse again.

I started to wake in the middle of the night and rush to the bathroom. Mornings, it was difficult to get anywhere on time. But by afternoon, I felt like myself again.

That summer, we went on a trip to Poland for a friend’s wedding. And I love(d) the heavier, crusty bread that is the norm in Europe. I ate a lot of bread, especially in the mornings when I wasn’t feeling too well, and the European breakfast of meat and cheese looked unappetizing. But the bread? That I ate.

What with the sightseeing and all, and never knowing where a bathroom would be, I also took Imodium frequently. It kind of worked. For a day or so at a time. But I still remember being in the middle of a small Polish city, practically doubled over with pain, and trying not to let my traveling companions know. Jon knew, though, and he was quite upset with me. Not for the sickness itself, but because I hadn’t seen a doctor sooner. And, of course, he was right.

I finally made an appointment to see a doctor in early September. He listened carefully, did a cursory exam, and gave me an initial diagnosis of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I got some blood tests and some IBS medicine.

Not only didn’t the medicine work, it had a side effect of dry mouth. Which, when the doctor mentioned the possibility, didn’t sound so bad. Believe me, dry mouth can be bad. It felt like not only my mouth but my throat would just stick together and I would never talk or breathe again if I didn’t drink about a gallon of water right now.

So, back to the doctor. He said, “I want to give you one more blood test. You probably won’t have this, because it is pretty rare, but some of my IBS patients have been diagnosed with celiac disease.”

About the time he said rare, I figured I had it. My medical history has a peculiar pattern to it. Born with rare heart defect, diagnosed with a rare reproductive system defect (when my ob/gyn told me over the phone what the problem was, he asked if I was sitting down first), I didn’t seem to get common medical disorders.

A week later, the doc called. My blood was sort of positive for celiac disease. One of the blood tests was positive, that is, and the other two were negative. There was another test to make sure, said the doc (an endoscopy), but that seems kind of invasive. Why don’t you just stop eating gluten for awhile and see if it helps? (Later I learned that I should have had the endoscopy. And that celiac is not nearly as rare as doctors thought it was.)

Hm. Never had the words “Easier said than done,” seemed more true. When I started downstairs to eat lunch, I stared into the fridge for a looong time. My usual lunch was a sandwich. OK, couldn’t have that. But what about…no. Oh, here’s this…no. I finally settled on leftover pork fried rice. I didn’t know then that most soy sauce has wheat. That was the last pork fried rice I ever had that wasn’t made by my own hands.

Going gluten-free was an education. Sometimes it still is. I read books and books and books, and subscribed to an e-mail list, and read pages and pages online. I figured out what to look for in ingredient lists. I wandered the aisles of the local Giant, reading labels and getting more and more frustrated and nearly crying in the frozen food section. I darkened the door of a health-food store for the first time in my life, and nearly cried again to see a whole section with those beautiful words gluten-free.


About the time my celiac symptoms cleared up, another new time in my life began. Three months after that rare diagnosis, I finally received a common one: I was pregnant. And this time, hope grew and was delivered. Katrina was born. And the next morning, I met with the hospital dietician to discuss my need for gluten-free food during my stay.



Reading: Magic Hour by Kristin Hannah; and
Rumors of Another World: What on Earth Are We Missing? by Philip Yancey

Welcome, Spring

Plans Called on Account of the Plague

We're dealing with illness here, so I haven't had much time to write. Katrina missed out on the horrible rotavirus that decimated her preschool class about a month ago (thank goodness! one stomach virus a year is enough).

Instead, our girl had her first-ever bout with strep throat last week. She came home from a birthday party last Sunday and within an hour became lethargic. Katrina asking to go to bed at 6 p.m. means only one thing--fever. And so it was, 102 degrees. Next day, she complained of a sore throat and a sore ear. To the doctor we went. The very kind receptionist noted that the "infectious disease" waiting room was already taken (the doc's office was more crowded than I'd ever seen it), so maybe we should just go have a coffee and come back in half an hour. There's a bakery/cafe downstairs. Much better than a doctor's waiting room.

