It's fine. We're fine.

How am I?

Hmm, I have no idea what day we’re on. Or what day of the week it is. At the beginning of the quarantine, I figured it would last a long time, and I thought it would be better for my psyche not to count them. Because if you’re counting, you have expectations for how far you count. Right? I didn’t want to disappoint myself by having to go longer than an expected endpoint. I don’t know how long we’ve been home. It feels like a lifetime. But it’s fine. We’re all fine.

In the grand scheme of things, we’re the lucky ones. BestestHusband’s company was the epicenter of spread here in Boston. But he never had a fever, none of the classic symptoms. He found out after the fact that he was exposed to people who were confirmed to have Covid-19. He probably should have been contacted and told to self-quarantine, but never was. We looked into it, as my job has me entering assisted living facilities, often multiple in the same day. But they didn’t have enough tests to test him, especially as he wasn’t obviously ill. The kind nurse on the phone and my own bosses agreed that it would be wise for me to self-quarantine until the incubation period was over. It’s fine. The 14 day incubation period passed without any of us getting sick. I only missed one day of work. And then the assisted living facilities stopped letting us in to see patients. So my work has mostly dried up. But Brian’s still employed, so we can pay the bills. Neither of us has been laid off yet. We’re fine.

We’re luckier than a lot of our friends and neighbors. So many people working in healthcare have gotten sick from their patients. Friends, neighbors, they were all healthcare providers, and all survived. One didn’t work in healthcare, he recovered, too. The same can’t be said for a sweet older lady at my church. I really wish we could have had a nice memorial service for her at church. She was an inspiration and longtime volunteer. She deserves a really nice service. But it’s fine. I’m sure we’ll do one when society opens up again. Anyway, my home care agency was rationing hand sanitizer and face masks. We didn’t have any N95 masks for a while. But luckily, the owner of the local football team sent his plane over to China to get us some masks. And I think Israel was supposed to send us some, too. So now we have masks! It’s fine! But they’re not really considered trustworthy to fully protect us from Covid-19, so we wear a surgical mask over them when we work. We have to wear them for 3 visits before we can get a new one. And they count them out and distribute them weekly to match our caseload. Our infection control policies seem to change every week, every time we can actually get our hands on more personal protective equipment (PPE). It makes me wonder if the “safety recommendations” are actually what they think will keep us the most safe? Or if they’re just the best we can manage given the limited supply of PPE? But it’s fine. The equipment is coming just in time, as we’re getting more Covid-positive people discharged from the hospital into home care.  I don’t see that many patients right now, so I’m not really concerned about getting my family sick. I’m more concerned about actually picking up germs from patients and passing them to the other patients. Or coming in contact with an asymptomatic carrier and accidentally spreading the germs to my very vulnerable patients. But it’s fine. We’re fine.

We’re lucky because we have a free-standing house. And a yard. We can enter and exit without wondering how many other people have touched our doorknob and whether or not they wash their hands. Our friends living in the large condo building with the new baby don’t have that comfort. And we don’t have any family members that are emergency responders or ER employees. We don’t worry about what germs hitchhiked a ride home on uniforms or scrubs. And if we did, we just put in a new door in the basement that would allow someone to walk in a separate door, put clothes immediately in the laundry, and then sleep in the basement without worrying about infecting anyone else. We’re pretty isolated. And insulated. We’re fine. On sunny days, we can play in the yard or go outside in the neighborhood. We’re fortunate enough to live in a neighborhood with broad and quiet enough streets that people can be outside and still stay more than 6 feet away. So we’re very lucky. Too bad this spring has been very rainy and cool, generally 20 degrees below average. The sun is lovely when it’s out, very strong and warm. But the wind is generally strong and bitter. So it’s a bit of a disappointment going outside. The girls seem to think it’s some kind of torture and whine when I make them go out for recess. I can’t really blame them. My motivation to run is directly related to the weather outside. Mostly we just want to stay inside under the covers and look at screens. But we’re fine.

We’re lucky that we have good healthcare coverage. I struggle every winter with seasonal affect disorder (SAD) and have been trying different strategies to stay functional when the sun goes away and I struggle to stay warm in our drafty old house. I tried acupuncture this year instead of medications. It was working pretty well. Possibly because the house had new insulation and an HVAC system, and the winter wasn’t as bitterly cold as winters past. I made it through February break without needing medical intervention. And then ongoing dreariness took its toll. And then the quarantine started. It’s fine. I’m taking two medications together, both to help my mood and to cancel out each other’s undesirable side effects. It’s working pretty well. Especially considering my previous coping mechanisms – work, ability to go to the gym, going places by myself, getting together with friends – aren’t really viable options right now. I know I’m not alone. I don’t know a mom who’s not struggling right now. Most of us weren’t prepared to stay home 24/7 and homeschool without any breaks. I wonder what the eventual mental health fallout will be. I assume it will be massive. But I’m fine. We’re fine.

We’ve saved a lot of money on gas. Since I’m not driving around seeing so many patients and I’m not rushing kids to after-school activities, I don’t drive much. And gas got a lot cheaper! On top of it all, we had a windy spring storm that sent a branch from a neighbor’s tree careening off of our slate roof and directly onto our minivan. The sunroof was completely shattered, and we don’t have a functional garage. So we covered it with a tarp and took it to the collision shop the next day. We avoided water damage in the heavy storm, which was good. But the branch did a lot of damage to the van, and needed extensive repairs. So we’ve been without a vehicle for the last three weeks. They’re repairing and repainting so many of the body panels that we decided to just have the bumpers replaced, too. So for the price of our $950 deductible and an extra $1500 we’ll have a brand-new-looking seven year old van! BestestHusband believes in self-insuring whenever possible, so we didn’t have rental replacement coverage. But since we’re not allowed to go anywhere and I don’t have much work, it’s totally worked out in our favor. My neighbor has allowed me to borrow her vehicle one day per week, and I can do all of my shopping after seeing my one patient. We’ve gotten by just fine without the rental! Renting a minivan for three weeks would have cost as much as all of the car repairs. So I figure we’re getting a pretty good deal on it all, thanks to the timing. It’s fine. It will be nice to go for a drive again. I think we’ll get the van back on Friday. We’re fine.

I’ve had the chance to really expand my cooking skills. In January, we started a kitchen renovation, with significant plumbing and electrical projects. So our kitchen is totally gutted, and multiple parts of the house are work zones. Then everything shut down in March, including building projects. Our contractor was supposed to stop working per regulations. He has medically vulnerable people in his family, so he loaded them all up and took them to the Cape. I certainly can’t blame him for that. So my dining room will continue to be my kitchen for the foreseeable future. With the dogs underfoot constantly. And kids running through to get to the playroom. I’ve expanded what I can accomplish with an Instant Pot, toaster, and microwave. Did you know you can bake bread and brownies in an Instant Pot? They didn’t burn in there like they did on the grill. Now that it’s a little warmer, I’ve been experimenting with baking on the grill. Given the side-burner, I’ve made entire meals on the grill, including couscous and brownies! I haven’t quite figured out how to cook a frozen pizza without burning the bottom. But I’ll keep trying. I’ve resumed making sourdough. That works much better on the grill than the brownies did. The interplay of outside temperature, wind, rain, and inside grill temps is something I haven’t quite mastered yet. But I’ll keep trying. After making that tuna fish jello mold, my family is more appreciative of my usual cooking. And with no chance to get my kitchen built any time soon, I’ll have plenty of time to master cooking on the grill. It’s fine. Did you know that my kids can consume an entire loaf of bread and a gallon of milk in a day? I’m really tired of washing dishes in my basement laundry sink. We’re fine.

