I don't know if this will work or not... but here are some glacier pictures...
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2005371&l=5a6b1&id=1082162955
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
With Just One More Surprise
I was holding it together until Amanda's pure voice came from behind and Mary wept and i was surprised by the sadness i felt. the passion was finished the night before and then she came the next morning to find her friend gone. the emptiness was overwhelming for her and we just sat there wanting to go to her to tell her it's all going to be alright, and then He appeared. she called Him "Teacher." I've always wondered at that. Teacher. What exactly did He teach Mary then, and what did that moment teach us? Could it be that with the retelling of this passion that He continues to teach us just through story?
Flathead Lutheran Bible Camp. We went there, the four of us. My older daughter experiencing her first week of camp - the first time away from mom and dad for more than just a weekend spent with grandma. Our youngest just hung around with the two of us (joe and i) - she played mostly in the sandbox and went through outfits like mad. I spent most of the time observing the energy of that place. Gradeschool children to college graduates all mingling together in fellowship and fun. I think learning from each other. I kept thinking of the time that i was their age(s) - having that kind of energy. Now it seems that just watching made me tired... and that somehow i was no longer able to relate. Now i was that old person who was just there and perhaps a little in the way. I was the person that they dreaded becoming. Oh, man, i can't imagine being that old sort of thoughts.
We were talking about that one night in Hagen Hall and Steve said that "old" keeps changing for him... it was always about 15 years older than he currently is. But, he added that he doesn't find it too hard to imagine being 75 and thought maybe he should change his definition. I thought maybe i should try to come up with my own definition of "old." Basically because somehow I don't feel old and yet, somehow i do. I'm conflicted within myself.
So, i've been bumbling around with thought of story, and learning, and youth, and maturity, and haven't been really able to formulate any particular thoughts other then this:
I dont' ever want to be too old to learn from story telling.
I don't ever want to be too old to enjoy the energy of the younger generations.
I don't ever want to be too old to think of myself as unable to relate.
I don't ever want to be too old to be surprised.
What to do about this? Stay young? People have said that you're only as old as you think you are, or how you feel, or something like that... the only time i really feel old is when my knees don't want to carry me up that hill, or when i realize that i just can't run anymore, or when i realize that my parents are in their late 60's and early 70's and i remember when she was 29 and when he turned 40.
I feel young when i look around the church and see people who have been married for 60 years, when i play board games with my children, when i go to camp and can laugh and sing and clap my hands with praise. When i giggle at Justice Man man man. When i still get butterflies when my husband looks at me a certain way and grins. When i can't help but cry with Mary at the emptiness she faced. When i smiled at her surprise when she realized it was Him and when she called out "Teacher."
Maybe i just shouldn't worry about this. Maybe I should keep listening to stories, and keep telling my own. Maybe I should just take to heart that verse in I Was There To Hear Your Borning Cry... "In the middle ages of your life, not too old, no longer young, I'll be there to guide you throught the night, complete what I've begun. Whe the evening gently closes in and you shut your weary eyes, I'll be there as I have always been with just one more surprise..."
Flathead Lutheran Bible Camp. We went there, the four of us. My older daughter experiencing her first week of camp - the first time away from mom and dad for more than just a weekend spent with grandma. Our youngest just hung around with the two of us (joe and i) - she played mostly in the sandbox and went through outfits like mad. I spent most of the time observing the energy of that place. Gradeschool children to college graduates all mingling together in fellowship and fun. I think learning from each other. I kept thinking of the time that i was their age(s) - having that kind of energy. Now it seems that just watching made me tired... and that somehow i was no longer able to relate. Now i was that old person who was just there and perhaps a little in the way. I was the person that they dreaded becoming. Oh, man, i can't imagine being that old sort of thoughts.
We were talking about that one night in Hagen Hall and Steve said that "old" keeps changing for him... it was always about 15 years older than he currently is. But, he added that he doesn't find it too hard to imagine being 75 and thought maybe he should change his definition. I thought maybe i should try to come up with my own definition of "old." Basically because somehow I don't feel old and yet, somehow i do. I'm conflicted within myself.
So, i've been bumbling around with thought of story, and learning, and youth, and maturity, and haven't been really able to formulate any particular thoughts other then this:
I dont' ever want to be too old to learn from story telling.
I don't ever want to be too old to enjoy the energy of the younger generations.
I don't ever want to be too old to think of myself as unable to relate.
I don't ever want to be too old to be surprised.
What to do about this? Stay young? People have said that you're only as old as you think you are, or how you feel, or something like that... the only time i really feel old is when my knees don't want to carry me up that hill, or when i realize that i just can't run anymore, or when i realize that my parents are in their late 60's and early 70's and i remember when she was 29 and when he turned 40.
I feel young when i look around the church and see people who have been married for 60 years, when i play board games with my children, when i go to camp and can laugh and sing and clap my hands with praise. When i giggle at Justice Man man man. When i still get butterflies when my husband looks at me a certain way and grins. When i can't help but cry with Mary at the emptiness she faced. When i smiled at her surprise when she realized it was Him and when she called out "Teacher."
Maybe i just shouldn't worry about this. Maybe I should keep listening to stories, and keep telling my own. Maybe I should just take to heart that verse in I Was There To Hear Your Borning Cry... "In the middle ages of your life, not too old, no longer young, I'll be there to guide you throught the night, complete what I've begun. Whe the evening gently closes in and you shut your weary eyes, I'll be there as I have always been with just one more surprise..."
Friday, July 4, 2008
4th of July
Here in the valley the sound is deafening. surrounded by rogue fireworkers lighting incredible light shows that we catch a glimpse of here and there - some to our north, some directly above from some guys in the church parking lot next door, most to our west for the shows on Flathead Lake.
We spent the day a lot like we did in Clatskanie... we walked downtown, watched a small town parade (the highlight of said parade being a young boy wearing a superman outfit, strapped to the roof of a car at an angle, and in all seriousness holding out his arms as if flight. Second place, a man dressed as Marilyn Monroe), we hung out in the village for a while looking for some lunch (sat in the Wild Mile Deli for a while waiting for service which we never got), and then we came back home to get some relief from the heat. Took off later for a bbq with Art and Joy and Barbara, later standing on the porch with coffee we watched a HUGE thunderstorm on the horizon. We lit some sparklers for the girls, we drove home looking for fireworks to watch.... and now here i sit. Listening to the BOOMS echoing off the mountains and missing my old home town.