Anyway, we waited another 20 minutes when we got back. (This is entirely unusual for this doctor. On occasion we have been in and out in under 20 minutes.) The nurse walked in and immediately swabbed Katrina's mouth for strep. No gag-inducing tonsil swab! Just the inside of the cheek, and results in a few minutes. The miracles of modern medicine!

So, yes, strep. Over to the apotheke for penicillin. No school until Wednesday, as the doc said she'd still be contagious Tuesday. Let's see, about 60 euro for the doctor's visit (which included 10 or 15 euros for the cool strep test) and 30 or so euro for the medicine.

Fast forward a week. She was fine Sunday. Yesterday morning, "Owwie! My ear hurts!" while clutching the offending appendage. We talked about it a bit, as I couldn't believe she could get an ear infection or have one get worse while still on antibiotics. "Are you sure, honey? Because we'll have to go to the doctor if you stay home from school." (This is not much of an disincentive. She loves the doctor's office.) Plus, she also said her toe hurt. So it started to sound like a random, "last time my ear hurt I got to stay home and watch TV" kind of thing. Until I tried to take her temperature with the ear thermometer and she clutched her ear again and refused to let me take it on that side. She's never done that.

So back to the doctor. A bit of a wait again. Doc confirmed that she had an ear infection. Actually, he walked in, looked at her record on the computer, said "Oh, nein!" loudly, and kind of laughed with the nurse. Apparently, the antibiotic he prescribed was only for strep. It was not strong enough for an ear infection. And apparently, Katrina was not the first child to come back with another infection.

So, back to the apotheke. 75 euros for TWO bottles of Augmentin (the nastiest stuff she's ever had to take), a small bottle of probiotics, and a bottle of stool softener, because these antibiotics are wreaking havoc with her little tummy. The doc only charged 25 euros because it was a "follow-up visit."

Another two days at home. And poor Katrina trying to get down a teaspoon and a half of Augmentin twice a day. After only a day of her second round of this stuff in as many months, she started to gag involuntarily this morning as soon as she got a whiff. She managed to get it down, though, with me using a medicine syringe and her holding her nose. There's not enough candy in the world to reward her for that.

Longing for Spring

My skin craves the sun.

In Northern Virginia, the sun is an enemy, heating the heavy air and clearing shadeless playgrounds by eleven a.m. Here in Germany, the sun is an old friend or long-lost lover, seldom seen and greatly cherished when it appears for even a few hours. Although winter temperatures were unusually mild this year, day after day brought gray skies and rain. From drizzling to pouring and back again, with hail here and there for good measure. The only snowfall merely coated the ground in the morning and dissipated by midday. No gleaming white reflecting the sun into squinting eyes. Just fast-moving dark clouds, wind, and rain.

After a while, the wet and the damp and the sameness tighten into a drab cloak. The world contracts: inside the house, inside the school, inside the car, your boundaries the circumference of a small umbrella. Your spirit draws in, and your breath, too, until you hardly notice how small they’ve become. Darkness seeps in, and slowly takes up residence. A gloomy Eeyore roommate, unmoved by reason, convincing you that light is a distant memory. The sun is in hiding, and it's never coming back.

And then, you notice that the mornings seem a little lighter. You’re no longer eating dinner in the dark. But the differences penetrate slowly, and the grayness lingers. You wake at midnight to a roaring wind driving the rain against the windows. And another day dawns, and a speck of blue sky appears, until clouds rush in to blot it out.

But the day does come when the skies clear. It’s still chilly, the wind still chaps your face, but that doesn’t matter. Because that long-lost lover, your old flame, has returned. And you turn your face up to the sky. Oh, this is what it’s like to breathe deeply and freely. Your vision lengthens, and earth and sky and arms open up. Time slows. The afternoon lengthens as you watch children on the playground, running and screaming with joy. Other families come and go, but you stay, relishing even the slight warmth, the light, the charged air. Why should we go home? Who knows when such a day will come again? You soak it in, and take one more deep breath, putting off the moment when you must open the door and step back inside. You suddenly understand why the ancients worshipped the sun.

It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.



Reading: Raising Your Spirited Child (again)
Listening to: Redemption Songs by Jars of Clay and Baby Beluga (Raffi)
Watched Last Night: "Torchwood"

Conversations (or, Exercises in Humility)

Talking with Katrina is an exercise in humility. I hear about children who talk about what happened at school or what their friends are doing, but nearly all attempts to elicit information from my daughter are met with resistance. Apparently, school is her domain, and she only occasionally drops little pearls of information for us to hoard and speculate about later.