The kids are doing pretty well. The youngest never has a chance to get lonely, and always has playmates around. Her slightly older sister enjoys taking charge of their play, and the youngest is pretty willing to follow her specific directions. Most of the time. The oldest two have become closer, mostly in mutual frustration with their slightly-younger sister. When the older three are doing online school, the youngest gets her own tablet time. It’s all educational, so it’s fine. Right? We’re co-contagioning with our neighbor friends, so we get the four year olds together a few times a week as a little preschool co-op. So they can fight with each other instead of their own siblings. It’s a nice change of pace. Especially for the siblings. But we’re lucky. We have that yard outside, with the swing set and sand box and sidewalk chalk and all sorts of other toys. It’s a good place for all of the running and kicking and throwing and screaming they want to do inside. School is going well. Our urban school district hit the ground running with learning opportunities for the kids, and online learning has been going on from the beginning. They were much more organized than the ritzy suburban districts, and were dispensing laptops and food right away. We’ve been so proud of our teachers. It felt like September again at first, trying to figure out how to make all of the pieces fit. But it worked out fine. And then the state made final decisions about the school year and districts had to figure out how to take attendance and do school more like they did at school and now we have 31 separate zoom meetings to track in the week. Seriously. 31. That doesn’t even include gymnastics workouts. We have September all over again this week. The kids need constant help to try to get to all of their zoom meetings. But it’s fine. Their art teacher is amazing and has an art therapy background, which is really helpful right now. She’s been encouraging the kids to express their feelings in their artwork. I’ve been seeing a lot of tears in the girls’ drawings. At least the older girls. They say they’re fine. They don’t really want to try to arrange socially-distant interactions with friends or call them. They say that school at home is working out ok. They’re fine. They don’t need a lot of zoom chats with friends. They’d rather just get their work done. The insomnia from one of them isn’t that different from her night-owl tendencies. She’s been a lot harder to get out of bed in the mornings. But she still makes it to 9:30 meetings. She’s fine. We’re fine.

I mean, I know how really lucky we are. We’re not losing our jobs or our home. We have nice neighbors with standing orders to get us milk whenever they go to the store. We have our co-contagioning friends to share childcare and cooking burdens. And booze. I didn’t use to drink wine every night. I certainly never bought it by the box before all of this happened. But it’s fine, right? Isn’t everyone self-medicating a bit these days? What is an introvert with four talkative kids supposed to do when she’s cooped up at home 24/7 with no end in sight? With no kitchen and no car and down to one bathroom and a dog that now has to be carried outside (and what’s the final straw that will force us to pull the plug?) and an antagonistic child with a promising career as a lawyer and a spring that doesn’t want to seem to really come and no will power or initiation to do the smart helpful things like running instead of drinking and no ability to keep track of anything but the barest minimums… and constant, constant chaos?

It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine.

I’m sure that very soon our country will have the necessary resources to provide PPE to all of the healthcare providers that need it and enough tests to test everyone and enough understanding of Covid-19 to make rational choices about balancing everyone’s health and safety with the need for society to continue in some tolerable form. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

How are you?

Indecent Exposure

We had some friends over to watch the Superbowl on Sunday. They had no heat in their house, and we have no oven. They heated their house with our dinner in their oven, and came to enjoy it at our wonderfully warm house. Win-win. Our beloved Patriots weren't playing this year, so we couldn't lose. Please pass the nachos and chicken fingers. Anyone need another beer?

I'd like to stop talking about the halftime show. It was a huge, bright, loud production, as halftime shows are expected to be. The performers were fabulously talented, and put together a memorable show. 

I didn't like all of it. I'm ok with moving on and not talking about the show. 

But what I'm really having a hard time moving on from is the conversation surrounding me not liking the show. And people making assertions about my motives. No, no one has written an article saying, "Joy, you're a horrible person for not liking the show. And you could stand to lose a few pounds."
No, nothing like that. But they have said things like "You white women need to stop policing brown bodies." And, "you hypocrites are fine with everything else on tv, why are you getting upset about this?" And, "If you as a mother are criticizing another woman in front of your daughters, then you are the problem."

This is what I'm having a hard time moving on from. 
Because I have criticized some decisions made in the performance, I am a racist Puritan who wants to wipe out Latinx culture. Also, I'm fine with all sorts of other questionable stuff, so I need to stfu about this performance.

It's really hard to go in depth on my views in a Facebook post, so I'll write it up here, instead.
Michelle, thanks for posing a detailed question to me so I could attempt a detailed answer here. And it helps me get to the heart my discomfort.

"So, my question to folks who responded so strongly to this performance - if it truly is SOLELY about hypersexualization of our culture - where is the proportionate outrage about the cheerleader outfits and dances that are on those fields EVERY week, about men who very obviously grab and handle their junk all the freaking time in public and in performance, about Dancing with the Stars which is billed as "family" entertainment, about the toddler/child pageant industry, about child dance competitions, about the fact that we can only find "booty" shorts in the girls section of stores? I mean, the crotch grab was Michael Jackson's *thing* and no one bats an eye at that. Where was the proportionate outrage of the hypersexualization of our culture from white women about movies like Magic Mike? So is it just women who aren't allowed to be sexy?

Historically, both women's songs and performances have had overtly sexual themes or movements. I don't get why folks are suddenly shocked that their performances were sexy?"


I think all of the things you mentioned are inappropriate. You just haven't heard me talk about it yet. 

I'd like to chalk it up to the gradually boiling frog phenomenon. The hypersexualization of our culture has been steady, but gradual. The cheerleader outfits have been getting tinier in small increments over time. The routines have been getting sultrier over time. We don't watch them. 

The Dancing with the Stars costumes have been getting more scanty over the seasons. We stopped watching. I didn't announce it with a fanfare. We just stopped watching. I loved the artistry of the dancers, and was in awe of how good of teachers they were to get their partners dancing so well. But I thought the outfits were inappropriate and made the focus too much on the dancers' bodies, not their skills. 

We don't participate in the pageant industry. I believe it teaches girls the wrong things about their worth. One of my girls really wants to get into modeling. I've said no. I really don't want them to think about their appearance all the time. Plenty of mothers have guided their daughters successfully through those industries. I just don't want to take on that challenge. 

If my children did dance, and the costumes or dances were too sultry, I'd say no. If the coach of my daughter's gymnastic team included some sultry moves in a floor routine, I'd say no. I don't post fanfare things on Facebook protesting these things, I just don't participate. If the gymnastics or dance issue became a bit deal, sure you'd hear about it on Facebook. But it hasn't presented itself as something I've had a public conflict with yet.

We shop at places that have longer shorts. You can choose the inseam length you prefer. I don't let my girls wear booty shorts. I don't let them wear leggings without a tunic or skirt covering their backside. You don't hear me saying "cover your bum" multiple times a week, but my girls do. Not because I think their bums are shameful. But they're children, and I want them to dress like children. Men will be ogling my oldest's daughter's arse soon enough. And yes, plenty of moms are complaining about the ubiquity of booty shorts in children's sections. Don't get me started on string bikinis for grade schoolers. 