We try to make it seem as if we belong here and yet we really didn't know what to do with ourselves. We learned where NOT to stand for the parade, we learned where NOT to eat after the parade, we learned where firework displays might be showing but that the really good one starts at 11:00 which doesn't work for little girls who are dead tired and are asking to go to bed.
We used to know what to do. We'd make food at home, open our doors and welcome in any and every one, set up a chair or two in front of our house and watch the parade - bags filled with candy - clowns from Astoria, horses, firetrucks, logging trucks, and usually some old cars. We'd walk to the park, Joe would sing the national anthem, throw an axe or two, we'd go get lutheran pie and talk to everyone, walk back up to our house where people are sitting around on the lawn, on the porch, in our house, eating food, visiting, talking, and being together in a community of trust and familiarity. Later that night we'd carry a few chairs across the street, set up on the corner, and look a bit northwest for the one and only show in town - over the river. knowing that everyone else in town is looking at the same firework display and ooohhhing and aaaahhing in synchronicity
This is what i miss... i miss knowing what is expected. i miss the park full of old cars, the familiar faces that are slowing turning red in the heat. i miss people just showing up with a watermelon or a salad or chips and adding to the already full table full of party food. i miss just being myself, and being a hostess of sorts to the myriad of people that we came to know as our friends.
i realize that some 4th of July in the future we'll realize that we are at home, and we'll know what to do, and we will have some sort of tradition that we've been doing forever and all will be fine. I may still be sitting here in this same chair, listening to the booms... but i'll be ooohhhing and aahhhing with lots of other bigforkers, looking at different fireworks, in all sorts of directions, and i'll find that community of trust and familiarity.
i'm looking forward to that future synchronicity.
We spent the day a lot like we did in Clatskanie... we walked downtown, watched a small town parade (the highlight of said parade being a young boy wearing a superman outfit, strapped to the roof of a car at an angle, and in all seriousness holding out his arms as if flight. Second place, a man dressed as Marilyn Monroe), we hung out in the village for a while looking for some lunch (sat in the Wild Mile Deli for a while waiting for service which we never got), and then we came back home to get some relief from the heat. Took off later for a bbq with Art and Joy and Barbara, later standing on the porch with coffee we watched a HUGE thunderstorm on the horizon. We lit some sparklers for the girls, we drove home looking for fireworks to watch.... and now here i sit. Listening to the BOOMS echoing off the mountains and missing my old home town.
We try to make it seem as if we belong here and yet we really didn't know what to do with ourselves. We learned where NOT to stand for the parade, we learned where NOT to eat after the parade, we learned where firework displays might be showing but that the really good one starts at 11:00 which doesn't work for little girls who are dead tired and are asking to go to bed.
We used to know what to do. We'd make food at home, open our doors and welcome in any and every one, set up a chair or two in front of our house and watch the parade - bags filled with candy - clowns from Astoria, horses, firetrucks, logging trucks, and usually some old cars. We'd walk to the park, Joe would sing the national anthem, throw an axe or two, we'd go get lutheran pie and talk to everyone, walk back up to our house where people are sitting around on the lawn, on the porch, in our house, eating food, visiting, talking, and being together in a community of trust and familiarity. Later that night we'd carry a few chairs across the street, set up on the corner, and look a bit northwest for the one and only show in town - over the river. knowing that everyone else in town is looking at the same firework display and ooohhhing and aaaahhing in synchronicity
This is what i miss... i miss knowing what is expected. i miss the park full of old cars, the familiar faces that are slowing turning red in the heat. i miss people just showing up with a watermelon or a salad or chips and adding to the already full table full of party food. i miss just being myself, and being a hostess of sorts to the myriad of people that we came to know as our friends.
i realize that some 4th of July in the future we'll realize that we are at home, and we'll know what to do, and we will have some sort of tradition that we've been doing forever and all will be fine. I may still be sitting here in this same chair, listening to the booms... but i'll be ooohhhing and aahhhing with lots of other bigforkers, looking at different fireworks, in all sorts of directions, and i'll find that community of trust and familiarity.
i'm looking forward to that future synchronicity.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
kudos to chubby mommies
i'm concerned about that "by polar" watch thing. does the watch keep time one day and is really funny and runs a little fast, and then refuses to keep time the next day - and seems really depressed and angry? hmmmmm
i would so much join the chubby mommy running/fastwalking/srolling club if i lived any where near Bend. i have my own club though. there are two of us (although sometimes we are joined by Syble & Harry -- Harry is an Austrian guy who last lived in New Jersey - can you even HEAR that accent??)
Right now, Art and i walk every tuesday and thursday. Art is a non-working-at-the-time Episcopalian priest. his wife lives in the middle of nowhere in california somewhere cleaning teeth for the army or navy or something like that. they offer her a great amount of money for her teeth cleaning skills and keep her there away from her husband and the walking club. supposedly, someday, she will retire from this incredible job and she will join us in our unemployed walking.
Art is one of those people who truly makes me laugh. he is wonderfully irreverant and wholly holy holey. Art is in is 50's and i do believe that my husband might be a little jealous of my walking buddy. maybe i should be more honest here... it's more of a strolling club. there, i said it. we stroll along the river road mostly, and we talk about life in general sometimes in specifics. we laugh at stupid things, and feel uppity in our own little way of solving all of the world's messed up drama. Art is an ex-husband, ex-hippy, ex-surfer, and an ex-californian - and, he knows all about most everything regarding horses. he is a very interesting person and he buys me coffee before we go on our stroll. we are trying to convince ourselves to walk every day, but sometimes we end up going to breakfast at the Echo Lake Cafe instead of going on our stroll.
Joining the chubby mommy running club might be too much for me. i couldn't keep up with fawn, or mizinformation, and certainly not even miss julie.
(refer to http://chubbymommyrunningclub.blobspot.com for this making any sense at all!
