Naked, Zygote, and Sex! Oh My!

A few weeks ago, my son came home with a "behavior notification." All the third grade students had been given dictionaries. He had gotten into trouble for looking up the word "naked" and pointing it out to a nearby friend. Evidently, some of the other boys started looking up what his teacher referred to as
"other ugly words." All those boys' dictionaries were taken away from them. I won't get into my and my husband's feelings over this. Suffice it to say, we don't think "naked" is an "ugly word," so we both disagreed for the action our son's teacher took against him. And that's all I will say about that. Maybe in another blog post I'll rattle out my frustration. Or perhaps I'll work it out in some journaling that I will never publish. Maybe I should throw my fists into a few pillows. Grrr.

Sorry. Anyway...

A few days later, I was in Barnes and Noble, and I found Webster's Dictionary for Students . I showed it to my husband, Mark, and he jokingly asked if it had the word "naked" in it. I had already checked for that, and I assured him it was in there; it was right in between "naive" and "name." Mark said, "Good! Let's give it to him."



I adore that man :)



I brought it home to Nicholas, and I as I gave it to him, I said, "This is YOUR dictionary, and you can ask your dad or me about ANY word in this book, any time you want to." He grinned. I basked in the glow of that proud, parental moment. He found a pen and wrote his name in the cover (that's MY baby!). And he sat down the next day reading it like it was from the Magic Tree House series (that's also MY baby). He hasn't read the whole thing cover to cover, and I doubt he ever will. But I love that he loves it, and I know he will use it a lot over the coming years.

Then what did the boy do? He brought the dictionary to me and said, "Mom, the definition of the very last word is interesting. Look at this." I couldn't wait to see what he thought was so interesting. When a child shows you what is intriguing to him, it is a peek inside his brain -- his world. I feasted my eyes on the last word and beheld the word "zygote."

Zygote?


(sigh)


Yep. ZYGOTE.


zy-gote n : the new cell produced when a sperm cell joins with an egg


My husband and I looked at each other, both of us speaking with our eyes..."REALLY? We're gonna go *there* now? NOW?! That's just great...we've made our bed, and now we've gotta lie in it..."


Mercy.


Nicholas asked what that definition meant. Mark told Nicholas that that's how he got here. And I said that puppies, goats, whales, and all other animals and humans got here that way too. These answers satisfied our own little "zygote," and that was the end of that.




Or so I thought.



A week or so later, we were sitting in the living room. My beloved third grader looked at me and mentioned, casually, that a fellow student said something about "s-e-x." Trying to seem unaffected, I said, "Sex? What did he have to say about it?" Nicholas told me not much, mainly that the said student declared that (male sew-n-sew) had "done it" with (female sew-n-sew).


!      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !      !     


We now had Mark's attention. I suggested we turn off the television so we could talk. Then I, now clearly affected, asked my eight year old offspring what he thought "did it" meant. He said, "Mom, you don't want to know."






I die.






A very long, delicate, compassionate conversation ensued. I won't go into too many gory details. Mark and I did the best we could. And so did Nicholas. I'm so proud of him. I'm proud of the three of us. We sat down together and had a calm, honest discussion about the things Nicholas had been hearing at school, and what he thought of all that. Given, he didn't say too much -- he felt too embarrassed to voice certain things at this point. And we didn't force him to do so. But we did assure him that A) Most of what he's going to hear from kids his age about sex is most likely untrue, and B) He can come to us at ANY time and ask us ANYTHING about sex, and that he will never be in trouble with us for doing that. We promised to always be honest with him. We told him that sex is not a bad thing; that sex is what brought him to us. I cannot say that any of this was easy, but we handled it.

Is there some part of parenting that is easy? Because if there is some easy part I can look forward to, I wish someone would tell me all about it.

I know there will be more conversations about sex when Nicholas is ready.
I hope he will come to his father and me when he has questions. And I really think he will.

Dear Chris

Dear Chris,

Being the devout Episcopalian that I am, I went to my parish's Sunday morning worship service. Confession: I was tired, and I did not want to go. But I muddled through all the routine motions of showering and dressing and primping, and off I went. I dutifully rehearsed with the choir, vested, and took my place in the processional line. Our choir master (you would love singing under her, by the way) finished her prelude and sounded the first chords of the processional hymn -- "All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name." Soon I was seated and following along in my bulletin.

These are the things that stood out to me:

The first reading was from 2 Samuel 23: "These are the last words of David..." 

Then the psalm -- Psalm 132: "Lord, remember David, and all the hardships he endured...Let us go to God's dwelling place; let us fall upon our knees before his footstool..."

And then the second reading from Revelation 1: "Grace to you and peace from him who was and who is to come...Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him..."

The Gospel reading, John 18: "My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here."

The anthem -- "The Last Words of David" -- "And he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth..."

The communion anthem -- "E'en so, Lord Jesus, Quickly Come" -- "Rejoice in heaven all ye that dwell therein. Rejoice on earth, ye saints below. For Christ is coming, is coming soon. E'en so, Lord Jesus, quickly come, and night shall be no more. They need no light nor lamp nor sun, for Christ will be their All!"



"Last words...all the hardships he endured...coming with the clouds...not from this world...he shall be as light of the morning...night shall be no more..."

Chris, all these words, both spoken and sung, reminded me of you. I knew your time here with us was running out -- we all knew that.