I do bat my eye at male performers and athletes grabbing their crotches. I think it's crude. Adam Levine? Yes, I thought his shirtlessness was unnecessary, too. 

I didn't go see Magic Mike. Not my thing. I saw the previews, knew what the movie was about, and chose not to spend my money there. Again, no fanfare. Just voting with my dollars. I also skipped the whole 50 Shades stuff. No thanks. 

Yes, I know that women with a great deal of talent have a tendency to hypersexualize their performances, and I think it's a shame. That's why I was disappointed about J Lo's performance. She is amazing, and age-defying, and gravity defying, and an icon. She is a successful and ground-breaking businesswoman, and deserves our respect for so many reasons. 

And that's why I thought her crude hypersexualized performance was a let-down. She doesn't need to be so sexual to get our attention. She has our attention. Without the carefully positioned camera catching the crotch shot. 

People keep asking why J Lo's pole dancing was so offensive when Cirque does it, too. Well, despite the attempts to normalize pole dancing by Cirque de Soleil and thousands of pole dancing classes marketed to upper middle class women, pole dancing is at heart a performance attempting to titillate its viewers. Yes, she did a movie about strippers, and got good at pole dancing. Like I said, she's a talented and hard-working performer. I'm sure she's very good at it. People keep insisting that pole dancing is empowering. I don't understand it, but I'll take their word for it. They're keeping their pole-dancing teachers in business, and I applaud the entrepreneurship happening there. If it makes things more fun in the bedroom, then good for them. But let's be honest. Pole dancing was always about sexual arousal. 

So after a lot of frustrated ruminating and a late-night conversation with BestestHusband, I think I've reduced the issue to its element. At least, for me. It all comes down to sex. 

Well, duh.  

But what I'm saying is that this is a small example in the big topic of sex and how I'm raising my girls to view sex and how I'm seeing just HOW MUCH IN CONFLICT I am with the rest of modern American culture. I thought I was pretty mainstream. Oh, now I know I'm not. 

My girls are rapidly approaching puberty. Their bodies are starting to change, and people will soon start to look at them as sexual beings because EVERYTHING about American culture is painting everyone in shades of sultriness. Mostly-naked women in advertisements. Booty shorts on tweens. Scanty dance costumes on little girls. "Come hither" looks in pageants. Sex in every adult tv show and movie. One degree at a time, the waters are being heated around our children, and they are being boiled into sexualized beings before they can physically or emotionally handle sex.

Again, duh. This is no surprise. 
But why aren't we complaining about it more?
Well... that's what I've been doing this week.
Should I go get a trumpet? 

My real conflict with the sex in culture is that everything I want to teach my girls about sex is contradicted in American culture. I think sex is an amazingly enjoyable thing to do in an intimate partnership, and it's a private, bond-building element of a relationship. I don't actually expect anyone outside of my religion to believe that it should stay within a marriage. But it's an idea people might also want to consider...

American culture is instead showing our girls that they should market their sexual selves to everyone, all the time. Sexualized behavior is what gets you attention, and can even make you famous. It's such a commonplace thing to do that it doesn't even really matter that much. It's just fun, and you can do whatever you want. OWN your sexuality! Reveal your true self! If it doesn't have sex, it's not really entertaining. 

I don't want cheap sexualization for my girls. I don't want it for anyone else's girls, either. 

When asked why I required a skirt over her leggings recently, I told my oldest, "Your body is slowly starting to look like a woman's body, and men like to look at women's bodies. Do you want people to notice your body? Or your great ideas?" "Oh, ok." She ran off to find an oversized sweatshirt to wear. The day might come where she'll prefer to be objectified instead. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get there...

Do we want our daughters to be noticed for their asses? Or for the businesses and charities they start? For the great book plots they're dreaming up? The way they stand up for the quieter kids in their classes?

Yes, I want my daughters to eventually enjoy really great sex. But I want people to think more about their accomplishments and humanity than how great they'd be in bed. And with modern culture painting sensuality on top of everything, I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle. Yes, I know they're still young. But not for much longer. 

So J Lo, you're amazing. I kept pointing out to my girls during your performance how strong and talented you are. You deserve respect for everything you've accomplished in your career. You deserve every penny you earn, because you work really hard for it. It's no surprise that Latinx fans are enraged that "white women" like me aren't worshiping your performance. Because you truly are special. But your daughter is the same age as mine. And unlike me, you actually have the power to change the culture that she's growing up in.

The Secret Society of Christmas Magic Keepers

Today I told Kid #2 that Santa wasn't real.

She took it reasonably well. And she's certainly old enough to know the truth. She's 10. She's a very thoughtful and introspective 10 year old. She questions things and thinks deeply about things.
She's started asking a lot of questions about Jesus, and specific questions in response to things she hears in the Bible. It leads to a lot of interesting and fun conversations. But last week the conversation taught me that she's evaluating the truth of Jesus and the truth of Santa as equally important truths. 

Uh-oh.

So time to fess up.
I took her to Starbucks for a hot chocolate date. We found a table in the back, with one person working on a laptop nearby. But quiet, away from the hubbub.

"You're getting older, and you're becoming a very thoughtful person. I want you to always know you can ask us questions, and I want you to trust that we're going to tell you the truth. So I have to tell you the truth about something."

I told her that her dad and I were the magical gift givers known as Santa. 
"YOU gave us the boxes of sugary cereal and said we didn't have to share them?!?!"
"Yeah, wasn't that fun? I figured you wouldn't suspect me, because I'd make you share."

She thought through some of her other Santa presents and asked how we did it. I shared my secrets.
I told her that we kept up the Santa act because it was magical and fun. And we all need a little magic in our lives.
"Now that you know the truth, you are part of the Secret Society of Christmas Magic Keepers." (Please don't ruin this for your younger sisters! Or other kids on the bus!) 

We talked about how grownups are responsible for creating magic, and helping other grownups, too. Like the family we sponsored with gifts through a food pantry. The parent didn't have the money to be Santa, so we donated to help her create the Santa magic for her kids.

She expressed some sadness about the magic of Santa not being real. We talked about thinking instead about how great it is that grownups all over the world worked together to keep the magic going. She said she wanted to be a part of it.

Then she started thinking again. 
"What about that old guy who gave money so that the poor girl could get married?" 
"Saint Nicholas? He's absolutely real. He's a historical figure. But flying reindeer? That's made up." That made sense to her.

We talked about not blowing the Santa cover, and about dealing with punks on the bus who try to ruin Santa for younger kids. She has a plan for how she'll handle it. She's excited to keep it going for Kids 3 and 4.

But then I fessed up about the Tooth Fairy. And the Easter Bunny. And the Switch Witch.
That made her sad.

She's struggling right now with what she believes in. She said she's afraid that she'll stop believing in Jesus, too. I told her that I just turned her world upside down, and it's ok to feel unsure about everything. That she should keep asking questions whenever she had them.

The guy working on his laptop nearby? He was the store manager. When Kid #2 went to the bathroom, he leaned over and handed me two gift cards. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. It was really sweet. I have to admit that I teared up a little. Here, good luck!"

