"All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven't. Most don't mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn't happened, so people imagine a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.
But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she'll know.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams
I wasn't thinking about anything in particular as I drifted off to sleep last night, other than maybe mentally running through the huge to-do list I keep revising. I slept fairly peacefully, though, something I don't count on when my mind is on its usual hamster wheel when I go to bed. And then I had an incredibly vivid dream of holding my niece, Bailey. Really, it was probably more like a memory, except that I heard a child's laughter as I woke up. I really did hear it, as clearly as the sound of my own children's laughter. And somehow I knew it was her. I don't even care how hokey that might sound.
I thought about her all morning, mostly just remembering what it felt like to hold her for that little while on the night she was born. I will never forget it. I didn't know her like her parents did, of course, but I am still so deeply grateful that I had a very real glimpse into the person she was. Bailey was a playful spirit in her mother's womb, I wrote back in September, and somehow it makes sense that I woke to her giggle this morning.
I didn't even realize until late this afternoon that today was supposed to be her due date. I knew it was near, in late November, but it wasn't until I logged onto Facebook this afternoon that I realized it's actually today, November 28.
She is still such a force in her parents' lives, as she always will be. And as I read their words today, I remembered not only what it felt like to hold Bailey myself but to see the very obvious and very beautiful way they were already so bonded with her when she was born. I have absolutely no doubt in my heart that Bailey knew exactly what she was doing when she chose them for her parents.
It's easy for me to be sad and angry, because truth to tell, I still think it's totally unfair that she's not here. But that's not the only thing I can feel, and it's not even the biggest thing I feel, because I really believe that Bailey herself delivered a little dose of grace straight to my heart this morning. I can only imagine the way she's playing in the very center of her parents' lives, fitting herself in exactly where they need her.
Bailey's birthday is in September, and sapphires will always belong to her. But today is hers, too, and all the days in between.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Election Day
I have been promising myself for weeks that I would stay off Facebook entirely on Election Day, for obvious reasons. However, I am a masochist who doesn't listen to reason and who does apparently love a nice shivery dose of nerves at 6:30 in the morning, which is when I broke my little promise to myself and logged on only to find, at the top of my news feed, a status update referring to "that Muslim."
I'm pretty proactive about blocking people who would write this kind of thing; normally, my "friends" are a pretty civilized and thoughtful group, even when they disagree with me and with each other. (I've blocked several friends of friends, though, because I don't need to read their vitriolic comments. I don't need everyone to see the world the way I do; I do need to trust that I won't read the N-word on my Facebook "friends" page. Seriously, some of y'all have really classy friends.)
Anyway, maybe I just need to grow a thicker skin, but seeing that on my page really discouraged me. And this is the second person I've taken off of my own friends list in as many weeks. Because how am I ever going to have a rational conversation with someone who refers to the president as "that Muslim"?
So, banned, blocked, whatever, but since then I've found myself unable to stop reading, and I'm seriously just the biggest ball of anxiety ever right now. Because this. This is where we are.
I was thinking today about the first election in which I was old enough to vote, in 2000, my senior year of college. I voted for Al Gore, in case anyone cares. And I was voting as a citizen of Montana, so it's not like it really mattered -- but it mattered to me, even though Gore ran such a disappointingly uninteresting campaign. I remember listening to NPR constantly, following local elections (in Minnesota and North Dakota, that is; even though I couldn't vote there, I loved learning about the things that would affect people who did). I loved filling out my ballot, even if I told myself that my teeny-tiny little vote didn't matter. I understand why people feel that way; I'm feeling frightened and disillusioned tonight in a way that I didn't when I was 21 years old. But still. Still. We're all really fortunate that we get to do it at all.
I've seen people who are voting for Obama and people who are voting for Romney post such sentiments today and I'm clinging to the desperate, shaky little hope that maybe -- maybe? -- sometime after tomorrow, we can remember what we like about each other. We can remember that people who are nasty on Facebook (did someone seriously call me a "libtard"? Why yes, someone did) are people who, face to face, would still stop and help us out of a ditch if we happened to drive our cars into one.
I don't know. I don't know.
I'm anxious in ways that I wasn't in 2000. And it's not even that I'm just scared of the possibility of living right smack in the middle of a Margaret Atwood novel; I'm also scared of what tomorrow will feel like. No matter what, a lot of people are going to be angry and heartbroken tomorrow. Obviously, I want my candidate to win. And I want the vote to go the way I cast it on my ballot for a handful of local issues that I care about very much. But even if that happens, I'm scared of the widening gulf between the people who voted one way and people who voted another. (The snarky Facebook cartoons that Make a Big Fat Point really help.)