From my place in the chancel area, I could see the whole length of the nave.
I kept looking up, I don't know why. And I noticed the ceiling. And I remembered that the ceiling's architecture is meant to look like the inside of the hull of a ship. I felt like I was in a capsized boat. I even had a small panic attack! But I breathed and prayed, and soon I recovered. I thought about you. I wondered if you had been feeling this way lately, feeling like you were in a boat you couldn't escape, and feeling scared from being tossed around by life's stormy seas. I wanted to comfort you. I wanted to calm the waters for you. I wanted to find a life jacket for you.







And you sailed from this world the very next morning.







Like I said, we all knew it was coming, and I know you knew that too...but still. Your Aunt Judy looked around and said, "He's not suffering anymore." Those words gave me solace. Donnie, Laura, Aunt Judy, Roy and I mourned over losing you. We made calls. We sent messages. Larry, Laurie, Tracey and Eva came. Dave would have been there if he hadn't had to be at work. We all comforted each other. The nurses, doctors, counselor, chaplain -- they were all as wonderful and sweet as ever.

After Laura and Aunt Judy (yes, I really DO call her "Aunt Judy" as if she's my own aunt -- I just love her) left, the rest of us weren't quite ready to part just yet. We all went to Sweet Tea and had lunch together -- Lisa joined us there as well. We talked about you; we talked about the plans for your ashes; we lifted our glasses of tea and Coke while Donnie made a toast to you -- he was sweet; we talked amongst ourselves (I sat across from Roy and I'm going to send him a recipe for some icing he's never made!). I marveled at all the new friends I now have from having you in common with them.



And I wish you were here...



Above, I said we all mourned. And we did. But you know how I am, Chris.
I have to do things my own way, in my own time. I did not cry that day -- not when Donnie called me at 2:00 AM, not as you were dying, not when you
died -- I never shed a tear. I think my subconscious went into what I now refer to as "Rock Mode." I felt I had to be strong for Donnie and Laura and Aunt Judy and all the rest. I didn't even have to choke tears back -- there were none to contend with. Was I sad? Yes. Would I rather have you here, whole and well and free from the bonds of liver disease? Gosh, yes! But I did not cry. Not then.

On Tuesday, I kind of dragged around. I was tired. I was worried about Donnie. Then when Nicholas got home from school he said something -- nothing major -- but it SET ME OFF -- and I flipped out at both boys. Then Mark called while he was on his way home. I told him I was tired and sluggish; that my depression, despite my best efforts, was getting the better of me that day. I told him I was too tired to cook and clean, and we agreed on Chinese take-out.

And then...I cried. And Mark said, "Are you OK?" And I told him,
"I haven't cried yet. This is the first time I've let myself cry." So there it was.
It was done, and I've had an easier go of things today.





I miss you, though.




Monday night, I sat down and reflected on the day. I had just put the boys down for the evening -- they'd had their baths, their jammies were on, they were all snuggled up and falling asleep in their bunk beds. Mark was not home yet because of night school. I have come to love (and covet) the nine o'clock hour on Monday nights, Chris! Sweet solitude, if only for a short while. I sat down and realized how tired I was. I had been awake nineteen hours, and you had taken your last breath thirteen hours ago. I thought about what you said when I visited you on Saturday (Iron Bowl day). You told me twice that you wanted me to be your mama. That whenever I visited I came in and took care of you. That you knew I was a good mom. And I thought about my sleeping boys, and how I love putting them to bed and making them feel cozy and loved. I wished I could do that for you. Since I couldn't, I wrote a little thing on my Facebook wall:

What a long and exhausting day it's been. But I was able to be by my friend's side, and I would not have been anywhere else. Now I'm enjoying the quiet solitude...boys have been bathed, read to, sung to. I love the end of day parenting, when the kids are clean and smelling good and sleepy. Chris told me two days ago that he wanted me to be his mama -- he really said that. Now he too is clean and comfortable, and I hope he feels the tucked-in love that my sons feel. All is merry and bright. Rest in peace, Chris, you sweet, sweet boy.

I hope you like it. I hope you know I mean it. And I hope the part about you being all clean and comfortable and tucked in is true. Watch over me and all of us that will always love and miss you. Pray for us. Pray for my boys and for your little niece that will be with us in the spring. Pray for all us mamas. Pray for your Birmingham friends and your Marshall County friends and family. Go find your place in the choir, and when you see me coming, I hope you will have saved me a seat.

Love,
Melanie

"It" Is Part of Me

Depression is not my friend. I do not like It. It frustrates me, demotivates me, breaks me. It is a lens through which every single thing in my life looks either utterly urgent or completely pointless. I don't want It. I wish It away. But once It takes its abode, It must be endured, suffered, and with any luck, managed. It is like a bad marriage -- It lasts forever.

And yes, I call It "It," and I capitalize "It," because It is real. 

It is an actual entity with a life of its own. 

It is insidious and parasitic. 

It tells me how overwhelming every little thing in my life is. 

It is relentless.

And It isn't going anywhere.



I used to take prescription pills for It. They helped, they really did. I actually liked the pills. They kind of helped my brain to keep itself in check; helped me to sort out what was real and important, and what was not. They helped me to feel better most all the time. But coming off the pills...that was hard. A few years ago, when my brain was managing It really well, I gradually stopped taking the pills. There were several difficult, heart-wrenching weeks of withdrawals, but eventually I evened out and things were OK. 