I'm a little obsessed about this whole notion of walking and forming walking clubs because if left to my own devises, i would sit on my chubby butt and just write in my blog, or play scrabulous all day. essentially, i walk out of guilt. i walk because i want to be a good example for my girls. i walk because it's making my knees feel a little better. i walk because my puppy needs the exercise. i walk because i want to hear Art laugh. i walk because the beauty of that river draws me in. i walk because it's so intoxicating to smell the earth. Julie, if i lived in Bend i would join your club. i would stroll/walk/run/marathon with you, my friend. thanks for being an inspiration on many different levels.
i would so much join the chubby mommy running/fastwalking/srolling club if i lived any where near Bend. i have my own club though. there are two of us (although sometimes we are joined by Syble & Harry -- Harry is an Austrian guy who last lived in New Jersey - can you even HEAR that accent??)
Right now, Art and i walk every tuesday and thursday. Art is a non-working-at-the-time Episcopalian priest. his wife lives in the middle of nowhere in california somewhere cleaning teeth for the army or navy or something like that. they offer her a great amount of money for her teeth cleaning skills and keep her there away from her husband and the walking club. supposedly, someday, she will retire from this incredible job and she will join us in our unemployed walking.
Art is one of those people who truly makes me laugh. he is wonderfully irreverant and wholly holy holey. Art is in is 50's and i do believe that my husband might be a little jealous of my walking buddy. maybe i should be more honest here... it's more of a strolling club. there, i said it. we stroll along the river road mostly, and we talk about life in general sometimes in specifics. we laugh at stupid things, and feel uppity in our own little way of solving all of the world's messed up drama. Art is an ex-husband, ex-hippy, ex-surfer, and an ex-californian - and, he knows all about most everything regarding horses. he is a very interesting person and he buys me coffee before we go on our stroll. we are trying to convince ourselves to walk every day, but sometimes we end up going to breakfast at the Echo Lake Cafe instead of going on our stroll.
Joining the chubby mommy running club might be too much for me. i couldn't keep up with fawn, or mizinformation, and certainly not even miss julie.
(refer to http://chubbymommyrunningclub.blobspot.com for this making any sense at all!
I'm a little obsessed about this whole notion of walking and forming walking clubs because if left to my own devises, i would sit on my chubby butt and just write in my blog, or play scrabulous all day. essentially, i walk out of guilt. i walk because i want to be a good example for my girls. i walk because it's making my knees feel a little better. i walk because my puppy needs the exercise. i walk because i want to hear Art laugh. i walk because the beauty of that river draws me in. i walk because it's so intoxicating to smell the earth. Julie, if i lived in Bend i would join your club. i would stroll/walk/run/marathon with you, my friend. thanks for being an inspiration on many different levels.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Watching my girls grow up has been fascinating... there are so different:
Olivija:
quiet
introspective
mysterious
devoted
deliberate
cautious
dark haired/brown eyed
Sofie:
loud
gregarious - feigning shyness
extrovert
questioning
present
aware
blonde haired/blue eyed
and there's the question of motherhood...
Motherhood– the Good and the Bad
For years I was certain that I didn’t want to be a parent, because I had heard that we parent the same way we were parented. That scared the bejeezus out of me. There was
no way on God’s green earth that I was going to treat someone else the way I was treated. What would be the point? I was also concerned about bringing someone into this world of eco-destruction, pollution, war, guns, violence, pain, and confusion…how could I possibly
teach my children about nature, beauty, peace, forgiveness, serenity, wholeness, and grace without putting them in a bubble and not letting them experience this world? The thought of it was suffocating. But somewhere along the way my feelings changed. I craved some fresh air and I decided that my biological clock was stronger than the “how-could-I-parent-in-this-evil-world?” issue.
When that decision happened, the getting pregnant thing didn’t. Joe and I started right away and it took three to four years to get pregnant. After many tests, a few surgeries, a lot of pain, and a lot of luck, we were both pretty excited when I finally did get pregnant. I felt that it was a good thing, all doubts left me, everything was falling into place, and I was just beginning to feel that life inside me. I was thinking about nesting and what color I would paint the nursery. Everything was perfect and then, for some reason beyond our understanding, our baby that we worked so hard to conceive was born four months before she was due. I think the first three months of my motherhood experience was a joke…some horrible “test” that God decided Joe and Karina would be “strong enough to handle,” or that’s what some people tell me. The whole thing is now a blur except when I look back at pictures, letters, and notes. People tell me how we looked when they would visit us at the hospital: like death on wheels, in a different world, zombies. As for Joe and me, we were just waiting for our child to die. That’s what they told us would happen. All of the awkward expressions (“sorry,” “try again,” “this must be hard,” “why did this happen?”) and the constant social unawareness of people who would peep into her warming bed and exclaim under their breath “she’s soooooo small” were almost more than we could handle. People reacted in various ways—some too serious, some too goofy, some too chatty, some with silence, some with gifts, and some with invisibility. Not one person congratulated us on having a baby. Not one person. This was not motherhood…this was a test of trying to keep myself pulled together so that I wasn’t weeping uncontrollably for three solid months. And really, I was.
When we brought Olivija home, we were scared to death. It took a 24-hour constant stream of professionals to care for her just the day before, and now it was up to just me
and Joe? Right. Thank God for Olivija’s special nurse Ramona who came to our house that first weekend and blessed us with her presence. She made us coffee to drink and food to eat, and gave us help when we were too exhausted to sleep. With her help we figured we could do this. Olivija slept a lot and I just stared at her most of the day, every day. We didn’t take her out much because we were paranoid about her getting a cold and dying, or someone touching her without scrubbing their hands, or just the hassle of tubing, wires, and machines that monitored her breathing and heart beats. This was not motherhood…this was a feeling of complete incompetence—feeling incapable of feeding and caring for my own child.
Five years later…she lived and we didn’t drop her, or starve her, or drown her, or leave her in filthy diapers for more than 8 hours at a time. People are surprised when they see her because they still expect a sickly looking preemie to look back at them. She has a healing presence about her and she loves to “read.” She’s learning to tell jokes and they are awful and she belly laughs at her own humor. And I look at myself and I don’t see my parents. I look at the world around me and I see nature, beauty, peace, forgiveness, serenity, wholeness, and grace in most everything. I had forgotten that there is such a thing as a miracle. Now I can’t help but recognize that I live with one. This is my motherhood…this is a lesson in humility.