I thanked him and told him that I would be back tomorrow to use them. 
With Kid #1 who needed the same talk.

Someday Was This Weekend

The impossible happened.
I hoped it would happen Someday, but I didn't realize it would happen this year. It all happened this weekend. 
It was better than I imagined it could be.

I took a trip to Texas to meet my birth mom.

She didn't know I was coming. 
Her husband did. Her 3 daughters did. They planned the whole thing. They even offered to buy my ticket. Two of the daughters picked me up from the airport. With large pink signs and luminous grins, they waited at the bottom of the escalator for me. They showered me with hugs, flowers, and treats. And we took pictures. 

I have sisters.

We sat up way past midnight talking. The next morning was the big reveal. There were video cameras. And a few nerves. They were all at the house, and I knocked on the door. She was surprised when I walked in. We had chatted before on Facebook, sending messages and emails. We had Facetimed, with all of my family barging in past their bedtimes. She knew who I was. There were hugs. And tears. A lot of them. 

The family had another surprise in store, a big birthday party later in the day. So not only did I have the chance to meet her and her family, I had the chance to meet extended family and long-time friends. There were more hugs. And more tears. And more pictures. 

What do you do to get to know your family?
We talked a lot. And ate a lot. And laughed a lot. 
I learned that I share blood with a group of the nicest, most loving people you could ever hope to meet. They're extremely close. And hilarious. 
They're the kind of family you find in the happy ending of sappy movies. 
But this isn't a sappy movie.
This is my life. 
And I'm a bit in awe. And completely overwhelmed. In only the best of ways. 

I'm still floating a bit. A bit disoriented, actually. 
I was prepared for a lot. But I don't think I ever expected it would be so great. 

What They Will Remember?

I spend an odd amount of time thinking about the memories that I might be helping my children form.

We moved to this house in this neighborhood with the anticipation of forming certain memories:  the freedom of being able to walk to places with friends long before the freedom of driving; the open feel of the unfenced yards, with the invitation to cut through to play with friends; the wind in their clothes as they swing on the neighbor's swooping tree swing. Is this what they will remember? 
Will they remember the dazzling multihued sunsets, silhouetting the tower of St. Theresa's down the street? Will they hear a joyful peal of church bells and think, "Yay! A wedding!" Will they hear the strains of a bagpipe and mourn another police officer or fire fighter is being laid to rest? Are they imprinting the gracefully aging victorian homes with their stately trees and hydrangea-blossomed flower beds as image of "home"?

In my work with elders losing their memory, I know that these early memories will be the last ones they'll be allowed to keep. The smell of a word-burning fireplace, of bread out of the oven, of chicken soup on the stove - these could be the smells that comfort and soothe when words can't. 

Will they remember being humbled by the overwhelming size of the redwoods in California? Will they internalize the broad flat expanse of highways in Texas? Will they remember exultantly standing at the tops of mountains in New Hampshire? Or will the more mundane daily events of making beds, pouring cereal, and sitting down to dinner dominate their minds?

Will they remember that the Thanksgiving table can always stretch to accommodate a few more? That homemade food is love, and love is to be shared? Will they remember and ask themselves, "Is there a nicer way to say that?" At work and in community life, will they ask themselves, "What am I doing to make this situation better?"

Will they remember that I tell them, "On good days and on bad days, I always love you."? Will they remember that "There is nothing you can do that will make me stop loving you."? Will they remember and believe "There is no mistake too big for God to forgive."? Will they remember that "Nothing can separate you from the love of God."?

Will they remember that they are precious and loved? 

Many days I fear that they will mostly remember the bad stuff - my short temper, their sisters' tendencies toward squabbles, the boring chores and household demands. I guess I really don't have control over what their brains imprint and bring up 80 years from now. Can you affect the process by trying to make the good outweigh the bad? If you curate an environment of pleasant experience, can you inoculate the brain from storing the bad?

Excuse me while I go worry myself to sleep...

Whiteout

A while back, my Mum gave me a packet of documents. "Here's your adoption paperwork. They gave us the originals instead of the copies by mistake. I noticed the whiteout is flaking off. You can read your last name."

Mum and Dad were clearing a lot of stuff out of the house. We had a lot of life going on here. Moving, new jobs, another kid on the way... There was a lot going on. But I looked. And yes, there was the name. I put the papers away. There was a lot going on. I wasn't completely ready to do anything about it. It required energy. And emotional space. And I just didn't have any.

I had taken baby steps over the years to find my birth mom. I had a counseling session with an adoption specialist; this is a prerequisite for many match services and registries. I looked online to figure out which registries I might be on. It didn't seem very straightforward. And it wasn't free, either. It seemed like a big undertaking. It was scary. So it didn't go very far.

But the internet goes everywhere. With a name, a city, and some search engines, you can find out a lot. Add social media, and the path becomes much more clear. 

And finally, one day, I had the energy and need to take the leap. I sent out a letter. And the letter found its intended target. 

So what now? I'm not sure where it will go.

But I got to say thanks. My birth mother chose life. I'm grateful. My husband is grateful. My parents are grateful. My children would be, if they knew how common the other choice is. And I daresay my friends are happy with the decision she made. My patients, too... Choices like that have quite a ripple effect. The results are bigger than the decision-maker can ever know.

And the choice to put the original medical record, the one with the whiteout over my birth name, instead of the copy, into the packet of adoption paperwork? That choice has had a ripple effect, too.

Springtime

I stopped in a little flower shop on the way home from work today to buy a birthday gift for my Dearest Friend. When I asked her to babysit my girls for a few hours earlier in the week, it hadn't occurred to me that it was her birthday today. 

Dang.

But my short commute through the commercial square of the neighboring town offered an opportunity to visit a new store and shop locally. And, as many times as I've driven through Dedham Square, I haven't actually stopped in any of the businesses. I remedied that today.

I was chatting up the store owner as she wrapped up an adorable mini orchid (honestly, Dearest Friend, if she had two of those plants, we'd have matching plants right now...). The shop decor was quaint, and the plants were displayed on what looked like antique chests, dressers, and other lovely pieces of antique furniture. The small drawered piece immediately behind me caught my eye. 

I've recently been struck with a burning desire to overhaul the entryway of our house. So I've purchased a used trunk that doubles as a bench (to hold the jumble of bags previously dumped on the floor), and a new rug. I'm still in the market for a few rows of coathooks and a doormat, but I have some solid leads. The one thing I'm struggling to find is a small piece of furniture to put in a small space, that can hold mail and other small things that need easily-accessible public storage (spare keys? stamps?). But I saw a perfect candidate for the job, right behind me in that flower shop. I asked her where she found the furniture in her shop, and explained my burning need to decorate, now that Spring has solidly arrived, and I felt like I was awake again. "Yes, Spring. It's when we all come back to life." 

She said this so matter-of-factly. But she was so right. I immediately felt better thinking that other people have felt asleep, mentally comatose. The cognitive fog has weighed heavily on me the last chilly month. But now I do feel like I'm coming back to life. 

I've felt creative bursts of energy that have led me to buy fabric. To make pillows to go on the previously mentioned chest, as well as the used double glider that now sits on my porch. I have decorating vision for the first time in the almost 2 years we've owned our house. 