"It" first came after I'd had my first child. When he was about 15 months old, I was diagnosed with "Depression and General Anxiety Disorder (GAD, depression's kissing cousin). Between my first and second children I took pills for a couple of years and then weaned myself off of them. My husband and I were aware that It could come back after our youngest was born, but we decided to try to manage It without the use of pills. Neither of us wanted to see me go through the withdrawals again. We decided together that I'd be better off dealing with a few "bad days" (more accurately, dealing with the bad days one day at a time) than to deal with years of numbing myself.

There is a wonderful scene in the movie "Garden State." The main character, Andrew, has been taking a plethora of antidepressants most of his life (his father is a psychiatrist and prescribes them). But Andrew tells his father that he's decided to stop taking all the pills and he talks about how he's tired of being numb, and he wants to feel however he feels and be whoever he is, and "that will be better." That is kind of where I am at the moment. I can't say that managing depression without medication is "better" all of the time. But I like *this* version of "better" better than the other. [If that makes any sense]

Although I no longer take prescription medication, I do take a supplement. My mother sent me this link: http://www.doctoroz.com/videos/best-natural-anti-depressants. It lists many things to consider when treating depression (like diet and exercise), and it tells of several over the counter supplements that can be taken. I chose 5-HTP. To be honest, I don't even exactly know what 5-HTP is. Its effects may be real and true, or it may have no more effect than a placebo, but I no longer feel like I'm spinning out of control, so I will continue to take it.

Sometimes, when someone finds out I have depression, they'll say something like, "Now hun, there's no need for you to be depressed. You have a lot going for you: a wonderful family, beautiful sons, a husband that loves you, and you're talented at so many things."


They mean well. Of course they mean well. But can you imagine saying all that to a cancer patient? Or a diabetic? Or someone with MS?


"Now hun, there's no need for you to have cancer..."








Right.








October is National Depression Awareness Month. When you encounter someone who is hesitant to smile, who sees their glass half empty, who appears lazy...be slow to judge. You never know what heavy load someone is carrying, or whether that load is not something they've picked up at all, but a medical condition that weighs on them.

Depression is part of me. It is a permanent resident. That's the thing about It -- there is no cure. It has to be managed, which is often times easier said than done, although management truly is possible. I have glimpsed those moments, and I would like more of them. It takes a lot of work though. For those of us who have depression, our perceptions and feelings color everything we do and everyone we come into contact with. We walk a fine line between eggshells and hot coals every minute of every day. It's exhausting. I have to perpetually make the choice either to be adversely affected by whatever life brings me, or to proactively affect what happens in my life. While I can't say that I succeed at being proactive every single day, I hope that with time, I will learn to endure toward health and choose to soak up happiness, and to have the strength to look "It" head-on in the face and say, "You are not welcome here, and you can't sit with me." 

~Dum spiro spero~
Latin, "While I breathe, I hope."




 

My Omelet Pan...Again

I completely ruin my omelet pan every decade or so. I do not know why.
It always involves some hair-brained, dumb thing that I do, or neglect to do -- like watch the pan while it's on the hot stove. Evidently, this week was That Time again, and I am down an eight inch round vessel of egg-making bliss. 

It really shouldn't be a big deal, how mad I get at myself when it comes time to kill my omelet pan. It's. Just. A. Pan. You go to the store and get another one, right? But it's just not that simple for me. I...I can't believe I'm about to say this...but I ADORE my omelet pan, whichever one I possess at the time before I destroy it. I develop a relationship with it. I know what temperature it likes best from the stove. I know which of my spatulas fit the bottom of it. I treat it well (until I don't), and in return it yields perfectly cooked food (until it can't).

Also, if I do say so myself, I make a mean omelet -- and scrambled eggs too, for that matter. I can trace my eggy expertise back to when I was six years old. I was tall enough to see over the counter top then. My favorite breakfast to eat before I went to school was a scrambled egg sandwich and a cup of hot tea with sugar and Pet Milk. One morning my mom taught me how to make my own eggs. (At least I think it was my mom. It might have been my Granny. I'll ask Mom and see what she says. Anyway...) 
      
       *Crack an egg into a bowl.
       *Add a splash of milk or Pet Milk (because that's what Granny always bought).
       *Beat them with a fork.
       *Put a little pat of butter in the hot pan (Mom handled the hot pan business until I got a little older and more trustworthy at the stove.).
       *Pour in the egg and throw in some salt and pepper, and stir it every-so-often until it's as done as you want it.

Voila! Add a slice of buttered-and-jellied toast and you've got the breakfast of champions :) Oh, and some bacon or sausage if you have it. Even better. But my favorite way to eat the egg was between two slices of lightly buttered toast, no more, no less. And hot Tetley tea.

OK -- I'm just drooling and daydreaming now. Back to my pan.

What in the world did people do before Teflon was invented? The pan I learned to cook eggs in was a cast iron skillet. It was my grandmother's, and God only knows how old it was when I used it 33 years ago. It's bottom was slick and was actually easy to cook eggs in. I guess back then nonstick = really old cast iron.

The omelet pans I used over the next several years are kind of a blur, but I know I had a decent one when I was a college student living in an apartment. By my closest friends, I was KNOWN for my omelets. I even hosted a few Omelet Parties. I'd have a few ingredients -- mushrooms, tomatoes, cheese, ham -- and people would tell me what they wanted in their omelet and I'd whip it up for them. I surely killed a pan or two back then, although I can't recount any gory details (no comment there!).

Then I got married and acquired a good omelet pan. I don't remember the exact circumstances, but I know I left it on the hot stove eye -- no food in it -- I was heating it up and got sidetracked and forgot about it. Burned the heck out of it, too. So I went to Target (I like to pronounce it "Tar-zhay." Do you? Or am I one of about four people who do that?) and found one made by "KitchenEssentials from Calphalon." 