I struggle with my lack of patience when she wants me to read just one more book; to eat something other than what I have at hand; to blow bubbles and that would entail that I actually have to get out of my pajamas, get dressed, and go out in the yard; or to play with her doll house where she is the supreme ruler. (She is the supreme ruler of OUR house; she forgets that we were here first.) I struggle with having to get up at 3 a.m. because the dogs
down the road barked and woke her up and now she has to lay with momma and daddy because nothing else will appease her. I struggle with not having time to play golf without finding a babysitter and having the money to pay for both. I struggle with feeling that I am being selfish, self-absorbed, mean, unbending, and envious. Envious that she gets whatever she wants and all I really want is a good night’s sleep. That is the bad.
She has taught me about the mother bear in me and I CAN stand up for myself, and more so I can stand up for HER. She has taught me about patience and about counting to ten before saying something I might regret. She has taught me about the relationship of give and take and that children mostly take because they haven’t yet learned how to give…although, when I need to feel loved, she is right there giving with all her heart. Being Olivija’s mom has changed the way I look at everything. Nothing is the same--everything has changed. And because of this I read another book, I search the cupboards for something else that she is hungry for (or that I convince her she’s hungry for!), I go out in the yard in my pajamas and blow bubbles, I play doll house with her, and do whatever she wants me to do. Because of her goodness and her very being I get up at 3 a.m. and get mad at the dogs and not her. I have not, however, given up the idea that playing golf is possible—I just need to wait a few years until we can take her out and teach her how to play. She has kept me young and filled with hope. This is the good.
The issue of parenting how we were parented is still there…I fight that. I rely on Joe’s parenting techniques quite a bit, and we use his sister’s advice. Joe is a wonderful dad-– something that amazes me daily, because I personally have never seen it in my life. He will
be the one who will bring traditions and family vacations and things like that, of which I have no concept whatsoever. For that I am blessed. We so much want to have another child and I am afraid that it won’t happen—so I guess motherhood has left me craving more of it, I love being a mom, and love the changes that it has brought and continues to bring to my being. I am a better person because of Olivija, and she has become my breath of fresh air.
When Sofie came along we were just complete. Motherhood certainly took me by surprise... and i'm looking forward to the surprises that are yet to come.
Olivija:
quiet
introspective
mysterious
devoted
deliberate
cautious
dark haired/brown eyed
Sofie:
loud
gregarious - feigning shyness
extrovert
questioning
present
aware
blonde haired/blue eyed
and there's the question of motherhood...
Motherhood– the Good and the Bad
For years I was certain that I didn’t want to be a parent, because I had heard that we parent the same way we were parented. That scared the bejeezus out of me. There was
no way on God’s green earth that I was going to treat someone else the way I was treated. What would be the point? I was also concerned about bringing someone into this world of eco-destruction, pollution, war, guns, violence, pain, and confusion…how could I possibly
teach my children about nature, beauty, peace, forgiveness, serenity, wholeness, and grace without putting them in a bubble and not letting them experience this world? The thought of it was suffocating. But somewhere along the way my feelings changed. I craved some fresh air and I decided that my biological clock was stronger than the “how-could-I-parent-in-this-evil-world?” issue.
When that decision happened, the getting pregnant thing didn’t. Joe and I started right away and it took three to four years to get pregnant. After many tests, a few surgeries, a lot of pain, and a lot of luck, we were both pretty excited when I finally did get pregnant. I felt that it was a good thing, all doubts left me, everything was falling into place, and I was just beginning to feel that life inside me. I was thinking about nesting and what color I would paint the nursery. Everything was perfect and then, for some reason beyond our understanding, our baby that we worked so hard to conceive was born four months before she was due. I think the first three months of my motherhood experience was a joke…some horrible “test” that God decided Joe and Karina would be “strong enough to handle,” or that’s what some people tell me. The whole thing is now a blur except when I look back at pictures, letters, and notes. People tell me how we looked when they would visit us at the hospital: like death on wheels, in a different world, zombies. As for Joe and me, we were just waiting for our child to die. That’s what they told us would happen. All of the awkward expressions (“sorry,” “try again,” “this must be hard,” “why did this happen?”) and the constant social unawareness of people who would peep into her warming bed and exclaim under their breath “she’s soooooo small” were almost more than we could handle. People reacted in various ways—some too serious, some too goofy, some too chatty, some with silence, some with gifts, and some with invisibility. Not one person congratulated us on having a baby. Not one person. This was not motherhood…this was a test of trying to keep myself pulled together so that I wasn’t weeping uncontrollably for three solid months. And really, I was.
When we brought Olivija home, we were scared to death. It took a 24-hour constant stream of professionals to care for her just the day before, and now it was up to just me
and Joe? Right. Thank God for Olivija’s special nurse Ramona who came to our house that first weekend and blessed us with her presence. She made us coffee to drink and food to eat, and gave us help when we were too exhausted to sleep. With her help we figured we could do this. Olivija slept a lot and I just stared at her most of the day, every day. We didn’t take her out much because we were paranoid about her getting a cold and dying, or someone touching her without scrubbing their hands, or just the hassle of tubing, wires, and machines that monitored her breathing and heart beats. This was not motherhood…this was a feeling of complete incompetence—feeling incapable of feeding and caring for my own child.
Five years later…she lived and we didn’t drop her, or starve her, or drown her, or leave her in filthy diapers for more than 8 hours at a time. People are surprised when they see her because they still expect a sickly looking preemie to look back at them. She has a healing presence about her and she loves to “read.” She’s learning to tell jokes and they are awful and she belly laughs at her own humor. And I look at myself and I don’t see my parents. I look at the world around me and I see nature, beauty, peace, forgiveness, serenity, wholeness, and grace in most everything. I had forgotten that there is such a thing as a miracle. Now I can’t help but recognize that I live with one. This is my motherhood…this is a lesson in humility.