I just hate feeling so angry and scared and helpless. But I also love the energy of the grassroots work carried out by passionate volunteers, and I love those who remind me that my civic duty certainly isn't fulfilled by voting, as if it's something you can check off. I love -- and need -- the reminder that it's important not to grow complacent, that even if our people win, we are going to need to roll up our sleeves and work hard and keep on fighting for the light with empathy and compassion.
At any rate, that's what I'll tell myself tomorrow. Tonight -- I'll be honest -- I'm just drinking wine. Because I've been a huge quivering ball of anxiety today, and because instead of distracting myself with the work of teaching I spent it at the doctor's office with my daughter. (We think it's a UTI; the last day or so has been sort of traumatic but she'll be fine.) Because if I'm home I'm pacing around my house and reading horrible things on the Internet and I can't seem to stop, so even though Suzannah had a "sick" day that involved a drive to the clinic in Tacoma, I haven't let us stop moving for longer than the time it took to eat lunch. We ran errands. We spontaneously decided to get our hair cut together. (Rather, I decided we needed that and proposed the idea, to which Suzannah agreed right away and suggested we add a treat at Starbucks to the outing.) I graded zero papers, I read three pages of a novel, I flitted restlessly around the house, I thought of things we needed to do, I fretted about the fact that we didn't get to see Suzannah's regular pediatrician (who always makes me feel a little calmer, and every time we have to see someone else I'm reminded of how much I love him). We went to the library. We went to Target.
Last night, in a fit of pre-election anxiety, I washed all the wood floors. Tonight I'm about to attack all the surfaces with Lemon Pledge and a dust rag. I may have suggested to Matt that I wouldn't complain if he picked up a bottle of gin on the way home from work.
I am going to breathe in and and breathe out and remind myself that every single one of us is a child of God, even the people who vote for (or against) things I just cannot fathom, and I am going to have a gin and tonic, and I am going to make dinner for my family, and probably just revert to the prayer I used to whisper in the night for years, as a child, as teenager, as a young adult when I couldn't find any other words: Please just let everything be okay.
I'm pretty proactive about blocking people who would write this kind of thing; normally, my "friends" are a pretty civilized and thoughtful group, even when they disagree with me and with each other. (I've blocked several friends of friends, though, because I don't need to read their vitriolic comments. I don't need everyone to see the world the way I do; I do need to trust that I won't read the N-word on my Facebook "friends" page. Seriously, some of y'all have really classy friends.)
Anyway, maybe I just need to grow a thicker skin, but seeing that on my page really discouraged me. And this is the second person I've taken off of my own friends list in as many weeks. Because how am I ever going to have a rational conversation with someone who refers to the president as "that Muslim"?
So, banned, blocked, whatever, but since then I've found myself unable to stop reading, and I'm seriously just the biggest ball of anxiety ever right now. Because this. This is where we are.
I was thinking today about the first election in which I was old enough to vote, in 2000, my senior year of college. I voted for Al Gore, in case anyone cares. And I was voting as a citizen of Montana, so it's not like it really mattered -- but it mattered to me, even though Gore ran such a disappointingly uninteresting campaign. I remember listening to NPR constantly, following local elections (in Minnesota and North Dakota, that is; even though I couldn't vote there, I loved learning about the things that would affect people who did). I loved filling out my ballot, even if I told myself that my teeny-tiny little vote didn't matter. I understand why people feel that way; I'm feeling frightened and disillusioned tonight in a way that I didn't when I was 21 years old. But still. Still. We're all really fortunate that we get to do it at all.
I've seen people who are voting for Obama and people who are voting for Romney post such sentiments today and I'm clinging to the desperate, shaky little hope that maybe -- maybe? -- sometime after tomorrow, we can remember what we like about each other. We can remember that people who are nasty on Facebook (did someone seriously call me a "libtard"? Why yes, someone did) are people who, face to face, would still stop and help us out of a ditch if we happened to drive our cars into one.
I don't know. I don't know.
