It's all a gift

Read a daily meditation this morning from the Center for Action and Meditation that had as its central message a reminder that we do nothing to deserve grace, that everything, even the hairs on our heads are given to us, but coming to this understanding, and certainly being open to recieving this grace is one of the most difficult tasks set before Christians. Amen, I say to this. How much of our energy (okay, my energy) is spent trying to be worthy when, all along, I have already been? How appropriate the timing of this meditative gift during this week of thanks! A truly transformative way of viewing our abundance--not something given to us lightly, so therefore, not something that we should steward lightly either. But with this realization comes not the usual pressure, but instead a heart that feels grateful and untethered in its duty. A gift within a gift--I'm learning that it ALL is.

It wasn't even a deep fried Turkey

BAM BAM BAM!!! Someone was slamming on our front door and then RINNNNGGGGing our doorbell at 12:20ish this afternoon. Husband, Parents-in-Law, Daughter and I all looked at each other and than ran for the door. I was thinking that the bang slamming was a little rude for our neighbor boy, and then OMG--it wasn't the neighbor boy, but a random good citizen out for a jog who saw what looked like our garage on fire. We threw open the doors and were met with the nastiest smell and solid wallls of dark grey smoke--the entire garage was filled with what looked like steel wool.  . . . Husband ran into the abyss, and thank God, the only thing on fire was the grill and the 7 pounds of chicken wrapped in 2 pounds of bacon.

Husband had agreed to cook this grill delicacy (marinated in pinneapple juice, terriyaki, and soy) for a joint birthday celebration of the 20- year- old and 9- year- old. They agreed on the meal, harrassed Dad to grill it even though it was November, and once Grandpa arrived the men moved the grill to the garage out of the 30 mph wind--and I do not exaggerate. Dad/Husband is master griller, and kept religiously checking his chix--so we don't know what happened exactly, but for just a millisecond of time I had a flash of what being caught in a real fire might be like. I was able to shut the house doors, Husband grabbed the grill and all but threw it in the driveway, and the only thing lost was the meat. The grill is still TBD. Scary, and wierd, and surreal, and I might add, really stinky. The garage is working on a nice blend of oil, old boots, and now, charred farmyard.

What about dinner, one might ask? Well, the same men who initially moved the grill to the garage, and then wrestled the fiery beast out of the garage, took to Grandpa's truck, a.k.a. "meal rescuer" and drove to the Jewel in search of some more protein. So the birthday kids still had their brown sugar carrots (which were rescured from the dragon), parmesan red potatoes, peas, and Jewel Deli Fried Chicken. And now they have a story to tell as well. And we have a new grill to buy--or so Husband hopes.

She's 20

The little blond urchin, in love with all things Disney--okay, all things Disney Princess and Lion King--turns 20 today. So much fun watching her grow-up. It doesn't hurt that she is happily studying history at my alma mater, and is an active in my dear old sorority, but even if all of that weren't true (which happily it is!) I am so proud of the woman that she is becoming. I wish I could offer to her all of the things that I now know that I certainly didn't at the age of 20--but that is not to be, as I wouldn't want to rob her of her own beautiful growth even if she did want her stepmom's wisdom (not!). She has so much in front of her yet--right on the cusp of all that life has to offer, and it takes my breath away for her. Perhaps that is the gift of this age--everything is still possible, yet, when one is 20, one is blissfully unaware of this overwhelming that is waiting right around the corner. One lives in the moment when they are 20, and, I think, this is the way that it is meant to be. Regardless, it does indeed seem like yesterday that we were helping her tie her shoes, look behind the seat for stuffed Simba, watching the Little Mermaid over and over again, and painting her room purple.

He'll always be different

These were the wise words my mother offered me almost nine years ago after the birth of my youngest. He was born with Pierre Robin Syndrome, which brought with it much confusion, tears, questions, surgeries, multiple hospitals, teams of doctors . . . and, in short, a whole new way of looking at parenting, and, well, the world.

There is so much I could say, such an involved complicated story to share about almost-nine-year-old's journey from a beautiful, but very sick little man into the funny, charming, bright young boy by my side. Today we are celebrating one specific milestone in his journey--the end of speech therapy. He "graduated" from his IEP at school this week--which marks the end of a journey that started when he was only a few weeks old with dear Donna, the ever-patient therapist who visited our home weekly to help us get Ethan to eat. Being the stinker that he is, he fought us tooth-and-nail--he would have none of what we were offering. We (okay, at least I) was in despair, thinking that he might never eat by mouth . . . until one day Donna had a brainstorm that maybe it wasn't that he didn't want to eat by mouth, but rather that he didn't want to eat all of the liquids and paste-like things we were giving him. She offered him a graham cracker well before a typical child should get crackers, and he went for it! About a week or so later, Daddy was in the kitchen cooking chicken, and little man started pounding on his highchair, trying to signal that he was hungry. On a whim, Daddy ground-up some chicken and little man gobbled it up in a flash! We should have known back then that almost-nine-year-old just wanted to do this eating thing "his way."