It feels so good to look past of the daily grind of chaos, grime, and neediness that make up my daily life. I vaguely remember feeling creative. Once upon a time, I made BestestHusband an ENTIRE SET of pajamas. That he still wears today. It seems like so long ago. Ok, it was our first year of marriage. But now I remember what it feels like. And it feels good. 

Is it a shift of hormones after weaning LittleFritter? The lifting of the winter blues? I don't know. But I'm so thankful for it. It gives me hope that my brain will someday contain more ideas not related to diapering, meals, laundry processing, and squabble mediation. Someday.

So the lady in the shop mentioned that the previous owner was an antique collector. She got everything from him. Thankfully, my local Texas expat friends have planned a trip to an antique mall next month. Armed with my measuring tape and their design skills, I'm sure I can find something to fill that spot in our entryway. But in the meantime, it's exciting to think about coming back to life even more. And I'm so overwhelmingly thankful for this feeling of hope. It's nice to be awake.

"It's Only Hard Because You Make It Hard"

My happy charming Gerber-baby 13 month old really despises getting her hair washed. She goes from babbling, splashing, grinning cherub to demon-posessed-creature-with-superhuman-strength as soon as she figures out what I'm about to do. And so she screams, flails, and refuses to sit down in the large Ikea Samla bin that doubles as a bathtub in our desperately-needing-renovation 1880's home. To keep the bathroom from completely getting covered in water, I have to force her to sit and pin her down while I rinse her hair. It is not pretty. It is very noisy. And it is exhausting. 

After going through the ordeal tonight, I wrapped my traumatized cherub/demon in a towel and held her in front of the mirror to wave at the cute baby in it. "You know, it's only hard because you make it hard." I tried to explain to her that calmly sitting and allowing water to be poured down the back of her head would be quick and painless if she didn't fight it so much. It was good for her, it was going to get done either way, and she might even like it a bit if she just relaxed and got it over with. 

I don't think she's convinced.

But I thought of those words. "It's only hard because you make it hard." 
It's so clear to me, the torturer, that she's being ridiculous. 

But I wonder how I do this in my life. I got the nagging suspicion that I am just as guilty as she is. But I'm almost 40 years older. And should probably know better. 
How much easier would my life be if I didn't fight stuff? And what am I fighting that creates trauma and frustration? I'm not sure yet. But it's worth considering.

Mom Guilt

My child makes me not want to get out of bed in the morning.

Now, I'm not a morning person to start with. But when you know that the conflict and arguments will start before the grounds are even in the coffee maker... well, it's hard to get excited about making it down to the coffee maker. 

Potential sources of yelling and tears at 6:30am:

• Not getting the right bowl. 
• Not having the right bowl clean because it was used the night before.
• Not sitting in the right chair. 
• Not getting all of the heat from the space heater.
• Not being able to eat all of the sugary princess cereal.
• Being asked to eat fruit before having a second bowl of cereal.
• Older sister not knowing, 10 minutes ago, that 3 yr old would want oatmeal right now. 
• Being asked to stop arguing and whining about any of the above. 
• An older sister saying something annoying. 
• An older sister not saying something to her. 
• A family member not stopping conversation, mid-phrase, to allow her right-of-way to speak. 
• Being reprimanded for any of the above. 

The list is actually endless. Because 3 yr olds can find anything to be upset about. And can be upset about anything. I know it's a phase. I also know it's made more dramatic by her personality. So while it will get better, the conflict won't truly ever go away. 

So of course I feel guilty. 
Was that first sentence at the top of the page unpleasant to read? Imagine coming to terms with saying it yourself. 

Because of COURSE the litany of forced gratitude begins:
"You should be thankful she's healthy. You should be thankful she's even ALIVE. You know that strong personality will help her be successful some day. You signed up for this - you wanted a third child. Maybe she'd be easier to deal with if you were a better mother. It's because you're not patient enough that she reacts so explosively. This unpleasantness is all your fault. Fix your attitude and you'll fix the problem."

Maybe all of this is true. Maybe some of it is unfair. But the guilt spiral begins. Throw in lack of sleep, recent family stomach bug, spousal travel, and hormones thrown out of whack by weaning the baby, and the spiral becomes a whirlpool. Threatening to suck me in.

So today everyone got an early nap. Mostly because I needed them to not hurt themselves or each other while I got a time-sensitive task completed. I'm going to lay down for a minute too. I know it's a phase. I know I'll feel better after a nap. I know the days are long but the years are short. I know I will survive, and I'll probably really enjoy this child in a few years. But none of those things make it any easier to get out of bed in the morning.

The Jesus Bean

I'm struggling this morning. I was up way too late last night with our church moms group, and I'm not really ready to parent yet. Unfortunately, it's 11am. I should get my act in gear. Can I still blame it on post-vacation jet lag? 
Anyway, my moms group consists of some of the kindest, wisest women I know. They take their vocation as a parent very seriously, and see their task of raising children who love God as an honor and calling. But they're also scientists, healthcare providers, business women, computer programmers, teachers, etc. I admire them all greatly, and feel nourished by their support, encouragement, and practical advice. Oh, and their amazing cooking. We have some really good cooks in our church. I really love our get-togethers. 

So I'm struggling this morning. I will admit to hiding under the covers this morning and letting BestestHusband manage the kids. After clothing LittleFritter, I plopped her in her high chair with some toast and left MeToo in charge. And went back to bed. When I finally went down to the kitchen again, I was greeted by the announcement, "MeToo found my Jesus Bean!"

I bought a king cake for Mardi Gras. It didn't come with a little plastic baby, so I hid a dried bean inside, instead. This is the pre-plastic method. A chickpea, to be precise. It was supposed to represent the baby Jesus, in preparation for Ash Wednesday and Lent. And whoever got the bean in their slice of cake got to wear the Mardi Gras mask that came with the cake. Not sure how Wegmans decided to add that part to the tradition, but whatever. 

HurricaneDebbie got the bean. She was elated. And she wore the mask. She was over the moon. And the Jesus Bean became her new best friend. She carried it everywhere. And lost it about every 90 seconds. And became frantic when she couldn't find it. And rejoiced when it was found again. 
And then she couldn't find it, and eventually moved on.
Until this morning.

Me: "What are you going to do with the Jesus Bean?"
HD: "We're going to do yoga, then exercise, then play dress up, and then sing the Licker Song to Cameron."

So the Jesus Bean has a busy morning planned. I hope it survives. 
Because HurricaneDebbie wants it to go to California with BestestHusband on his business trip. 

You can't make this stuff up. You need a 3 year old to do it for you.

Ashes

I wrangled my youngest two children to noontime Ash Wednesday services today. The 7pm service was in the middle of the Wednesday night gymnastics/dinner/bedtime shuffle. An infant and pre-schooler who are still jet lagged and out-of-sorts do not belong at church during their lunch and nap hours. But they don't really belong at 7pm, either. 

I can tell you that it felt like penance. It was painful. The floor looked like a war zone when we were done. And anyone looking for a place for peaceful reflection and worship should not be sitting anywhere on our side of church. Peaceful it was not.

