Lists

I am a list maker.  I've tried to avoid it, I even made it a resolution one year to eradicate all forms of lists from my life, thinking they were the source of my stressful and anxious desire to be "accomplished".  Sometimes, that is still true.  Though, I was reading through some of my old journal entries and quickly discovered that not all lists are bad.  Like the one that listed all the best pubs in Temple Bar, Dublin.  Or the one that began with, "Vegetables I would like to buy more of".  I still have yet to purchase an endive or celery root, but I still, months later, think it sounds like a good idea.  There are others like, "Things I will do before I turn 30," and "Top Ten Jobs that would be cooler than mine", but there is one list that struck me as perhaps one of the most important lists I may ever write. Though I'm quite positive it's not done, and may never be, that's the one I'll share with you today.

Things I Want my Daughter to both Know and Experience

I want my daughter to grow up in a home where God's presence is an active reality that makes up the center, loving core of her life ; not a distant, peripheral idea

I want her to be totally and completely appalled at how much her gross, old parents still love each other and kiss in the kitchen

I want her to be sensitive and aware of herself as a social, communal being; one who needs others and who is needed by others, as part of God's design.  I truly want her to love people- all kinds.

I want her to be fearless in her pursuits, knowing in whom her confidence and assurance comes from.  I would rather be up all night worrying about whether she'll get Malaria in Uganda than watch her suffer silently at home, too afraid to take chances.

I want her to live in a constant state of "awakeness", knowing that every decision she makes matters from where she purchases her food to who she defends on the lunch line or in court and that she could have a great influence on other's decisions as well.

I want her to see her flaws as beauty because they make her who she is; but know and understand fully that she is not perfect nor is she expected to be, and will make mistakes and even fail.  Often.

I want her to be conscious of the earth we were given and how we are to care for it.  I want her to appreciate it's beauty and be awed by creation; know that the land was given as a gift to build on, to cultivate and appreciate.

I want her to enjoy her life and live it abundantly- and love whatever she does with all she has and never hold back.

I want her to remember that her parents were young and dumb when they had her and did the best they could.  I want her to sift through all of the ways she will believe we have been unfair or unforgiving and know that it was all, truly and indefinitely because we love her.

Dick

What? Has someone hijacked my blog that is usually about useless musings, chronic complaints and family stories uninteresting to anyone other than myself( and maybe my mother, if she even reads it)? What is this profanity strewn carelessly in modern text across the title? The answer is much simpler and innocent than it appears.  In one word, it's my grandfather. Or, that's what people called him.  Behind his back.  No, just kidding. Maybe.

To clarify: my Pop-pop's name was Richard, and was called Dick for short- though I'm sure due to his knack for sarcasm and down-right rudeness on occasion, he may have earned his knick-name for entirely different reasons.  No matter how many character flaws he may have had ( and we all have them), as this is the first Christmas we'll be spending without his belly laugh, dirty jokes or the wiggle of his eyebrows I thought it only appropriate to remember him with words.

This Christmas I will miss his fart jokes, remember his love of peanut cookies, and how he'd razz my grandmother about inviting his girlfriend from the "home" to Christmas dinner.  I'll remember how he gave me my first beer- a Heineken around the campfire in New Hampshire when I was nine, how his shirt pockets always had root beer barrels and smelled faintly of the cigars he only smoked when my Nana wasn't around and how he taught me to run my hand down and not up the spine of a sunfish so that I didn't get stuck with the prickly fins when taking it off the hook.

We'll talk and laugh about how he fell in the lake and scared the fourteen year old dock boy enough to try and jump in save him- he, being 5'3 and 95 lbs soaking wet, my Pop-pop well over 6'1 and pushing a cool 300 lbs without the water.  Someone will tell stories of he and my Uncle Gir's escapades that we were never supposed to hear.  My sister and I will recall the sleep-overs when Pop-pop (who worked nights at A&P) would trample through the side door at 7 a.m. and eat two whole bowls of Honeycombs with a banana as a snack while Nana sizzled three eggs in bacon fat on the stovetop for his real breakfast before he went to bed. How he was the only man I ever met who kept the fridge in the basement well stocked with RC cola.