From those first months of feeding, we moved into teaching little man sign language so that he could communicate even with his tracheostomy. From there, we moved to getting to hear his voice with the Passey-Muir valve, and then, finally, decannulation, which brought with it a break from therapy for a while. When preschool rolled around, it was time to help my now precociously verbose little comedian with his consonant blends, s's, r's, z's, and all other sounds that required him to move his mouth and tongue in ways that were never natural to him.

We should have known that his little stubborn nature would also be one of his best assests, as he dug his heels in, determined to be a rock star speech student. After some major orthodontia the past year which caused some further pronunciation setbacks, he has worked even harder, and improved leaps and bounds. His brother no longer has to "translate" for him when others can't quite understand, and he came home all a-grinnin' yesterday, and announced at supper that he is "done with speech--Mrs. Dunneback said I'm done for good!!"

We are so proud of our little monkey--nine years ago I could have never imagined that our little man would be the bright, kind, funny, and verbal dude that he is. Mom was right, he'll always be different, and so will we for getting to be his parents.

If I could just . . .

I find myself thinking, "If I could just . . ." and then filling-in the elipse with any number of things: get these papers graded, finish-up the laundry, read that chapter, spend more time with the buddies, actually see my husband when we're both not exhausted . . .

I wonder what the second half of that thought is though. For example, "If I could just get the house picked-up . . ." then what? I would feel better? Be complete? Win a million dollars? Hm. I'm curious where I got the idea to talk to myself like this, why I continue to do so, and what exactly I think I'll "win" if the "If" would always come true?

I suspect that I'm not alone in this type of self-talk. Actually, my guess is that most women with too much on their plates and too many expectations of themselves recite this or other similiar mantras almost daily. Or hourly. Perhaps my experiment for this weekend should be that everyone time I hearing myself "If I could just . . ." I'll fill it in with " . . .sit here" or " . . . pray" or " . . . do nothing at all." My guess is that while this is what I need to do, it will feel very uncomfortable. Now, if I could just get through the rest of the day so that I could start this experiment  . . .

Philos

from the Greek, often used to refer to love for one's family. Also, "of one's own." Its opposite, (those Greeks loved antithesis) is "Ecthros," or, "not of one's one." Also frequently used to mean, "evil," or "the enemy." Love these words. I can't think of any more perfect way to describe how one feels about familial love, or how one might better describe evil in this world--"not of one's own"--something rejected, something decidely "other."

I've been teaching these words to my AP students, as we read Antigone, but I am fully aware that I'm more in love with rolling around in their meanings than are my students:) In order to avoid being too heavy on this cold and rainy October day, I'll just throw out for kicks a few things that are definitely "of my own":

Anything red. Especially red Mary Janes.
Anything involving carbohydrates.
Musicals.
High School and College Football.
American History.
A Damn Good Book--particularly if it is Historical Fiction.
Anything that involves me wearing "wubbies"--family code for jammy pants and sweatshirts.
Jewelry.
My three men, and a young lady.

Definitely NOT "of my own" a.ka. things that I find to be evil:

Mayonaise.
Mushrooms.
Math.
Mean people.
(I'm sensing an allterative trend . . .)
Grading 90 of the same Sophomore Essays.
Overlong summer vacations.
Did I say Mayonaise?
Crimes against the Holy Spirit.

Okay, better stop before this becomes too much fun. Back to the ungraded essays.

It Doesn't Get Any Better

It has been a good weekend around here for the ten-year-old. We must first consider that he eats/drinks/sleeps football, and then we must remember that if it is Notre Dame football, then we begin to hear angels sing as well.

It began Friday afternoon when he got to walk in the high school Homecoming Parade wearing is Irish jersey. Then we attended the high school game, where my boys won--and 10-year-olds' favorite players were in true form. Saturday morning 10-year-old went with Mom back to school to help decorate for the dance, and besides the two donuts he scored from the deal, he also got to hang-out with the high schoolers, and be helpful handyman, moving chairs and tables, taping-down balloons, and just being generally useful-- all right up his alley.

Saturday afternoon brought THE BIG GAME. Having lost to their town rivals, the Cardinals earlier in the season, 10-year-old and his fellow Irish have been focused on nothing except beating them this time around to finish their season and to give the Cardinals their first loss. The football gods were a'smilin' on the blue and gold as my little quarterback/linebacker helped his team win 18-12. Anyone in attendance might have thought that they had just won the Super Bowl and the World Series--simultaneously. After the game, he got to meet the grandfather of one of his teammates who was a REAL Irish player--a Notre Dame football alum from the 1960s. Yep, he got is picture taken with him.

It was supposed to be all downhill after that--with the exception of the end-of-the-year football banquet this afternoon, BUT when we pulled into the parking lot at church this morning there was an enormous tour bus in the back of the lot  . . . taking a pew a few rows in front of our usual one because church was filling-up rapidly, we looked across the congregation to see the Notre Dame Men's Glee Club. They were visiting for Mass after having been in town for a concert the night before. 10-year-old didn't take his eyes off of them--he was enraptured. I'm pretty positive that he doesn't even remember sitting, standing, genuflecting . . .but he could probably tell you every move that each of those young men made. We were treated to a post-Communion hymn by our visitors, and 10-yr-old didn't move a muscle. He left church grinning from ear to ear.

Sometimes, it just doesn't get any better.