I struggle with my lack of patience when she wants me to read just one more book; to eat something other than what I have at hand; to blow bubbles and that would entail that I actually have to get out of my pajamas, get dressed, and go out in the yard; or to play with her doll house where she is the supreme ruler. (She is the supreme ruler of OUR house; she forgets that we were here first.) I struggle with having to get up at 3 a.m. because the dogs
down the road barked and woke her up and now she has to lay with momma and daddy because nothing else will appease her. I struggle with not having time to play golf without finding a babysitter and having the money to pay for both. I struggle with feeling that I am being selfish, self-absorbed, mean, unbending, and envious. Envious that she gets whatever she wants and all I really want is a good night’s sleep. That is the bad.
She has taught me about the mother bear in me and I CAN stand up for myself, and more so I can stand up for HER. She has taught me about patience and about counting to ten before saying something I might regret. She has taught me about the relationship of give and take and that children mostly take because they haven’t yet learned how to give…although, when I need to feel loved, she is right there giving with all her heart. Being Olivija’s mom has changed the way I look at everything. Nothing is the same--everything has changed. And because of this I read another book, I search the cupboards for something else that she is hungry for (or that I convince her she’s hungry for!), I go out in the yard in my pajamas and blow bubbles, I play doll house with her, and do whatever she wants me to do. Because of her goodness and her very being I get up at 3 a.m. and get mad at the dogs and not her. I have not, however, given up the idea that playing golf is possible—I just need to wait a few years until we can take her out and teach her how to play. She has kept me young and filled with hope. This is the good.
The issue of parenting how we were parented is still there…I fight that. I rely on Joe’s parenting techniques quite a bit, and we use his sister’s advice. Joe is a wonderful dad-– something that amazes me daily, because I personally have never seen it in my life. He will
be the one who will bring traditions and family vacations and things like that, of which I have no concept whatsoever. For that I am blessed. We so much want to have another child and I am afraid that it won’t happen—so I guess motherhood has left me craving more of it, I love being a mom, and love the changes that it has brought and continues to bring to my being. I am a better person because of Olivija, and she has become my breath of fresh air.
When Sofie came along we were just complete. Motherhood certainly took me by surprise... and i'm looking forward to the surprises that are yet to come.
Olivija’s Winter
There was a time in my life when the thought of having a baby wasn’t even in the scheme of things. It was unthinkable. Then I turned 30 and the dream became something like this: finish school, go to graduate school, get my doctorate degree, find a great job, get married, and get pregnant. A few years later I’d have 2.5 children (one boy and one girl), send them both and a half to college, retire in my dream house at the coast, have white or silver hair instead of mousy gray, and live happily ever after.
Some of those things happened. Just not in the order I planned. It happened like this: I finished my undergraduate degree, found a mediocre job, got married, got divorced, got married again, and after that the dream became a blur. I started my master’s degree, got pregnant after a series of medical procedures over several years, and then suddenly my life came to a complete stop on Saturday, December 5, 1998.
My husband, Joe, and I were planning to get a Christmas tree that day, but I was feeling really crummy. I had a lower backache most of the day and was feeling run down and tired. At about 9:00 p.m. we called my husband’s sister to ask her advice--she had become our source of pregnant motherhood tips, being the mother of two boys already. We told her about my ache and tiredness and she calmly told us that we should probably call my doctor and not her. Oh. So we did. After being told to drink a full glass of water, lie on my side, and watch the clock, we realized that the ache was fairly regular. Exactly six minutes apart. This couldn’t be right; I was only in my 23rd week of pregnancy. We raced to St. John’s Hospital, and my doctor happened to be on call that night. She poked and prodded a bit and told Joe to go home and pack a bag; I was on my way to OHSU. She started me on an IV of magnesium and quickly answered my question of “what is that for?” She informed me that the magnesium should help stop my labor. I’m in labor? Oh. She put me in an ambulance and an hour later I found myself in the Trendelenburg position in a very cold room. Joe showed up soon after that. We were both speechless in disbelief.
Part of the dream of having 2.5 kids was that I would have perfect pregnancies, gain minimal weight, walk around with a healthy glow, and pop them out perhaps with no drugs so that I would experience the true gift of motherhood. After the birth, the baby (a boy of course) would be placed on my belly and immediately latch on and suckle and my husband and I would look at each other and smile with pride and gratitude. That was the perfect plan, the dream.
On Monday, I sneezed and my water broke. Somehow my doctors remained calm and didn’t seem at all concerned. I remembered the stories of women whose water broke and within the hour had babies. Later I learned that didn’t usually happen. On Wednesday, December 9, around noon, I felt as if I was having gas cramps. Suddenly I was told I was in labor again. They pushed some needles in my back and told me to relax. Right. They wanted to prep me for an emergency c-section but when they took a look at the ultrasound they realized it was too late. The baby was already on the way. Twenty-five minutes later she came out breech--butt first. I had a quick glance at my child and then they took her away. Joe stood locked in the doorway, not knowing where to be. His eyes asked and I nodded at him to be with her. I was completely lost in grief. My anger boiled over in hot tears and I had no ready words. I had no way of knowing what they were doing, if she was alive, or if I would ever see her again. This was not part of the perfect plan.
Later I was taken in a wheelchair to the resuscitation room and there she was--arms and legs strapped to the table, tubes down her throat and coming out of her belly and arms--all one pound, seven ounces of her. This couldn’t have been my child; it didn’t make sense. Later in my room they told us she probably wouldn’t live. She was on the “edge of viability.” Nobody told us what that meant. We asked for a 1 percent chance of hope and they wouldn’t give it to us. After that I remember us falling together on a bed and weeping.
We didn’t want her to die alone so we chose to be by her side. We signed a DNR (do not resuscitate) because we didn’t want her to suffer. We waited and waited… she lived through that day and that night, and we felt blessed to have her for that one day. She continued to thrive all that first week and still we waited. We didn’t want to get our hopes up. At nine days old, they took her in for heart surgery. She weighed one pound, three ounces, and didn’t stand a chance of surviving the surgery. We waited again for the bad news, but somehow she made it through. And we felt blessed to have her for those nine days. We talked to her constantly about how strong she was, how if she got too tired it was okay with us if she had to go, how we would miss her and love her even still. We felt blessed that she was our child.