It was Pop-pop who taught me how to order a steak in fancy restaurant ( should be medium-rare, but I couldn't handle it until after he had passed.  He'd be proud of me now), how to gut a fish for dinner and how to mix a proper Bloody Mary.  It wasn't until after I was old enough to drink that I learned that only he could possibly drink his version of a "proper" Bloody Mary.  I learned how to crack open a lobster by his looming, crackling fingers and once spent 12 hours in the car with him on what should have been a 6 hour drive.  Life with Pop-pop was very experiential. He wasn't a "thing" guy, he was a "do" guy.  If nothing else,  I'd like to remember him for that.

Donny

It's Friday.  Which means I treat myself to our local cafe's egg sandwich on the way to work.  I ran in quickly ( I never put money in the meter) and my favorite waitress already had my tea ready as I waited at the counter.  And then, a familiar brown tweed at the counter began to speak.

"Are you a christian? I think you are.  I knew you were when I met you last. I knew you were a sister."

Remember a few posts ago when I outlined how my getting to work on time was deterred by a talkative alcoholic in need of a best friend?  Looks like he found one.  It appears as if I'll be meeting the elderly gentleman on Friday mornings for breakfast (me an egg and cheese sandwich and a black tea with milk, his preference whole wheat, buttered toast and a green tea) in which he will explain his undying affection for the Red Cross woman with the blue hair and I will get to marvel at how quickly he can speak and eat at the same time.

We may over look people and things God puts in our way the first time, but never- never the second.  There's no way around it. Donny and I are fated to be life-long friends.  And, I will never be on time for work ever again.  Especially if he doesn't get up the guts to ask blue-haired lady out this week.  Geesh.

Wanted: My Creativity

I've lost it.  It has officially been consumed by demanding A.P. students needing college recommendations. Squashed by the pile of dishes in the sink that have begun to waft unnatural odors through my living room doors.  Stifled by this growing child within me that seems to need every ounce of nutrition, energy, patience and sleep I come across on a daily basis.

I have no creativity.

I have not written anything that could even resemble a song, a poem, a chapter in one of the two novels that been in progress for two years now- even a haiku.  Nada.

I have alternated chicken and pasta for weeknight meals.  No Indian Biryani that once graced our table.  No homemade bread or almond torte or even hot chocolate from scratch.  Thank you, Swiss Miss.

I have not rearranged furniture.  Redecorated my bedroom.  Thought about patterns for the nursery.

In fact, it took me a disconcerting 20 minutes to write this minuscule, scattered post which is just another dismal reflection of my lack of creative juices.

Someone help me find it.  

Plight of the Pregnant

You know what I'm talking about.  I'm thinking about those beautiful pregnant woman you see in the windows of little yoga studios, barely sweating.  Barely showing.  The ones who have stock piled onesies in every color as soon as two little pink lines showed up on the strip.  The ones who eat fruit and yogurt for breakfast, take a nap and then meander over to the tea shop for a cup of decaffeinated green-jasmine, looking all pink and glowing and stunningly gorgeous and happy.

I hate them.

I hate them as I'm sitting at my desk in my empty classroom trying to cover my green pallor with blush.  I hate them as the cafeteria wafts distinctive smells that signify that it is somehow, yet again, chili-cheese dog day and praying that I will make it to the toilet at the end of the third wing in time to vomit for the umpteenth time in the last few days.  I hate them as my waistline expands into a strange, foreign blob that looks less like its harboring a child than a food baby.  I hate them because no one told me it could be miserable enough to count down the days until delivery...at just 16 weeks.

Well, I'm telling you now.  I hate being pregnant.  I love the idea of raising a family with my husband- the beautiful way God enabled me to provide for my child what I didn't have: a two parent household that is unified.  I love that our kid will be read to and sung to and cooked for and played with. I love that s/he'll have a home to come to, that God's promises are written all over our family.  But I hate this process.  I hate the hormones, I hate the crying, I hate the illness, I hate the weight gain, I hate the fatigue, I hate the pressure.  I also hate that I have the inability to utilize my once coveted tact- and be honest about everything.

So, dear, glowing, beautiful, tea-drinking, yoga participating mama-to-be, please don't take it personally. I just hate you right now.