I'm anxious in ways that I wasn't in 2000. And it's not even that I'm just scared of the possibility of living right smack in the middle of a Margaret Atwood novel; I'm also scared of what tomorrow will feel like. No matter what, a lot of people are going to be angry and heartbroken tomorrow. Obviously, I want my candidate to win. And I want the vote to go the way I cast it on my ballot for a handful of local issues that I care about very much. But even if that happens, I'm scared of the widening gulf between the people who voted one way and people who voted another. (The snarky Facebook cartoons that Make a Big Fat Point really help.)
I just hate feeling so angry and scared and helpless. But I also love the energy of the grassroots work carried out by passionate volunteers, and I love those who remind me that my civic duty certainly isn't fulfilled by voting, as if it's something you can check off. I love -- and need -- the reminder that it's important not to grow complacent, that even if our people win, we are going to need to roll up our sleeves and work hard and keep on fighting for the light with empathy and compassion.
At any rate, that's what I'll tell myself tomorrow. Tonight -- I'll be honest -- I'm just drinking wine. Because I've been a huge quivering ball of anxiety today, and because instead of distracting myself with the work of teaching I spent it at the doctor's office with my daughter. (We think it's a UTI; the last day or so has been sort of traumatic but she'll be fine.) Because if I'm home I'm pacing around my house and reading horrible things on the Internet and I can't seem to stop, so even though Suzannah had a "sick" day that involved a drive to the clinic in Tacoma, I haven't let us stop moving for longer than the time it took to eat lunch. We ran errands. We spontaneously decided to get our hair cut together. (Rather, I decided we needed that and proposed the idea, to which Suzannah agreed right away and suggested we add a treat at Starbucks to the outing.) I graded zero papers, I read three pages of a novel, I flitted restlessly around the house, I thought of things we needed to do, I fretted about the fact that we didn't get to see Suzannah's regular pediatrician (who always makes me feel a little calmer, and every time we have to see someone else I'm reminded of how much I love him). We went to the library. We went to Target.
Last night, in a fit of pre-election anxiety, I washed all the wood floors. Tonight I'm about to attack all the surfaces with Lemon Pledge and a dust rag. I may have suggested to Matt that I wouldn't complain if he picked up a bottle of gin on the way home from work.
I am going to breathe in and and breathe out and remind myself that every single one of us is a child of God, even the people who vote for (or against) things I just cannot fathom, and I am going to have a gin and tonic, and I am going to make dinner for my family, and probably just revert to the prayer I used to whisper in the night for years, as a child, as teenager, as a young adult when I couldn't find any other words: Please just let everything be okay.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Returning...
Sometimes writing is like this: silences say as much as words do.
But also, sometimes it just means that someone -- and by someone, I mean me -- has allowed herself to fall out of practice, at least in this space. And somehow, it is suddenly November.
Things have been crazy busy, but that's always true, for everyone, in every season. Things have also been mostly good. I still can't get over how different this school year feels. I love my students, I love a lot of things that are happening at my school, and I'm happier teaching there than I have been in a very long time.
Suzannah is loving first grade. Her other love is Star Wars, which really has become her thing -- I was never really into it all that much, and Matt is hardly obsessed, but our little girl is totally enthralled by it. She dressed up as Darth Vader for Halloween, which I thought was particularly awesome. The day we bought her costume, the guy at the store was all, "So...she is going to be Darth Vader? Really?" And I said, probably a little defensively, "Yeah. Yes she is." And he nodded slowly, looking at my little girl holding her costume and her light saber, and said, "That's actually pretty cool." Damn straight.
Isaac is going to be three years old next month. He is both so affectionate and so rough, and I find myself using the word gentle! quite often. He gives me these great, totally sloppy kisses and tight, tight hugs. He does this weird head-butting thing that reminds me of a labrador. He's terribly dramatic about getting hurt, which is so different from Suzannah (when she gets hurt, she doesn't want anyone to look at or get anywhere near the wound); the tiniest "owie" has him running to me for kisses. Suzannah is more practical. "Do you want some ice, Little Dude?" she asks. (She calls him Little Dude. How fantastic is that.) And she knows how to go to the freezer, get down the bottle filled with water/ice, and hand it to him. He holds it to his head/finger/knee/whatever for about three seconds before handing it back to her, and then he scampers off, as good as new.
He is also learning how to use the potty. The process hasn't been as quick as it was with his sister, but when he actually goes, he face totally explodes with joy and he screams, "It WORKED!"
It is impossible not to explode with joy myself in those moments.