But I truly appreciate Ash Wednesday. The Lenten season has become an increasingly important time of the year as I journey through life. It is a time to focus on weakness. We don't typically like to do that in our society. But as I get older, I feel my weakness and frailty more. No, not just the physical stuff. (Actually, my back is better than it used to be, and I enjoy exercise more than I used to.) But my weakness to control my world, to control myself. With every passing year, I become more aware of my failures, my incompetence, and the miraculous grace of God that puts the good stuff in my life and gets me from one day to the next. 

A Bible reading from a few Sundays back really stuck with me: The Apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians that he would boast about his weaknesses, in order to point more to God's power. Because despite pleading to God 3 times to have the tormenting thorn in his flesh removed, God refused. "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."(2 Corinthians 12:9) No one really knows what his thorn, "a messenger from Satan", really was. I suspect it was much worse than my laziness and niggling character flaws. But it reminded Paul of God's power and grace in his life.

So recently I have also come to appreciate my flaws as a reminder that I'm not in control, and never will be. I'd love to be better. More disciplined, more patient, more self-controlled... But these are fruits of the Spirit. They only come from God. I can't manufacture them by sheer will and effort. They are gifts I need to ask for and receive. And when I get them, I need to acknowledge where they come from.

The girls came to the altar rail with me to receive ashes on their foreheads. LittleFritter was a moving target for poor Pastor. But the effect of his dark smudge of ash on her little forehead was striking. Her little round, cherubic head with little blonde locks was a sharp contrast to the blackness of the ash. But it was a reminder of our sinful nature that we can't escape.  Even at that age.

I've always been told that you don't have to teach a child how to sin. It's born into us all. I know I certainly didn't teach HurricaneDebbie the shenanigans she attempts these days. Nor did I teach her sisters before her. But children are also born with the ability to receive what they need and depend on their providers. Children bring such little ability and skill into the world. They must receive everything they need. I like to say that God knows what he's doing when He makes them cute. They need a lot. All the time.

But as adults, so do we. LittleFritter has the gift of a simple faith that all that she needs will be provided. And as a loving family, we haven't let her down. But we adults have the burden of a faith corrupted by our own need for autonomy, independence, and the pride that comes along with it. Our emotional and spiritual needs are so much more complicated than a child's. Because we think we can satisfy so much of what we need by ourselves, that we forget the ability to just receive. And we wonder what went wrong when we weren't able to do it on our own.

To me, this is the gift of Lent. It is a horribly depressing season of the church year that reminds us just how depraved and evil we humans are. And how helpless we are to fix ourselves. But it also focuses our minds on how to escape the evilness of our world. And it's only through God. 

So I'll try to be thankful for my petty little thorns of the flesh. Giving up chocolate or Facebook this Lent won't help me this year. I know how much I struggle with my appetites and how much pride I feel when I abstain. I think I'll just wallow in my neediness. And try to approach the days like a child, completely aware of my need and dependence on the Giver. 

May your Lenten season be a blessing, and may the cold of winter quickly melt to the warmth (or promise of warmth!) of spring.

A Season of Darkness

My heart has felt pretty heavy lately. A blanket of gloom and foreboding has settled in over my soul. I smile, I laugh with the girls, I crack jokes. But underneath, I feel an undercurrent of worry and dread. 

Some would blame it on the recent election. Perhaps that's a factor. But honestly, neither candidate gave me hope or joy. 
Maybe it's people's behavior around the election. Maybe. I've been pretty disappointed by the way people have spoken to one another before and after the election. I've lost a little hope in people. And that's not typical of me...
Maybe it's the weather. The days are getting short. Darkness settles early. The raw cold of early winter is creeping in. And winter is always my worst season.

Maybe my moods are starting to align with the church's liturgical calendar. This past Sunday marked the beginning of Advent. We spent the previous few Sundays talking about the end of the world. Pretty dark stuff. And before the world ends, it's supposed to get even scarier. Some people might say that the signs of the End Times are all around us now. Maybe. But I suspect 1st century Christians said the same thing. And the world is still here... 

But Advent is a time to look forward to the arrival of a savior. Some might say that's a happy, optimistic thing. But when do you most anticipate the arrival of a savior? When things suck. The more life makes you suffer, the more you want deliverance. The more you dwell on the heartache and hardship of this life, the more you know we need help. The more you hurt, the more you pray for relief.

Many people look to political leaders for deliverance. I am always perplexed when people speak of their political candidate as the one who will save us. "Hope", "Change we can believe in", and "Make America Great Again". Campaign slogans from the last few elections tried to convince us that voting for the right person would save us from all of our problems. And that one person would truly be our savior. Some people attributed god-like qualities to their candidates. But alas, they have all been human. And as humans, they have their foibles. And inevitably, they fail us. 

I've decided over the last few years to emphasize the season of Advent for the girls. I want the leadup to Christmas to be more than just the anticipation of gifts. We have a calendar with compartments that hold candies, Bible verses, and activities for the girls to do. We try to focus on gifting to others, rather than just anticipating packages under the tree. It's a lot of work. But I've always considered it to be an important use of my time and energy. I only have a short amount of time to set the traditions that they will carry forward to their own families, and pass along to their own children. When they are older, the anticipation can be more faith-building and less crafty. I hope. Although I'm sure they'll still demand the candy...

But I need an Advent focus for myself. I know that I'll get something out of re-reading the Christmas story in the Bible. One of the wonders of the Bible is that you can read it over and over and still learn something from it each time. But I'm thinking about how to do more. Instead of fighting the feelings of gloom and dread, maybe I should let myself sink down into it a bit more. Maybe instead of self-medicating through food or caffeine or alcohol, I should deprive myself of that comforts and just feel the frustration, the sadness, the heartache of the world. Wrap myself in the darkness so that I can more keenly yearn for the light. 

Our savior will never live in the White House. No human can completely save us. We were all born with the same sinful natures. Our salvation needs to come from a higher power. I think this season of darkness - the 4:00pm sunsets, the incidences of hate crimes, the fear of things to come - can be a preparation for the light and joy of Christmas. The darker the night, the brighter that star must have looked to those Wise Men so many years ago. I think I'm ready to face the darkness.

America the Great

For more than a day now, the people of my hometown in Texas have been on a mission. A little boy was reported missing. He had slipped, barefoot, out of the house. Nine years old, with autism, he did not have a lot of survival skills. And while I grew up in a suburb of one of the largest cities in the country, the environment has woods, fields, and small bodies of water. Creeks of varying sizes wind through the area, and ponds and catch reservoirs are common. So while there are a lot of people, there are a lot of wild places that scared little boys can hide. And get hurt.

I've been watching from a distance, via Facebook feeds of old classmates and the city police department. A message was sent out to people who lived in the area where the little boy disappeared, to keep an eye out for him. And the message spread. People set out into the night to go look for him. People were desperate to find out where they could report for search duty. After they cleaned up from a day of feasting and tucked their children into bed, parents set out to look for a neighbor's child. A stranger's son, really. It turns out he's from Connecticut, visiting family in the area. Nobody knew him or his parents.

But they knew the fear. "There but for the grace of God go I." Every parent has felt the panic of not knowing where their child is. For most of us, it lasts a moment or two. And then we find them hiding in the clothes rack in the store. Or sitting quietly in our closet, trying on all of our shoes. Or siting on the front porch. Watching the traffic fly down the street, but thankfully staying in the safe confines of the porch. We breathe a prayer of thanksgiving, and vow never to let that happen again. But we know that it can. Children are curious. And fast. And our parental attention is drawn in so many directions.