I'm an Alcoholic

It was Friday morning at 7:04. I just dropped Rich off at the train station and was trying to calculate if I had enough time to run to CVS to get some Halloween candy to appease my students anger at having to write a book report on a Friday and make it to Rays (our favorite little cafe-hole-in-the-wall) for an egg sandwich to make up for my lack of breakfast.  I, bravely deciding that since I now have pregnancy superpowers, should certainly able to do both and still get to work on time.

If I were any other person, this would certainly be the case.  Alas, I am not any other person, thus, the following occurred.

I quickly ran inside, plunked my large bag down on the counter, ordered a small tea and an egg and cheese sandwich to go from my favorite waitress and proceeded to try and wrangle a bobby-pin into my bed-head when I heard a throat clearing right beside me.  I hadn't noticed that I had sat down right next to an older gentleman at the counter, staring at me over his plate of scrambled eggs.  Oh, no.  I thought.  This always happens to me.

For some reason, I am a lonely stranger magnet.  They seek me out wherever I am like infrared detectors. I hoped this morning would be different.  I don't have time this morning.  Please God, I don't have time this morning.

"I'm an alcoholic."

Here we go.

He smoothed his graying hair and fidgeted with his paper napkin.  Maybe he wasn't talking to me?

"I don't want to be one, you know."

Nope. He's looking right at me.  Of course he's looking right at me.

"I don't think anyone really wants to be one." I said gently and smiled.  Green light means go, to lonely strangers.  Hook. Line. Sinker.  I put my bag on the floor and took off my sweater.

I made it to work on time, in case you were wondering, just barely.  But not before I learned all about this man's life, his career, his poor choices, his failed marriage, his new interest in a woman who works at the red cross that he deemed "too wonderful for him" to be with.  Not before he told me all about how he went to church with her once and it made him feel so human he could hardly stand it and how she touched his shoulder with her hair accidently when they were holding the hymnal.  I told him before I left that I hoped it all worked for him, and he called after me that it probably won't.  But, then he smiled a little for the first time in the half hour we sat chatting together and I couldn't help but feel like this meeting was planned just so I could offer a bit of encouragement to a man in a dark place.

Who are you supposed to meet today?

Baby, Baby

I have not left my couch since Thursday evening.  You could make a mold of my butt from the deep indentation.  You'd also probably be able to tell what I've eaten over the last few days by the conspicuous cracker crumbs, tea stains, melted chocolate pieces and flecks of spinach littering the throw pillow.  This is so very unlike me and normally, this confession would make my cheeks burn with embarrassment over the state of my crumbling household.  However, when I was warned that pregnancy changes a person I didn't quite grasp the enormity of the situation.  Not until now.

I am, officially, 14 weeks pregnant.  The last time we spoke, I believe I was outlining parts of the grieving process that follow a miscarriage. I was amazed by God's goodness and that of his people during that time. Rich and I were able to recover so well from that experience, and then were even more surprised to discover that we were pregnant yet again directly after the loss of our first.   It was truly a  reminder that He brings beauty from ashes, joy from mourning.  However, through all of that, each pregnancy is different and thus began our journey with this little sprinkle... (the nickname given after discovering it was roughly the size of an ice cream jimmy when we realized we were pregnant once again).

Let me begin by saying that yes, we are excited but it took quite some time for the shock to wear off.  And then, the sickness came.  And left for a week.  And then came back worse than before.  Have you ever taught a room full of teenagers while trying to suppress the urge to vomit in the nearest garbage can? Every day?  Or having to deal with the feelings of worthlessness when I can't do all of the things I used to enjoy, like make a simple meal for my husband.  Go see a friend.  Read.  (Fine print makes me nauseous.  Awesome.)  It's been more than just a little adjusting on both of our parts.

I'm hoping during this next phase of pregnancy I'll get to experience the beauty, the joy and the energy that's supposed to decorate the second trimester.  Until then, I'll continue my toast and ramen noodle routine (with the occasional steak, cocktail shrimp, mashed potatoes and sauteed spinach I seem to crave when my face isn't in the toilet) and wait patiently for a better tomorrow.