Here it is:

I hate to see it go. The handle is comfortable, it's made really well, and simply put, I just like the thing. Earlier this week I was using it to heat up some frozen "seasoning blend" -- a mixture of red and green bell peppers and onion -- all chopped up together. I keep that on hand to add to pasta or soup or omelets, of course. This particular time I was going to put my seasoning blend on my barbecue baked potato. I had put the pan on the stove with a lid on it, and went outside to water my herb garden. If it had rained like my weather man had said it would, I would have stayed close to the stove and watched over my beloved pan. But the rain fell everywhere in the county except on my yard. So as always happens every decade or so, I had put my trusty omelet pan on the stove only to get sidetracked by Life and I burned it slap up.

And it makes me sad, for the time being at least. I won't cook eggs in anything else. Eggs and omelets are the ultimate comfort food for me. They're familiar and wholesome. They remind me of my childhood. They're my go-to staple, whether cooking just for myself or my whole family. And they deserve to be cooked in a decent, well crafted, nonstick, eight inch omelet pan, by gosh. 

Look out, Tar-zhay -- I'm coming.

  

How I Met Dan Aykroyd /OR/ Lovely, I Have To Tell You Something

 

I can't believe I haven't written about this till now. See -- there's a couple of pictures on my Facebook page that I never explained very well of Mark and me with Dan Aykroyd . Yes, that Dan Aykroyd. The one and only (I bet) Dan Aykroyd. Comedian, writer, actor. One of THE original Saturday Night Live Alums. One of the Coneheads. One half of The Blues Brothers. One fourth of the Ghostbusters (who ya gonna call?).

And proprietor of Crystal Head Vodka.

A couple of years ago, my husband sent me an email saying that Dan Aykroyd would be at The Shoppette on Redstone Arsenal to promote Crystal Head Vodka. He would autograph your bottle, too.

Oh my!

The Shoppette is a gas station -- a gas station, people -- and Dan Aykroyd was going to sit in it and autograph your pre-purchased, exquisitely crafted glass skull and let you have your picture taken with him.

Um...yes, please.

I don't remember the exact dates -- my Facebook pictures were uploaded on May 14, 2010, so it was somewhere around in there...but Mark had sent me an email announcing Dan Aykroyd's illustrious presence in a gas station on the military base in Huntsville a mere day before he was to be there. I don't know what came over me. I just got this wild hair that we were going to do this, by gosh, and I only had twenty-four hours to pro cur a bottle of Crystal Head Vodka to take to The Shoppette. Yes, The Shoppette had plenty bottles of CHV on sale -- boxes and boxes of them -- but without a military ID, neither Mark nor I could purchase it there.

So that very afternoon, I dropped Nicholas off at his gymnastics class, and I drove to a liquor store. Isn't that what good moms do -- drop off their kids at their extracurricular activities and go buy liquor? I wondered what my deceased grandmother would think of me driving to the liquor store while her great grandson was at gymnastics. I decided she'd think it was pretty cool, what I was doing. :-] She was hip like that. She used to ferment her own wine from her own grapes, for Pete's sake.

Nicholas' gymnastics class happened to be in my hometown of Albertville. Only two or three weeks before, a tornado had ripped through this small town and literally tore it apart. Really, it was a sad and awful thing.  Because of trees down and roads closed, I had to take a different route to the ABC Package Store. I had to go down some side streets I wasn't that familiar with, and since all the trees were split, damaged, or just completely no longer there, I got lost. Being lost in the town where you grew up is a strange thing. It simply should not happen. But when you look down a street that once had century-old trees lining it, and suddenly those trees are GONE and now you see nothing but blue sky...it's disorienting. But I eventually found my way to the package store. :) They had two whole bottles of Crystal Head Vodka at around $70 apiece. I bought 50% of their stock and found my way back to the community center just in time to pick up Nicholas at the end of his class.


That was long-winded and only marginally relevant to my Dan Aykroyd story. Sorry.


So the next morning (also called The Day I Would Meet Dan Aykroyd In The Flesh), I met Mark somewhere in Huntsville and he drove me on post. I don't remember where in the world we parked, but we had to walk several minutes to get to The Shoppette. Bear in mind that The Shoppette is an average size gas station -- maybe 1000 square feet? Maybe 700? I don't know. But it's a smallish place that on that day in May held a LOT of people! Mark and I got there early enough that we were inside the door, but late enough that we still had to stand in line more than an hour and a half. If you were wearing your military uniform, you were ushered to the front of the line ahead of all us civilians (and rightly so, if you ask me). It seems like Mr. Aykroyd was going to be there from 11:00 till 2:00, or something like that -- right smack in the middle of lunch time. We were STARVING, but we didn't care!  

And then it was our turn to meet Dan. He is really, really tall! And handsome -- there, I said it. He said hi, and we said hi. Mark asked him about the newest installment of Ghostbusters while he signed our bottle of Crystal Head Vodka AND our "Blues Brothers" DVD. Outwardly, I was smiling, and I was calm and collected. But inwardly...
I was doing the Snoopy happy dance!
I also found myself wishing my name was Jane so that I could have asked him to say, "Jane, you ignorant slut!"







Forget I said that.






So after he signed our stuff, one of his assistants used our camera to take our picture with him.




