the love of a father

"on behalf of every man looking out for every girl

you are the god and the weight of her world

so fathers be good to your daughters

daughters will love like you do"

john mayer - 'daughter' lyrics

i have a friend [or two] with whom i share the silent bond of growing up fatherless. it isn’t something we discuss at great length. issues of abandonment – like everything else – simply become an unspoken part of who we are. a part of our identity that – in adulthood – doesn’t necessitate verbal elaboration. (well, not outside of therapy, anyway.) that said, there are times when discussing eerily similar aspects of our personal lives, I have to pause and blurt out (in my best Johnny Olson impression): “[Insert Name]! C’mon down! You’re the next contestant on…. 'Our Daddies Didn’t Love Us'!” And just like that, any repressed pangs of abandonment are washed away by our tears of hysterical laughter.

the last time this happened, once the laughter subsided, i started thinking more about that common thread among us and the similar ways in which it has weaved itself into and through our lives. i thought about my own daughter, who i watch in awe with her daddy – knowing her love for him is something that i am incapable of ever truly understanding. i study them – not with a self-pitying remorse – but observational intrigue. parenting is a strangely vicarious path, paved with familiar milestones. one generation removed, we relive and revisit most with joy, others with bittersweet sadness. but this – my little girl and her daddy – this is unfamiliar territory for me. unchartered waters. a lifetime of witnessing from afar, i now live in the midst of a little girl basking in her father’s love. i am merely an observer – looking in. i can only feel the warm glow. i can see everything that is on the surface, but know nothing of what runs so deeply beneath.

i am not equipped to theorize about what a father’s love is exactly or what it evokes in the heart of a daughter. i can only speculate about what her little heart and mind are taking in… and i am desperately trying to learn along with her the lessons of life and of love that run so deeply between a father and a daughter: learning to accept love. learning to give love. learning to love without fear. learning to trust. learning to rest in the peaceful security of embrace.

what is already a part of intrinsic emotional aptitude for my daughter, remains – for me – an area grave debilitation - and inevitably, devastation. without a father – or father figure - my sole model of giving and receiving love [with a man] were consequently derived from my own personal montage of familial television and movie clips, pieced together with Norman Rockwell paintings. as a result, my relationships with men have been extraordinarily messy, even – if not especially – with my heavenly father, who’s unconditional love i repeatedly rebel against.

i blindly felt my way into adulthood - and into marriage - with my mind, but not my heart. i knew from years of afar studying everything about what it was supposed to look like, what i wanted it to look like, but knew nothing of how it felt… or how to feel it. grasping and groping in darkness... stumbling and invariably, falling. hard.

i live with the constant fear and anxiety that i will somehow end up – ultimately – as a failure to my children. i pray – often – that the Lord will supernaturally instill a hedge of protection, guarding them from the “I’s” in my life: inadequacies; inconsistencies; indecisiveness. And i’m constantly reminded that it is our love for them and our time with them that matters most. since i’m home on fridays, we call them “fun fridays”. (i’m always scheming up something for us to go and do and see. i still let them choose, but i always have options for them.) recently, chloe asked, “mommy, can we just stay home all day today?”. of course we can. i hug her tight. i see so much of myself in her – “only better”, i think to myself, "less damaged". and when she’s giving her “squeezy, kissy” daddy one of her signature “squeezy, kissy” hugs, i silently thank God she’ll never have to hear, “Chloe! C’mon Down!….”

frugality 101

i'm not usually one to brag about frugality since - well, let's face it - i'm sort of a novice at the whole frugality thing, but i do love a bargain and despite my frivolous spending, i love bargain shopping! tonight, i just might have redefined the phrase 'dressing for less'. we had tickets to the fabulous fairy tale ball and since that required fancy head-to-toe attire for the prince and princess of the family, the queen needed to budget accordingly. my outfit set me back a total of thirty two dollars and thirty five cents. that's right, grand total: $32.35 ! i landed this $168 black halter donna ricco (new with tags, no less) on ebay for $9.99 and the strappy heels on clearance at rack room for 15 bucks. so while my budgeting skills are improving, i cannot say the same for my time management skills (read: procrastination) as this outfit literally came together today. i found the shoes by fluke this afternoon and the dress arrived via USPS priority mail at 3 p.m. - literally, an hour before i had to put it on.

oh, and speaking of the prince and princess, here they are in their "our shoes cost more than mommy's whole outifit" pose:

thirty-two.

vintage birthday circa 1988:

i'm thirtyfreakingtwo today. i don't have a lot to say about it, but i will say that i look a helluva lot better than i did twenty years ago and you're looking at a fine piece of photographic evidentiary support to back it up.