So they put gas in their ATVs, found their flashlights and lanterns, and set out to help. The police had to ask people to stop coming. There were just too many volunteers.
"I thought of his parents. How terrified they must be. I just had to do something."
"Home from the search. Barely slept. But I can't imagine his parents slept, either."
The people were worried. They needed to help.

It was the same response from neighbors in Louisiana after the flooding a few months ago. Nicknamed the "Cajun Navy", anyone with a working boat set out to check in on their neighbors. Sure, the local officials and rescue crews were hard at work plucking people from the water. But it was the noncommissioned fleet that could be everywhere at the same time. Not because they were asked to by people in charge. But because they cared about their neighbors, and needed to help them.
I have no data. But I'd make a bet that the Cajun Navy made more rescues than the National Guard did. (Nothing against our wonderful Guard members. But there are only so many of them to go around...)

The recent election has saddened me. The tone of the commentary before and after has been harsh, even cruel. Accusations of racism and all forms of hatred have flown across both sides of the aisle. I've even seen people questioning how one can even call themselves Christian if they voted for the other politician. The heightening of the "other"-ness has been frightening. Anyone who voted for your candidate is good, anyone who voted for the "other" is evil. 

But the most recent events in Pearland have encouraged me. People have responded like the missing child was one of their own. He did not belong to an "other" family. His absence was their personal loss. And they had to help. This is the America I grew up in. People house total strangers fleeing from a  hurricane. People give to those who have nothing, even if they have little to spare. People do the lawn care and winter shoveling of the frail lady next door and accept no payment but a hug. This is the America that I have always known. And despite what some might say, it still is great. It is the willingness to take on another's burdens and hurts and try to help that makes our country great. And the more we act on our empathy, even without being asked, the better we make our country.

So we obviously don't all agree on what our government's priorities should be. But each person trying to ease the burdens of those around them will do more collectively than even the most popular and powerful politician. America the Great is us. It is us setting out into the dark to find a stranger's little boy. It is us revving up the fishing boat to rescue people and pets and deter looters. It is us buying warm socks for the guy we see panhandling on our way to work every morning. It is us imagining the pain and fear of those who suddenly feel targeted by hatred and violence, and reaching out to them. It is us refusing to settle into the easy role of "me" vs. "others". 

Please pray for the family of Marcus. Please pray for the people of Pearland. They're worried, and tired, and they want to find that little boy safe and sound. And please pray for all of us. The election has left so many wounded, so many hard and cold, so many worried. We need empathy for each others' burdens. America is not our leaders. America is us. And together, we are great.

A Different Kind of Journey

Now that I'm back in Boston, I decided it's time to start another kind of journey. Unlike my last epic trip, I have no idea where the roads will take me.

Thirty-eight (ok, soon to be thirty-nine) years ago, a young woman had to make a decision. She was pregnant. She hadn't planned on starting a family yet. She hadn't gone to college yet. She hadn't started a career yet. She had plans. And having a baby wasn't really part of those plans. So she had a decision to make.

So she decided that the baby needed a family that was ready for her. A family that desperately wanted a baby. A family for whom a baby was part of the plan. So she planned to have the baby put up for adoption. She was given families to choose from. She chose one. The baby was born. And a family was called to be informed that their prayers had been answered. The baby became part of that family, and grew up to live a pretty wonderful life. She was raised by people who loved her very much, and everyone's plans seemed to work out pretty well.

And now the baby has four babies of her own. Yeah, if you haven't guessed it by now, that baby was me. I was adopted as an infant, raised by wonderful parents, and was aware of my adoption from an early age. I always figured that I'd try to find my biological mother some day. I wasn't sure when that day would come. But it would. Eventually.

Having kids really makes you think about family. Whose nose does she have? Whose ears? HeyMama looks an awful lot like BestestHusband's Aunt Marilyn. And LittleFritter looks a lot like me. HurricaneDebbie looks a lot like HeyMama. Who the heck does MeToo look like? No one on BestestHusband's side... So by process of elimination, she must look like someone I'm related to. But who am I related to?

Life is really busy. I'm really tired. Why am I starting this journey now?

I've been getting a lot of gentle nudges over the last few years. Friends who learned of the death of estranged family members said, "One day it will be too late." Friends asked "don't you want to know?" Friends linked blog posts about adoptions. It came up repeatedly in conversations. All of this was from completely unrelated people. This wasn't one person encouraging it. The encouragement has been coming from everywhere lately. Ok, but why now?

A few years ago, I had a counseling session with a social worker specializing in adoption relationships. This kind of session is a prerequisite for the organizations that organize match registries and help with reunions. We talked about different scenarios, different hazards and twists and turns in the road. Anything can happen, and she had seen a lot. I had to be prepared for a wide range of outcomes. 

It is possible that the woman closed the door on that part of her life, never to revisit the events, and would prefer to never think about the child again. I have to accept and respect that. I can't imagine how difficult it would be to bear and give up a child. I can't imagine what would be required to just lock up that time of my life and move on. To force that door open would be cruel. I wouldn't want to do that.

It is also possible that the woman thinks about that baby every October. It's possible that she wonders if she made the right decision. It's possible that she thinks about that little girl and imagines what she's doing now. Does she have children of her own? Is she ok? How have things turned out?
I have the answers to those questions. And if she wants them, I'd like to provide them.

Why right now? 

I have a baby. A very sweet baby. She's squishy and cuddly and has one little dimple. She likes to be kissed. She looks a lot like I did. I have three other sweet little girls. If that woman wonders what she missed when I was growing up, I can show her. I can't give her back those years, but I can give her the happy ending, with a hint of those missing years. None of us are getting any younger. I can't wait forever to start this process.

If nothing else, I want to say "Thank You." The woman had other options that she didn't choose. She didn't have to choose life. She could have had me removed from her body, never to bother anyone ever again. Abortion was legal then. But she didn't choose it. And for that I owe her a debt of gratitude.

I'd love to have a relationship with her and her family. Or I can remain a shadow of her past. I can accept either outcome. But I have to at least find her and let her know everything turned out ok. 

I don't know where this journey will take me. Not every road leads to somewhere nice. But I do know this is the right time to get started. The adoption happened in Nueces County, TX. I have reason to believe my biological family, including siblings of my biological mother, is still living in TX. I appreciate any help you can give in my journey, and any prayers you might have for my ride!

Coming Home

We're home. We're back in our own beds, back under our own roof. And a bit tired of driving. 
Ok, really tired of driving. 

This summer's journey was epic, in many ways. 

It will take several blog posts to truly unpack that statement. I likened it to natural birth and marathon running. It's uncomfortable and exhilarating, and I feel a bit more accomplished for doing it. And I learned a bit about myself. Will I do it again? Probably not with a baby ever again. But in a few years? Once the crying baby PTSD wears off a bit? Possibly. 

The topic of "coming home" is a surprisingly loaded one. 
I found myself crying when I realized we were back in the Eastern time zone. And again when we were on the Mass Pike, for the final hour of our journey. 
Boston is where BestestHusband was waiting for us. And two aging and neurotic shelties. "Home" is the 130 year old construction project we moved into last summer. Boston holds some of our dearest friends, and all of the plans for our immediate future. 
Why did "coming home" make me cry?