{Read the following in my squealy, extra-girly voice:} LOOK AT US! There we are with THE Dan Aykroyd with HIS HANDS on our bottle of Crystal Head Vodka and "Blues Brothers" DVD -- the Sharpie ink is probably still wet!

I swoon. I swooned then and I swoon now. And I will continue to swoon for some time. Did I just conjugate all the tenses of the verb "swoon?"

Later that evening Mark and I uploaded our Dan Aykroyd pictures on our PC. We looked at them and giggled and talked about how much fun it was to have that experience. And during one of those lulls in the conversation where you've both said a lot of things enthusiastically and you kind of pause to reflect and breathe, I abruptly said, "Lovely (I call Mark 'Lovely'), I have to tell you something." Mark said, "OK..." WELL, right after this picture was taken, Mark and I thanked Dan Aykroyd for coming to Huntsville and for signing our stuff and for letting us have our picture taken with him. He was very gracious and polite, by the way. He also said that he and all the rest of the cast were going to work "really hard" on the upcoming "Ghostbusters" movie. Then he shook each of our hands before we left.

But here's what I had to confess to Mark:

Me: Lovely, you know how he shook my hand? Well, his right hand was shaking my right hand, right? Well...{read this next part in my squealy, extra-girly voice too} I took my left hand and placed it on top of his right hand and his hands were SO SOFT! And I did that on purpose so that I could say both of my hands were touching his hand!
Mark: That is SO COOL! Well, Lovely (he calls me 'Lovely' as well), I have to tell you something too.
Me: OK...
Mark: Do you see in this picture how I'm smiling? Like, really, really smiling, kind of like I'm up to something? Well...{This time Mark's voice went kind of squealy and girly. Read it in your head as such.} I had my left arm on your back, right? And I was like, "What should I do with my right hand?" So [imagine severely geeking-out facial expressions here] I put my right hand on his back so that I could say I touched Dan Aykroyd's back!
Me: That is SO COOL!

I have yet to sample my $70 bottle of vodka. I don't think I can bring myself to open that autographed bottle. It's sitting on a shelf in the living room right next to our "Blues Brothers" DVD. But I have a birthday coming up, so maybe someone will give me an unautographed bottle of CHV so I can finally try it.
Hint-hint, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

Parker

I wrote this shortly after Parker's birthday party. Then I revised and revised and revised until I came up with this. Why all the revisions? One reason is because that's what writers do (and now I'm calling myself a writer?!). The other reason is because I had thought about entering this particular piece in a writing competition. I ended up submitting a different paper though. Several people had a hand in this piece about Parker. I owe them my deepest and sincerest gratitude for helping me to write effectively, for taking an interest in the random thoughts in my brain, and for encouraging me to write, write, write: David Kendrick, Karina (Kari) Harris, Dianne Sharit, Jackie Holcomb, CSD, Kenith Jolley, Shelly Ann Edge McDonald, Kevin Allen, Mark Hyatt, Captain Larry Turner, KC and Rose Kyle, Celeste Stapler, Courtney Kyle.

            I am cleaning up the veritable carnage left after my son’s third birthday party – torn streamers, deflated balloons, smashed cake, abandoned favors. I am already exhausted from baking cupcakes and setting up birthday decorations. The house is a monumental mess.  And though I have “miles to go before I sleep,” I could not be more thankful to be carrying on through this exhaustion.

            Three years ago today, I was in the delivery room trying to bring my son, Parker, into the world. I had been in this place before when my first son was born. I will never forget the moment Parker’s older brother, Nicholas, was laid on my chest. Our eyes locked, and I distinctly remember thinking, “This is the moment – this moment of surreal recognition and unfathomable joy – THIS is why we bake a cake and hang streamers and inflate balloons and invite everyone we love to celebrate the anniversary of this incredible day, year after year after year.”

            Parker and I never got to have “that” moment. I could tell something was not right. I pushed for two hours, but I still had no newborn.  Parker’s vital signs were becoming more erratic with every contraction. I was beyond discouraged to have come so far only to hear my doctor announce that I needed to have a C-section.

Mark, my sweet husband, was beside himself. Only days before, we had watched a documentary film about several different expecting couples, each with their own unique birthing stories. The couple whose wife had a C-section scarred Mark for life. It is, after all, an invasive surgery. Bear in mind that this was not on a “regular” television station; this was on one of the premium movie channels, and it showed EVERYTHING! Mark said (and rather confidently, I might add), “I’m so glad my baby won’t be born by C-section. I don’t know how any woman could recuperate from that AND be able to enjoy her baby.”

So when an emergency team was assembled, and I was prepped for surgery, Mark went into a sort of shock. There I was comforting him, telling him everything would be all right. Who was having this surgery again?

The medicine administered through my epidural allowed me to be more or less awake, at least to begin with. I remember that everyone, including Mark and me, was wearing blue, and that the lights were very bright. I remember there was a blue curtain dangling over my chest. I remember that my voice went away completely. I felt dehydrated. I remember desperately wanting to be awake. I could not imagine my youngest son coming into the world to a mother who had closed eyes. But the urge to slumber became more powerful than my will to stay awake. I slid in and out of consciousness, and then surrendered to sleep.

I awoke to some activity. Although I could feel no pain, I could tell that I was being sutured. There were some soft voices from the doctors and nurses. They were using soft voices? I was being stitched up, so I knew my baby had been taken out. My baby was born! Where were the whooping and hollering and other sounds of merriment? Where was the joy? Where was the birthday party? I managed to look at Mark by my side. His head was down and he was soundless. He didn’t even know I was looking at him, and I could not speak or move to gain his attention. Then a female voice said, “His color is improving.” Were they talking about Parker? And why in the world did his color need to be improved upon?