Week by week she struggled along. We watched her through the pneumothorax, the brain bleeds, the hourly taking of blood from her heel. Her eyes were fused shut and the flap of skin for an ear still stuck to her head, her skin so thin that bandages were painful. Her lungs were forced open and shut by a machine doing her breathing. We tried hard not to read the monitors, but to read her. Doctors told us that if she made it, she would probably be mentally challenged and maybe blind, deaf, unable to feed herself, or crippled. Still, if she made it, we knew we would do whatever we needed to because she was our child and we were blessed.
Three months we waited for the bad news--we were on a roller coaster the entire time. Then one day the doctor said “when you take her home…” and I thought to myself “wow, she said ‘when,’ not ‘if’!” It was then that I realized that Olivija Winter was a miracle. It didn’t matter what disabilities she might have, or what the future would bring. We would love her regardless because she was our blessing and our gift.
On March 5, 1999, we took Olivija home and my life began again. The plan that seemed so important before suddenly didn’t matter. My list of priorities was rearranged. There was no script to follow; there was no one certain road. Sure, I was able to finish my master’s degree, but I haven’t used it because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Someday I may go back and get my doctorate, but I have no idea what I would study. Someday I might have a great job--if I could possibly find one better than spending every day with my child. I did have another child (a girl again!) and she is as active as 1.5 children, so that idea came full circle on me. Someday I hope they both go to college. I still have the dream of the house at the coast and my hair is turning silver. We’ll see about the happily ever after!
Having Olivija was a life-altering, mind-bending, inexplicable, and mysterious event that took hold of my heart and soul and taught me the true meaning of grace. By no good deeds of my own and certainly nothing I deserved, I am blessed to spend every day with a beautiful, living, breathing, laughing, miracle of love.
There was a time in my life when the thought of having a baby wasn’t even in the scheme of things. It was unthinkable. Then I turned 30 and the dream became something like this: finish school, go to graduate school, get my doctorate degree, find a great job, get married, and get pregnant. A few years later I’d have 2.5 children (one boy and one girl), send them both and a half to college, retire in my dream house at the coast, have white or silver hair instead of mousy gray, and live happily ever after.
Some of those things happened. Just not in the order I planned. It happened like this: I finished my undergraduate degree, found a mediocre job, got married, got divorced, got married again, and after that the dream became a blur. I started my master’s degree, got pregnant after a series of medical procedures over several years, and then suddenly my life came to a complete stop on Saturday, December 5, 1998.
My husband, Joe, and I were planning to get a Christmas tree that day, but I was feeling really crummy. I had a lower backache most of the day and was feeling run down and tired. At about 9:00 p.m. we called my husband’s sister to ask her advice--she had become our source of pregnant motherhood tips, being the mother of two boys already. We told her about my ache and tiredness and she calmly told us that we should probably call my doctor and not her. Oh. So we did. After being told to drink a full glass of water, lie on my side, and watch the clock, we realized that the ache was fairly regular. Exactly six minutes apart. This couldn’t be right; I was only in my 23rd week of pregnancy. We raced to St. John’s Hospital, and my doctor happened to be on call that night. She poked and prodded a bit and told Joe to go home and pack a bag; I was on my way to OHSU. She started me on an IV of magnesium and quickly answered my question of “what is that for?” She informed me that the magnesium should help stop my labor. I’m in labor? Oh. She put me in an ambulance and an hour later I found myself in the Trendelenburg position in a very cold room. Joe showed up soon after that. We were both speechless in disbelief.
Part of the dream of having 2.5 kids was that I would have perfect pregnancies, gain minimal weight, walk around with a healthy glow, and pop them out perhaps with no drugs so that I would experience the true gift of motherhood. After the birth, the baby (a boy of course) would be placed on my belly and immediately latch on and suckle and my husband and I would look at each other and smile with pride and gratitude. That was the perfect plan, the dream.
On Monday, I sneezed and my water broke. Somehow my doctors remained calm and didn’t seem at all concerned. I remembered the stories of women whose water broke and within the hour had babies. Later I learned that didn’t usually happen. On Wednesday, December 9, around noon, I felt as if I was having gas cramps. Suddenly I was told I was in labor again. They pushed some needles in my back and told me to relax. Right. They wanted to prep me for an emergency c-section but when they took a look at the ultrasound they realized it was too late. The baby was already on the way. Twenty-five minutes later she came out breech--butt first. I had a quick glance at my child and then they took her away. Joe stood locked in the doorway, not knowing where to be. His eyes asked and I nodded at him to be with her. I was completely lost in grief. My anger boiled over in hot tears and I had no ready words. I had no way of knowing what they were doing, if she was alive, or if I would ever see her again. This was not part of the perfect plan.
Later I was taken in a wheelchair to the resuscitation room and there she was--arms and legs strapped to the table, tubes down her throat and coming out of her belly and arms--all one pound, seven ounces of her. This couldn’t have been my child; it didn’t make sense. Later in my room they told us she probably wouldn’t live. She was on the “edge of viability.” Nobody told us what that meant. We asked for a 1 percent chance of hope and they wouldn’t give it to us. After that I remember us falling together on a bed and weeping.
We didn’t want her to die alone so we chose to be by her side. We signed a DNR (do not resuscitate) because we didn’t want her to suffer. We waited and waited… she lived through that day and that night, and we felt blessed to have her for that one day. She continued to thrive all that first week and still we waited. We didn’t want to get our hopes up. At nine days old, they took her in for heart surgery. She weighed one pound, three ounces, and didn’t stand a chance of surviving the surgery. We waited again for the bad news, but somehow she made it through. And we felt blessed to have her for those nine days. We talked to her constantly about how strong she was, how if she got too tired it was okay with us if she had to go, how we would miss her and love her even still. We felt blessed that she was our child.
Week by week she struggled along. We watched her through the pneumothorax, the brain bleeds, the hourly taking of blood from her heel. Her eyes were fused shut and the flap of skin for an ear still stuck to her head, her skin so thin that bandages were painful. Her lungs were forced open and shut by a machine doing her breathing. We tried hard not to read the monitors, but to read her. Doctors told us that if she made it, she would probably be mentally challenged and maybe blind, deaf, unable to feed herself, or crippled. Still, if she made it, we knew we would do whatever we needed to because she was our child and we were blessed.