But that's not the humbling part. Because as much as Katrina dislikes talking about her own experiences, she adores asking questions. About everything. Pretty much any conversation with her that lasts more than a minute or two exposes at least one hole in my knowledge base. A vast, dark ignorance. And here I am, a college graduate.



Here are the topics that we covered in the time it took to eat breakfast yesterday.



"How is bread made from wheat?" A good start! I can answer that one! Although, no, I don't really know how the grains of wheat are separated from the rest of the plant. And the closest I can come to explaining how they are ground into flour is to say they use a machine like our coffee grinder. I mention the other ingredients quickly, hoping that she won't want an explanation of what yeast is and how it works (good, she doesn't ask that one).



Next question: "How do they get the milk from the cows into the milk container?" OK, I can answer that, too. "And then they sprinkle sugar into it?" Um, no...hmm. Oh yeah, I explained some time back that she could no longer drink milk at bedtime because it had sugar that could hurt her teeth if it sat in her mouth all night. "No, honey, the cows put the sugar in when they make the milk." And then she launches into a rambling musing about what if a baby cow had no mama or papa. I have no response to this, being a bit confused as to how we got there.


Next question: "How did they make that door out of wood and cut it and fit it into that hole?" Buzzzz. I answer vaguely with something about cutting the wood and measuring the doorway. I'm sure there is more to it than that, but I just don't know.



Then, breakfast is over and it's time for the Ride to School Philosophy Hour (actually only about 15 minutes, but it can seem longer). You see, there are two times when Katrina's mind turns to the questions of the universe: when we're in the car, and when she is on the toilet. No, I don't know why.



For the past few days, she's wanted me to play her "God songs" in the car. That's a children's CD with worship songs. These are not kiddie songs like "Jesus Loves Me," but worship songs you'd hear in a contemporary church service or on Christian radio. And, boy, do they bring on the questions.



"Mama, why do they call God a rock?" (This said in a faintly indignant tone, like she thinks someone is calling God names.) I've explained a number of times that the song is really saying that Jesus is like a rock, being strong and always there, but I'm not sure she really gets it. Because she keeps asking the question. Every time the song plays.



"What is a Judah?" This from a song that repeats "Hail, hail, Lion of Judah" approximately 264 times. It is a catchy tune, so she's been singing it. And really, how much meaning does "Lion of Judah" have to present-day adults, either?


"Why do they say the lion and the lamb?" I say something about God being as fierce as a lion but as gentle as a lamb. She says it must be that God is fierce to "bad guys" and gentle to "good guys." I kinda go "umm-hmm" and let it stand. I've got nothin'.



And then there is the whole Trinity deal. Oh, yes. I'm driving her to school at 8:50 in the morning and trying to explain the Holy Trinity to a four-year-old. Because she gets that Jesus is God, and that God is God. So, naturally, that means that there are two gods. I, of course, try to correct her by talking about the "mystery" that is the Trinity, but I think all she gets is that there's a Spirit, too. Yay! I can't wait until she tells our pastor that there are only three gods.



She's four years old, people. And I end up trying to explain parts of theology that wise people with seminary degrees have trouble with. I thought we'd still be in the "God loves you" territory at this age, but she's on to why the bad guys killed Jesus, and exactly when is Jesus coming back, anyway? Maybe tomorrow?



And I haven't even mentioned our conversations about plumbing and water treatment and how did Pap used to make paper (which she finds fascinating...maybe Pap needs to explain to her how it's done) and how do they make books and get the pictures on the page and what are those white things by the side of the road and why are bad guys bad and why do we live longer than lions and why did God make people after dinosaurs and why are the dinosaurs all dead and what would happen if there were one dinosaur left--would he eat our house and why are they digging there and what does the yellow light mean and does the traffic light know we are not going straight and when are we going to Raina's birthday party? Wait...that one I can answer.

Reading: Happiness Sold Separately by Lolly Winston
Listening to: Eleventh Hour by Jars of Clay
Watched on DVR last night: "Torchwood"; "Medium"