That blasted blue curtain was blocking my view. My brain earnestly tried to tell my right arm to move that curtain, but my arm felt like a ton of bricks. I kept trying though, and I finally managed to push the curtain aside. I saw a half dozen or so people hovered over my lifeless baby boy. I saw the bag valve mask over his little face, and a nurse was using it to squeeze air into his lungs.

I could not cry, for I was too dehydrated. I could not ask what was happening, for I had no voice. I could not sit up to better lay my eyes on this angelic little creature that I had loved for the last nine months, for I was weak. All that I could do was turn my head into Mark’s knee and close my eyes. I lay there knowing everything in my world was all wrong, and there was nothing I could do about it. The only thing I had any control over was prayer. I did not bargain with God; my prayer was not negotiable. I did not even ask God if he could help. I commanded God to make Parker be all right. “Help him. Fix this right now.” I had no intention of going home to an empty nursery.

The wait was agonizing. The only thing that kept me from acting like a disquieted bundle of nerves was the lethargic effect of the drugs I had been given. This was probably a blessing to everyone in that operating room, now that I think about it. Finally, someone said, “He’s going to be OK.” I heard him whimper for the first time, and the nurses sounded their approval. Then I heard him cry – really cry – and there were more expressions of joy from these blue-clad people. Mark and I smiled. The pediatrician wanted to keep a close eye on Parker, but said it was all right for Mark to go with him to the nursery while the nurses attended to me for post-op procedures.

As my drugs wore off, my voice came back. I had lots of questions for the two nurses preparing me for recovery, and I did not hold back. I learned that the umbilical cord had been wrapped around Parker’s neck. He was nearly suffocated. He did not breathe on his own for a full five minutes. I asked about his Apgar score. An Apgar score ranges from zero to ten. Anything above seven is favorable, and anything below three is “critically low.”  His initial Apgar score was a meager two.

The nurses tending to me wheeled me into the hallway where the windows to the nursery were. Much of Parker’s extended family was there, cooing and chattering over how beautiful he was. Mark stood on the other side of the window with Parker, taking pictures and touching him and laughing. The two nurses and I gave each other a poignant, knowing glance. We knew that this tender moment almost had not transpired. The nurses held back their tears. I did not, and could not, even if I had wanted to.

Parker’s journey these last three years has been delightful. He is a perfectly healthy, happy, rambunctious, assertive little boy. Mark and I have truly enjoyed every midnight bottle feeding, every scream and cry, every laugh and smile, every milestone…even every “terrible two” tantrum (and there have been many). Nicholas and Parker are at once the best of friends and the worst of enemies, as brothers often are. I cannot imagine my life without either one of them.

So tonight, three wondrous years later, I sit in my house amidst the aftermath of my child’s birthday party. My husband and I have done all the cleaning we can for today. It is time for dinner. As is usual in our house, we hold hands while Mark says a prayer before we eat. He thanks God for our food, for the day, and tonight, he also thanks God for the last three years we have had with Parker. But when we say, “Amen,” Parker has not let go of our hands. We look at him, and he looks at us. Then Parker says, “And presents…and balloons…and [Hotwheels] cars.” Such simple things make our three year old happy. He knows he is loved. He knows he is important. He knows he matters not only to us, but to God as well. That is really all I could ever ask for.

Cynthia

I was eight years old when I announced to my mom that we needed to go to church. Not as in, "We're running late, Mom. We have to leave now." But as in, "We have to start going to church or we're going to go to hell, because that's what sew-and-sew told me at school." So within the next Sunday or so, she drove me to the First United Methodist Church of our town.

My first Sunday school teacher was an extremely nice lady named Cynthia Wilson. We could call her Cindy, though. She had a sweet spirit -- even as young as I was, I could tell that. She was very well spoken. She had a knack for explaining the Bible to us children. I remember once trying to read my grandfather's King James Version, and none of it made any sense to me. But when Cindy explained the Bible stories, I understood them.

Cindy also had a very calming presence. One day she was talking to us about prayer. When she was finished she said, "...and you don't have to close your eyes if you don't want to." That was nearly 31 years ago, and TO THIS DAY, I do not close my eyes during prayer. [It makes me dizzy -- always has -- so I was relieved (and still am) that an adult I trusted said I could keep my eyes open when I prayed.]

Pretty soon I was to be baptised. It was Cindy who presented me with my first Bible. It wasn't from her, but from the church. Yet still, it was her face with her Bible-laden hands outstretched that remains emblazoned on my brain.

I stayed at that church for about a decade. Then I went off to college and was gone for nearly another decade. At some point, I moved back toward home. Experience had changed me, and though "on paper" I was still a Methodist, in my heart and mind I knew I was an Episcopalian. I visited the Episcopal church in town, and lo and behold, who should be there but Cynthia Wilson! Some time during those years I was gone she had found the Episcopal church as I had. Her presence was one of those outward and visible signs that let me know I was in the right place.

It was good to see her on a regular basis again. She was still sweet-spirited and well-spoken as ever. She stayed on at the Episcopal church for several years before moving away to live close to her daughter and grandchild.

Just recently, I learned that Cynthia died suddenly of a heart attack. The first things I remembered about her were that she was my first Sunday school teacher, and that she gave me my first Bible. I have come to realize that those were important events for me. They meant something. They were seeds planted. They were kindnesses given. They were generosities out poured. And all of that humbled me, and still does.