Three months we waited for the bad news--we were on a roller coaster the entire time. Then one day the doctor said “when you take her home…” and I thought to myself “wow, she said ‘when,’ not ‘if’!” It was then that I realized that Olivija Winter was a miracle. It didn’t matter what disabilities she might have, or what the future would bring. We would love her regardless because she was our blessing and our gift.
On March 5, 1999, we took Olivija home and my life began again. The plan that seemed so important before suddenly didn’t matter. My list of priorities was rearranged. There was no script to follow; there was no one certain road. Sure, I was able to finish my master’s degree, but I haven’t used it because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Someday I may go back and get my doctorate, but I have no idea what I would study. Someday I might have a great job--if I could possibly find one better than spending every day with my child. I did have another child (a girl again!) and she is as active as 1.5 children, so that idea came full circle on me. Someday I hope they both go to college. I still have the dream of the house at the coast and my hair is turning silver. We’ll see about the happily ever after!
Having Olivija was a life-altering, mind-bending, inexplicable, and mysterious event that took hold of my heart and soul and taught me the true meaning of grace. By no good deeds of my own and certainly nothing I deserved, I am blessed to spend every day with a beautiful, living, breathing, laughing, miracle of love.
Blog Block
That part of me that really wants to be a writer is suffering greatly. Clearly, that part of me needs to connect to my brain, and to my fingers and transfer itself into letters, words, paragraphs... something to read. maybe even something that would MEAN something.
But, alas, i have blog block. There are times that i feel OH, I should write this down, when my brain has a thought. Usually there is no computer near by as i'm either walking the river road, or driving down Lower Valley Road...
Driving home from Kaitlyns house - almost sunset, around 9:00 p.m. - summer finally got here and dinner was fine. I was listening to my ipod, the folk genre mix... mostly a lot of Bruce and other folks that fill my soul. Driving down lower valley road at an incredibly slow pace just gulping in the beauty of this place. Bald eagle startled me out of my trance - swooped in front of my car, banked just in time up and to the right and then straight up. He leveled and followed along just coasting, soaring, and then banked left up and over me and settled into a wheat field. How their wings just stop gravity and they land so softly. It made me feel so heavy and clumsy, and completely earth bound. and so we are. earth bound.
I felt a little better when i happened upon the deer. she was earthbound too... i startled her out of her trance. she popped up out of the grazing strance, tension filled her legs, eyes darting, alert. She watched as i crept by her, slowing all the while to take in her beauty, her stature. She was majestic, small yet powerful, sinewy. I don't think she was afraid of me... but who knows.
I made the turn on the cut across highway, heading for Bigfork. in front of me the mountains hanging on to the last bit of snow, trails of it melting down and filling up the Flathead. To my left, up North, i could see the not-so far off peaks of Glacier National Park and to my right the mountain ranges - the Swan and Bob Marshall - meandering down to the horizon, tiny hills finally, flattening out and smoothing into prairie.
I never thought that this valley would touch me the way that it has. My friend Art and I call it Oh My God Beautiful. Everywhere you look you just think that - oh my god, it's so beautiful.
There is no place else that i would rather be right now. I feel at home. it's been a long time since i've felt that. home. and if it has to include feeling earth bound i'll be more than happy to be bound to this part of the earth.
Friday, April 18, 2008
525,600 minutes
just watched "Rent" and am speechless. wordless, i guess. i suppose i'll have to sleep on all the things about love, poverty, sexuality, acceptance, addiction, HIV/AIDS, losing your way, finding it again... and not much at all about paying rent. i don't want to write a movie review so i won't.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Blessed is She
I have this friend. she's one of those persons that you don't ever remember actually meeting, she's just always been a part of your life. she's that person that is always available just when you need something, or someone to make your life bearable. she's that person who can make you cry with laughter over terrible body humor. she is spirited. she's that person who can be honest with you because she really doesn't know how to be insincere. she is kind. she is beautiful. she can do anything she wants. she is passionate about her family - to a fault. she is patient. she is noble. she is strong. she's that person who can endure.
i worry about her however, because as much as she takes care of everyone around her, she doesn't seem to know how to take care of her own needs. i can tell you what she needs... she needs to spend some time with herself. she needs to take a drive to somewhere she loves with the music blaring and nothing to take her attention. she needs to have a massage. she needs to be pampered. she needs to have someone tell her how much she is appreciated. she needs to sleep in and not worry about a thing if she does. she needs to look in the mirror and recognize all that i see in her.
and then i wonder if she'll ever recognize that beauty in herself. i wonder if she'll ever feel worthy. i wonder if she'll ever feel the love that she deserves. i wonder if the people that surround her will make this happen, or if they will let her go on the way it is and she'll lose a part of herself in the dailiness of life.
if those beatitudes are truth, my friend will inherit much more than the earth.
blessed is she. blessed is she. blessed is she.
i worry about her however, because as much as she takes care of everyone around her, she doesn't seem to know how to take care of her own needs. i can tell you what she needs... she needs to spend some time with herself. she needs to take a drive to somewhere she loves with the music blaring and nothing to take her attention. she needs to have a massage. she needs to be pampered. she needs to have someone tell her how much she is appreciated. she needs to sleep in and not worry about a thing if she does. she needs to look in the mirror and recognize all that i see in her.
and then i wonder if she'll ever recognize that beauty in herself. i wonder if she'll ever feel worthy. i wonder if she'll ever feel the love that she deserves. i wonder if the people that surround her will make this happen, or if they will let her go on the way it is and she'll lose a part of herself in the dailiness of life.
if those beatitudes are truth, my friend will inherit much more than the earth.
blessed is she. blessed is she. blessed is she.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Spring Tease / Vocation
sitting here looking at the blue montana sky. yesterday it was black and snow was falling here and there off and on. today it's supposed to be warmer - wow, up to 44.2 degrees. my family is napping, my lap is warm from this computer, my dog is at my feet, all should be wonderful, right?
maybe all is wonderful but i'm having a hard time recognizing all the wonderfulness that happens in my bigforker little world. we're making some friends, losing touch with old friends. we're feeling at home finally. i'm feeling as if i need to find a job but have vocation issues.