I couldn't help but notice, driving through the vast spaces in the middle of our country, how much I felt at peace. The sky was big. The roads were straight and wide. The people wherever we stopped were friendly. The expanses of green, the cornfields and forests, were soothing. 

It's important to know that I've never actually lived on a farm. Other than Boston, I've lived my life in small towns and moderate suburbs. There's no reason that the farms and ranches of the American heartland should make me feel at home. But they do. I felt a peace that I don't often feel here in Boston. Why should I feel at home driving through farmland in flyover country?

I spent my childhood near the Gulf coast, in Louisiana and Texas. Most of my memories are rooted in and around Pearland, TX, a suburb of Houston. My parents moved from there not long after I graduated from high school. My dad, a pastor, accepted calls in different churches that moved them further away from major airports. This is inconvenient when you go to school 2000 miles away. And consequently, I've only once since graduation been to the town that hosted most of my childhood. It's no longer a moderate suburb. It's pretty major now. I'm not sure I would recognize it as "home" even if I did go back regularly. Obviously, I enjoy my visits with my parents. Very much. But I call it "visiting my parents". It's not "visiting home". 

My husband's concept of "home" is very different. He spent his entire childhood in one house. This house is the one he returns to when he visits his parents. His childhood bed is the one we sleep in when we're in Minnesota. Well, actually the girls slept there this visit. But it's the exact same mattress he slept on. With some of his mementos still gracing the walls. 

BestestHusband sat on the sofa in his parents' living room, and looked out the window to the field across the street. "When I look around, nothing from this view has changed in 20 years. Except maybe the size of those trees out there." His concept of "home" is a pretty stable one.

Mine is not. I've come to terms that we won't be moving to Texas any time soon. We keep trying. But, other than just moving with no jobs waiting for us, it doesn't seem to be a reasonable option. My plan is to raise my daughters somewhere in Texas. God seems to have other plans. The job options for BestestHusband are consistently in Boston. Not Texas. So we've consciously been setting down deeper roots in Boston, establishing a stable concept of "home" for our girls. (Hence that construction project we bought last summer.) Because God seems to have plans for us in Boston. He has given us a stable livelihood, great friends, a wonderful church, a cozy school, and a bright future. It's never been my plan for us. But I work to accept God's plan for us here, and have come to terms with the idea that I might always feel a bit like an outsider, no longer how long I live here.

Somewhere during the trip, MeToo started asking questions about Heaven. What would we do there? What things would and wouldn't be there? Would we sleep? What if we really like sleeping? Would we get to eat our favorite foods? Could we watch TV? Have pets? 

I obviously don't have those answers. But we did talk a lot about it, imagining how great it would be and why. We had very different notions of a place of eternal joy.  But I've become convinced of one thing since this trip:  When I get to Heaven, then I will finally feel like I'm home. 

Yogurt Revisited

I like to make my own yogurt. I have for quite a while now. 

Partly because I'm cheap. Partly because I'm picky. 

Mostly because it's not that hard and it's pretty cool to do. It's kitchen alchemy that makes me feel like I'm gaming the yogurt industry. I can get vanilla yogurt. Thick or thin. Without added sugar. A gallon at a time. 

A few years ago, I wrote a blog entry with pictures and details. I'm at my in-laws house. I don't want to go digging online. I have doll hair to untangle. And Olympics to watch. It's faster to just type a summary. My SIL requested it. So you can have it too.

• I start with a gallon of milk. I pour it in a big pot. 
• I heat the milk until it's reached 180 degrees. 
• Then I let it cool. 
• Yogurt cultures between 100 and 120 degrees. 
• So as soon as the milk gets down to 120, I add yogurt culture. You can add powdered freeze dried culture. I just add existing yogurt. 
• My favorite is Stonyfield Farms, because I like the robust flora. But other yogurts work just fine. I add around 4-8 ounces. It's a dollop. The more I add, the less time it takes to culture. If you use leftovers of your own yogurt, it has a diminishing efficacy. So I frequently buy new yogurt in a big container, and use the last serving to make a gallon of my own. 
• I wisk in the culture, and usually a splash of vanilla extract. I've used vanilla bean when heating the milk before. That was better. But I don't always have it on hand. 
• Then I let the milk sit. I try to keep it above 100 degrees, preferably closer to 120, for 6-12 hours. The longer it sits, the thicker it gets. 
• Often I preheat the oven to 200, then turn it off. I put the lid on the pot, wrap the pot in a bath towel, and put it in the warm oven. 
• Then I write myself a note to not forget the yogurt. 
• I frequently strain it to be more like Greek yogurt. I line a strainer with a thin dish towel, and pour the  cultured yogurt in. I recommend a large bowl under he strainer, as you can really strain out a lot of liquid. I've used it in place of buttermilk before, with good results. (I add a bit of yogurt to get the right thickness). I've also used it in smoothies, too. 
• When you chill your finished yogurt, it will continue to thicken. 
• And then you can add as much or as little as you'd like to it. 
• While paying less than if you bought it at the store. 
• With not much hands-on time required. 
• This makes me extremely happy. I know, it doesn't take much. 

You can also get a fancy yogurt maker. If you like things even simpler. 

Either way, enjoy!

Crying a River

Wow. What a day.
I'm still self-medicating with chocolate.
There was So. Much. Crying.
And not much of it was from my 4 month old.

I had no idea 4 girls could cry so much. And I've been doing this Mom thing for more than a few years.

Reasons my children cried today:

I asked them to get dressed.
I asked them to go to the bathroom.
I asked them to put on shoes.
Their shoes were right where I said they were.
I asked them to pick up their dirty clothes off the floor.
I told them if they wanted new sneakers, they would have to choose from the 10+ options at the store we were currently at.
I asked them to wear a pull-up at nap time.
I asked them to take a quiet time after lunch while I ran a final errand.
I asked them to write in their travel journals.
I asked them to practice piano.
I reminded them they couldn't play outside until they practiced piano and wrote in their travel journals.
I insisted that bike riding required shoes.
I asked them to finish their corn.
I asked them to wait at the table for a few minutes while everyone finished eating.
I asked them to pick up the toys all over the floor.
I insisted that they actually DO what I asked them to do.
I asked them to wait until after I was done feeding the baby to read a bedtime story.
I only read one (long) story.
I asked them to either let her sister use her nightlight or unplug it so her sister could plug in a different one.

These are just the reasons I can think of right now. And when I say "cry", I don't mean "shed silent tears". No. We're talking full-out extended wailing behind a closed door.

When I announced that anyone heard crying would be assumed to be exhausted and would go to bed early instead of going to the library? The crying magically stopped. Stopped. After hours of crying at every provocation. Like magic.

Why do I threaten them at times? Because when all else fails, it WORKS.
Oh. And I always follow through. That helps.
If you can't listen to my Nice Mommy Voice, you get my Mean Mommy Voice.
My Mean Mommy Voice came out this evening.
I explained that crying uses up my patience and energy faster than a usual day. And it was all gone halfway through our library trip.
All. Gone.
Because there was So. Much. Crying.



I was told again that I'm the Worst Mom in the World. So no matter what you do, you're fine.
You're welcome.