When I die, I wonder what will be the knee-jerk reaction of some that were part of my journey. Will they remember that I judged them unfairly? That I turned away when they needed me? That I lied? That I was harsh? That I didn't have the time, or more accurately, that I didn't take the time?

On this earth, we have but a small window to love relentlessly; to treat each other gently; to create fearlessly; to honor respectfully; to offer generously. Cindy achieved so many of those things, if not all of them and even more. I hope I can say the same when my time on Earth is done. I am certainly going to try.

Cindy, may light perpetual shine upon you. 

Egg Salad

~Pictures to be uploaded soon, when I figure out how to do that~~

My favorite thing about the week of Easter (culinarily speaking) is making -- and EATING -- egg salad with the dyed eggs from my kids' Easter baskets. Recipe follows {eventually}...

First and foremost: FOOD SAFETY! This recipe assumes that your eggs have been kept at a constant (or at least NEAR constant) refrigerated temperature before consumption. If you dyed the eggs Easter eve and left them in your child's Easter basket on the kitchen table all night -- "fa-getta-bout-it!" No egg salad for you, sorry.

Now, there was a time in my life when I would -- and did -- simply mash up the whole eggs with mayonnaise and seasonings, glob it between two slices of bread and leave it at that. But the end product never cut it for me somehow. I really liked deviled eggs, and the ingredients for that are basically the same as egg salad. But I liked deviled eggs better. Why? Well, one day I had one of those light-bulb-over-the head/Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall moments where I realized that in deviled eggs, the whites must remain intact so that the creamed yolks have a place to nest.

Silly me. I had been decimating the whites along with the yolks whenever I made egg salad, creating a sort of grainy, eggy mess with an unpleasant texture. Try as one might, boiled egg whites WILL NOT cream -- it's just not in their DNA, not when boiled. So I decided to make my egg salad in much the same way as deviled eggs: cream the yolks, but leave the whites intact, or at least MOSTLY intact. NOW we're crackin'!

Take your color-altered boiled eggs -- crack them -- peel them -- rinse them -- dry them. Note the speckles of color left from the dye -- I LOVE THAT! It seems kind of naughty to use non-white, non-pristine eggs, or maybe I give this WAY too much thought -- I don't know. It's just that egg salad reminds me of brunches and women's clubs and fancy clothes and good manners. But let's face it: Martha Stewart ain't coming over, so I use those joyful-looking, speckle-colored, rather rotten looking eggs and go on about my business.

Now take a sharp knife and slice each egg in half, and try diligently to make one clean stroke, as this can be a messy job. Scoop out the yellows and place in a bowl. Add salt, pepper and dill (dried or fresh) to taste. (By all means, add any other herbs and seasonings you like -- this is just what I did today -- I hope you'll make this recipe your own and flavor it the way YOU like it.)

To the yolks, add a healthy 1/3 cup of your favorite mayonnaise. Actually, I don't measure -- the glob I put in sort of looks like 1/3 cup though. I used eight eggs or so.

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A word about mayonnaise...I am a Helmann's girl, through and through. The "Lite" version is passable, but the orginal stuff with the navy blue label is what rocks my taste buds. Having said that, I had a coupon for Duke's mayonnaise, so I thought I'd try it. And don't think I didn't conduct my own private taste test -- you bet I did. Upon looking through the ingredients, the only real difference is that Helmann's has some sugar -- Duke's does not. The verdict: I prefer the straight-out-of-the-jar taste of Helmann's over Duke's (don't judge me for eating mayo right of the jar). HOWEVER, with a ham and cheese sandwich or two (literally!) under my belt, and this egg salad I made today...MAYBE (sigh)...it feels sacreligious even thinking this...maybe Duke's tastes better than Helmann's when combined with other ingredients. It's the old adage of the sum of the parts is greater than the whole, or something like that. Truly though -- out of the jar, Duke's does not appeal to me. But when used as a condiment, as it should be, it is quite good.
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OK -- now, using the back of a fork, mash the yolks and the mayonnaise together, getting as many lumps out as you possibly can. One could do this in a food processor, but -- eh -- who's got the the time to get it out of the cabinet, wipe it down a bit, transfer the yolks, add the mayonnaise, whir it around, scoop it back out, clean the processor...

A fork works just fine :)

Now for my favorite part -- and I DO promote the use of a neglected kitchen gadget here -- chopping the whites. You could coarsely chop them with a sharp knife -- that's fine. But I like to dust off my egg slicer for this job. I mean, come ON -- it's the ONE time of year when you have all these boiled eggs laying around, begging to have those taut, vertical wires cutting through them! Slice through the whites -- one or two at a time -- once, then in one swift motion dump them into your palm, turn them ninety degrees and slice them once more.

Using a spatula, fold the whites into the creamed yolks. [REMEMBER: "Fold" is a fancy term for "Down and around -- down and around..."] We fold as opposed to stir because we like to keep the egg salad as fluffy as possible. Did I just call myself "we?" See? Egg salad = fancy ;)

Ever-so-slightly toast some good bread, slather some of that delectable, fluffy goodness onto it and ENJOY.

Maundy Thursday Thoughts

Last night's Maundy Thursday service at St. Thomas was both beautiful and poignant. It was the first Maundy Thursday service I had attended in a couple of years due to having little ones with feeding schedules and bath times and bed times. This year my husband stayed home with the kids since I had choir duties.