visions for my future:
find a job that finds me
make enough to get out of spiral
make more than enough to stop the worry
a nomination to what not to wear after the massive weight loss
friendships that span the time and distance of my right now... wait, i already have that.
the winter is almost over and cabin fever is coming to an end. what will i do with this Spring? there is more than enough time to get things done and yet my closets are still full of winter boots, hats, gloves, snowpants (you're one up on me juliejulie) and long underwear. so, i suppose that means i'm still frozen. it's way past time to thaw out... and yet, here i sit, looking out at the blue montana sky.
maybe all is wonderful but i'm having a hard time recognizing all the wonderfulness that happens in my bigforker little world. we're making some friends, losing touch with old friends. we're feeling at home finally. i'm feeling as if i need to find a job but have vocation issues.
visions for my future:
find a job that finds me
make enough to get out of spiral
make more than enough to stop the worry
a nomination to what not to wear after the massive weight loss
friendships that span the time and distance of my right now... wait, i already have that.
the winter is almost over and cabin fever is coming to an end. what will i do with this Spring? there is more than enough time to get things done and yet my closets are still full of winter boots, hats, gloves, snowpants (you're one up on me juliejulie) and long underwear. so, i suppose that means i'm still frozen. it's way past time to thaw out... and yet, here i sit, looking out at the blue montana sky.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Puppy Love
so we have this new puppy - Sadie - couldn't help it when we went to the pound just to "look" and next thing you know i'm up at 2:30 am taking her outside to pee. the whining was incessant. i believe that puppies are so damn cute it makes up for the whining and the messes on the floor when we aren't paying attention. somewhat like babies. at least with babies you have a few months to prepare.
we went from the pound directly to the feed store for a crate, a feeding bowl, two dog toys, and a leash. we cleaned up her barf on aisle 5. and took her home. $150 later. she is pretty damn cute.
i tried really hard not to get mad at Sadie last night. i'm sure she's missing her sister (we almost took her home too) and i know she has some abandonment issues from being left in the box in a park in downtown Kalispell... that's gotta be hard on her little pup psyche. but why take it out on us, her saviors, the ones to give her food and love and cuddles? how ungrateful. but, oh, now she's lying on my feet as i write this - curled up in a ball, fast asleep. she is pretty damn cute.
i'm thinking that in God's eyes we must look like a bunch of puppies... we just have to. He wanders into earth, and just can't help Himself... He supplies us with all the stuff we need, He feeds us, He understands our abandonment issues, so He puts up with our messes and our ungratefulness and deeply sighs when we curl up in a ball on His huge heavenly feet.
it's a good thing we're pretty damn cute.
we went from the pound directly to the feed store for a crate, a feeding bowl, two dog toys, and a leash. we cleaned up her barf on aisle 5. and took her home. $150 later. she is pretty damn cute.
i tried really hard not to get mad at Sadie last night. i'm sure she's missing her sister (we almost took her home too) and i know she has some abandonment issues from being left in the box in a park in downtown Kalispell... that's gotta be hard on her little pup psyche. but why take it out on us, her saviors, the ones to give her food and love and cuddles? how ungrateful. but, oh, now she's lying on my feet as i write this - curled up in a ball, fast asleep. she is pretty damn cute.
i'm thinking that in God's eyes we must look like a bunch of puppies... we just have to. He wanders into earth, and just can't help Himself... He supplies us with all the stuff we need, He feeds us, He understands our abandonment issues, so He puts up with our messes and our ungratefulness and deeply sighs when we curl up in a ball on His huge heavenly feet.
it's a good thing we're pretty damn cute.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
In response to Heavenly Chocolate Frosting
I suppose that if one doesn't go to church there still has to be a way to make sense of what happens to us when we die. Thinking that the afterlife would contain the perfect Chocolate Frosting is a good start. I believe that with all that sweetness there should be some salt as well... maybe some cheddar sour cream Ripples, or honey roasted almonds.
Heaven for others may be some home made oatmeal bread fresh out of the oven and smothered with butter. My youngest was full of dinner when i brought out the bread. She then begged for a piece. I asked her if she was full or not. She said "I'm full of THIS" (pointing at what was left of her dinner), but never full enough for fresh warm bread for "dessert." That's my youngest. She is just like her dad.
My eldest, however, would have a different version of heaven. Not that she doesn't like chocolate frosting, cheddar sour cream Ripples, honey roasted almonds, or fresh baked bread. But, she would be in eternity happily munching on carrots, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and apples. It's simple. There is nothing fancy about her - no cooking, no lists of ingredients, no mixing until smooth and creamy, no waiting.
Heaven for me is not having to make everyone else's perfect food.
I do go to church and the thought there is that food won't matter. HA! I can't imagine. The thought is that we will have no hunger (as if food has anything to do with that), that we will have no fear, we will know no coldness, or discomfort, that we will be connected to God and will have no needs. I suppose this is good--especially considering the alternative. yes, the possibly man-made scare tactic of h. e. double toothpicks. THERE, it would be liver, burnt toast, and undercooked chicken thighs.
Heaven for others may be some home made oatmeal bread fresh out of the oven and smothered with butter. My youngest was full of dinner when i brought out the bread. She then begged for a piece. I asked her if she was full or not. She said "I'm full of THIS" (pointing at what was left of her dinner), but never full enough for fresh warm bread for "dessert." That's my youngest. She is just like her dad.
My eldest, however, would have a different version of heaven. Not that she doesn't like chocolate frosting, cheddar sour cream Ripples, honey roasted almonds, or fresh baked bread. But, she would be in eternity happily munching on carrots, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and apples. It's simple. There is nothing fancy about her - no cooking, no lists of ingredients, no mixing until smooth and creamy, no waiting.
Heaven for me is not having to make everyone else's perfect food.
I do go to church and the thought there is that food won't matter. HA! I can't imagine. The thought is that we will have no hunger (as if food has anything to do with that), that we will have no fear, we will know no coldness, or discomfort, that we will be connected to God and will have no needs. I suppose this is good--especially considering the alternative. yes, the possibly man-made scare tactic of h. e. double toothpicks. THERE, it would be liver, burnt toast, and undercooked chicken thighs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