November is a good month for gratitude, maybe especially in this election year when we're all at each other's throats and ruining relationships on Facebook and everything. (Will that get better or worse after Tuesday?) I love reading people's gratitude posts, and I try to do them myself every year, even though I never seem to keep up with them. Today I am particularly aware of the small moments, the ordinary blessings, the things that require me to stop and breathe and be present in my life exactly where I am. Of course I am grateful for my children and my family and my job and all the pieces of the big picture; what shakes me out of my moods and fits of self-pity or grouchiness, though, are the moments like I had this morning. Chocolate chip pancakes, a surprise from my health-conscious husband. Fresh coffee. An extra hour in bed -- I didn't sleep for most of that, but the time was still such a gift. Going for a run in the cool morning air, crunching through wet leaves on the street. (This is my favorite time of year to run outside, when the weather is cool and wet, when I can run through piles of leaves, sweet-smelling dampness at my feet.) Nothing clears my head quite like a good run when I'd rather just stay home, and this morning I realized (again -- it's a lesson I keep learning, over and over) that the things that stress me out or turn me into a cranky mama are really just reminders of things for which I am grateful: The kitchen messes. The Legos carpeting the floor in the family room. The noise on Saturday morning. The balled-up socks that never seem to make it into the hamper. The sources? My greatest joys.
Sometimes grace just slaps you silly, doesn't it?
But also, sometimes it just means that someone -- and by someone, I mean me -- has allowed herself to fall out of practice, at least in this space. And somehow, it is suddenly November.
Things have been crazy busy, but that's always true, for everyone, in every season. Things have also been mostly good. I still can't get over how different this school year feels. I love my students, I love a lot of things that are happening at my school, and I'm happier teaching there than I have been in a very long time.
Suzannah is loving first grade. Her other love is Star Wars, which really has become her thing -- I was never really into it all that much, and Matt is hardly obsessed, but our little girl is totally enthralled by it. She dressed up as Darth Vader for Halloween, which I thought was particularly awesome. The day we bought her costume, the guy at the store was all, "So...she is going to be Darth Vader? Really?" And I said, probably a little defensively, "Yeah. Yes she is." And he nodded slowly, looking at my little girl holding her costume and her light saber, and said, "That's actually pretty cool." Damn straight.
Isaac is going to be three years old next month. He is both so affectionate and so rough, and I find myself using the word gentle! quite often. He gives me these great, totally sloppy kisses and tight, tight hugs. He does this weird head-butting thing that reminds me of a labrador. He's terribly dramatic about getting hurt, which is so different from Suzannah (when she gets hurt, she doesn't want anyone to look at or get anywhere near the wound); the tiniest "owie" has him running to me for kisses. Suzannah is more practical. "Do you want some ice, Little Dude?" she asks. (She calls him Little Dude. How fantastic is that.) And she knows how to go to the freezer, get down the bottle filled with water/ice, and hand it to him. He holds it to his head/finger/knee/whatever for about three seconds before handing it back to her, and then he scampers off, as good as new.
He is also learning how to use the potty. The process hasn't been as quick as it was with his sister, but when he actually goes, he face totally explodes with joy and he screams, "It WORKED!"
It is impossible not to explode with joy myself in those moments.
November is a good month for gratitude, maybe especially in this election year when we're all at each other's throats and ruining relationships on Facebook and everything. (Will that get better or worse after Tuesday?) I love reading people's gratitude posts, and I try to do them myself every year, even though I never seem to keep up with them. Today I am particularly aware of the small moments, the ordinary blessings, the things that require me to stop and breathe and be present in my life exactly where I am. Of course I am grateful for my children and my family and my job and all the pieces of the big picture; what shakes me out of my moods and fits of self-pity or grouchiness, though, are the moments like I had this morning. Chocolate chip pancakes, a surprise from my health-conscious husband. Fresh coffee. An extra hour in bed -- I didn't sleep for most of that, but the time was still such a gift. Going for a run in the cool morning air, crunching through wet leaves on the street. (This is my favorite time of year to run outside, when the weather is cool and wet, when I can run through piles of leaves, sweet-smelling dampness at my feet.) Nothing clears my head quite like a good run when I'd rather just stay home, and this morning I realized (again -- it's a lesson I keep learning, over and over) that the things that stress me out or turn me into a cranky mama are really just reminders of things for which I am grateful: The kitchen messes. The Legos carpeting the floor in the family room. The noise on Saturday morning. The balled-up socks that never seem to make it into the hamper. The sources? My greatest joys.
Sometimes grace just slaps you silly, doesn't it?
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