Thank you, Mark :-)

I always look forward to the washing of feet. If you've never done it (maybe you've never heard of it, either?), the experience is truly humbling. To serve and be served in this intimate way is touching. The ceremony is a precious reminder that we are to seek and serve Christ in all people. It reminds me that I am called to love my neighbor. [I simply have to give a little shout-out to CS Lewis here. In _Mere Christianity_, he points out that we are not called to like our neighbors, but to love them. The very breath of God exists in all of us. We may not agree with the candidate our neighbor votes for; we may not like the way our neighbor treats other people; we may detest the cologne our neighbor seemingly bathes in -- I could go on and on, obviously. We don't have to like anything about our neighbor. It is the breath of God that is buried deep within that deserves to be loved.]

Then there's the stripping of the altar. To talk or write about it with mere words doesn't do it any justice, really. Frankly, it's a disarming experience. Psalm 22 is chanted, and once it's over, there is only silence, save for the noises made by the priests and servers and LEMs. The lights get dimmer and dimmer. Virtually anything not nailed to the floor is taken out of the chancel -- altar linens, altar books, chalices, candles, banners...even the sanctuary lamp is extinguished and taken out (and this makes me so sad, since the sanctuary lamp signifies the very presence of Christ). All these things are done carefully, deliberately, meditatively. It is a symbol of Christ being stripped of his power and glory. The congregation is left kneeling in darkness and shadows. Confession: no matter how much older and hopefully (dare I say it?) wiser I get, churches at night with the lights off scare the dickens out of me. Like I said -- the experience is disarming.

Yet I adore this service. Maundy Thursday (as well as -- and along with -- Good Friday and the entire forty days and nights of Lent) brings me to my knees, both literally and figuratively. It reminds me that all of my troubles put together are nothing compared to what Jesus endured, that I have much to be happy about and thankful for, and also that I have some things I need to work on within myself. Seeing and hearing others kneeling in the dark with me lets me know that I am not alone in these things, and that is a great comfort. We spend much of the liturgical year in love and praise of God, but it is this time of year where we acknowledge the mystery of him (and I do so love a good mystery).

Holy Week and the preceding weeks during Lent represent a bleak and somber time. That doesn't sound appealing to some. But it is through the bleak and the somber and the reflection and the examination and the mystery that the absolute joy of Easter truly comes to me. But that's a whole other blog...

The Monkey Butt Incident and the Birth of Swine Beard

This confession from this ordinary person is mainly for the sake of posterity -- I don't want to forget the cute and funny things my kids do...

I had put Parker (two years old) down for a nap. We went through our usual routine: potty, diaper change, book, bed. I closed his door and went about my business in the house, reclining on the couch eating bon-bons. I wish. But I heard him talking to himself -- and this is a normal thing for him -- but the talking had gone on way longer than usual, so I went in to check on him. He was still in bed, but playing with a toy, and the Sand Man was nowhere in sight. I read him another book and left him to try to get to sleep. Still, fifteen minutes or so later, I heard him having a party. I stopped at his door to listen, and even with the door shut, I could smell a lovely fragrance. Really, it was. It was quite lovely. I opened the door to find him standing on the floor with his diaper rash powder upside down, and he was shaking it with all his might. Pink powder was EVERYWHERE -- on the foot of his bed, on some of his toys, on the carpet, on him. It smelled wonderful though. But my mood was not wonderful. I asked him what he thought he was doing. He said, "I pour out my Monkey Butt." This powder is actually called Anti-Monkey Butt Diaper Rash Powder, but it's more fun just to say Monkey Butt...trust me. I very firmly and very loudly told him to...

Get. Back. In. Bed. Right. NOW. Mister. And stay there and go to sleep.

I was furious, even if I secretly thought it was funny as all get out. So two hours later, he woke up and it was time to get in the car to pick up his older brother from school.

Once we were home, I commenced to taking all the pink-powdered toys onto the porch where I dusted them off. Then I took the vaccum cleaner into the bedroom to work on the carpet. Parker heard the racket I was making and came in to investigate. We had a conversation:

Parker: Mom, what are you doing?
Me: I'm cleaning up this mess you made. Remember? You poured out all your Monkey Butt powder.
Parker: That wasn't me.
***This, to my knowledge, was Parker's first lie ever. My insides (and probably some of my outsides) were jiggling with the laughter I was trying hold in. I kept telling myself, "Don't let him see you smile - don't let him see you smile...")***
Me: EXCUSE me? You didn't make this mess? Then who did?
Parker: That was Swine Beard. (He actually pronounces it "Fwine Beard.")

OK -- a word about Swine Beard. One Friday night, while my family was having a picnic on the floor and eating our favorite take-out pizza (Marco's), we decided to choose a movie from Netflix. We watched _The Return of the Pink Panther_. There is a particular scene where Inspector Clouseau is in a hotel room, snooping for clues, and a pet parrot becomes uncaged and flies around the room. He keeps saying things like, "Get back here, you swine bird." Nicholas started saying, "swine bird" with every other phrase from his mouth, and Parker started imitating him. Since two year olds generally have trouble pronouncing words containing the letter "R", his imitation of his older brother came out as "swine beard."

What is now known as the Monkey Butt Incident was two or three weeks ago, and Swine Beard has made several appearances now. He (or she) is Parker's imaginary friend. I LOVE this! I think imaginary friends are wonderful. It means Parker is thinking outside the box, outside his normal world. He is being creative and inventive. These are good things. And to this day, his bedroom still smells lovely.