for those of you who know my sister, twig, that's her on the far left. and my now- twenty-one-year-old brother next to her in christy's lap. there are so many hilarious things going on in here, but sadly, all i can think to ask is, "mother, would it have killed you to take your daughter to the salon?". gee. zuz. i mean, i know we didn't have a lot of money and all, but i'd have to think that even the girl at the local head start could've done something. anything. i needed a trip to the salon much worse than whatever was in that big floral wrapped box. christy and i have long debated over which is worse - her femme mullet or my stringy mop.

instead of complaining or wallowing in self-pity about delving even further into thirtyhood, i think i'll divert from the ordinary, take a road less traveled and just say that i am [more than] well aware of the tremendous blessings in my life. i still spend every birthday the same way i did back when i was twelve: surrounded by really great friends. the faces in the photographs change (with the exception of my sister, who has no choice in the matter), but they are all friends with whom i laugh until i cry and instead of slumber parties, we have beach trips. i have two beautiful children who are truly the little apples of my eyes, a wonderful family, a really generous part-time job, a roof over my head, food on the table, health and happiness. i could go on and on. all my other rambling blogs can be taken with a big ole grain of proverbial salt, because deep down, i know... i really know... that my life is - despite the wierdness, the hurts, the regrets, the unpacked baggage, the experiences, the tragedies - my life is, at it's core, really beautiful. i'd be a liar if i said there weren't things that i would change if i could go back, but there is nothing i would change about this moment at thirtyfreakingtwo.

postcard from adulthood

if there were ever a literal, legitimate postcard from my adulthood, this would undoubtedly be it. i have never seen a more accurate depiction of myself in the throes [read: wilderness] of adulthood... or life in general. oh, if only i had more time to blog and elaborate on the innumerable allegorical parallels and also photoshop my head into this little cartoonic (if thats not a word it should be) jewel.... . but i digress. more often than not, i find myself pressing three, when in fact, i should be pressing one or two - either of which in my case - speed dial Jesus directly.

greetings from adulthood.

civility

rick warren: "we have to learn to disagree without demonizing one another. we have to restore civility." amen.

families are like fudge... or is it fondue?

our motley crew

my mom (second from left) is leaving for europe in a few days, so we all gathered for dinner tonight to celebrate my upcoming birthday. my mom always gives me the sweetest cards which only aid in my joking that i am the most beloved of all the girls. so, i opened my birthday card from mom and it was one of those typically sweet mother/daughter cards with little sectional blurbs spaced around a floral motif with little hearts on the cover. each section describing lovely attributes of the daughter (me) from the mother's perspective, i get to the second blurb and it states: "who is wise beyond her years". i paused, darting my eyes suspiciously at my mom who has that look on her face. it's the same look she has when she's up to something or trying not to give something away. (am i being punkd?) i am a lot of things, but wise beyond my years ain't one of them. i read it out loud to provoke a response [read: laughter] from everyone else, looked directly at my mom and said, "what? was this the last card left in the 'birthday for daughter' section?". i reluctantly read the rest of the card, which had a few more accurate blurbs, then reread the "wise beyond her years" blurb out loud again so we could all have another laugh. "seriously, mom, you know that's a load of crap". i theorize out loud that perhaps it was leftover from one of the other girls' birthdays. you know, maybe she accidentally bought two for desiree or just pulled the wrong one out of her card keeper. maybe this is carol's card and come december, carol's going to get mine - the one that doesn't allude to profound wisdom. we all jokingly hypothesize about the possible reasons and scenarious that could've led to my mother giving me this card. "well..." she finally confesses, "i didn't pick it out." i'm gasping in contrived horror as carol starts chiming in about how they were at the store earlier today, mother was picking up something else, emma was interrupting and they were pressed for time, yadayadayada. [aha. and just like that, the truth comes out.] hilarious. second most hilarious was the card from my sister which had a fancy, dolled-up cartoon monkey sashaying on the front and two other monkeys onlooking, one saying to the other: "look at miss fancypants in her dolce and banana". emma's die cut sponge bob comes in a close third. :) we had a fabulous time and after the smorgasborg, each felt like templeton after the fair.

there is an adorable saying that: "families are like fudge: mostly sweet with a few nuts". i don't know who originated this particular phrase, but had they met my family, they would've likely chosen to forgo fudge altogether and expand on the analogy of nuts. it's funny how the things i once found completely mortifying about my family during childhood and adolescence, i find endearing in adulthood.

it seems with each step i take on the path through adulthood, the more compassion and understanding i have for those who have trekked before me. i began this journey with such blind indignation, convinced that i would do things differently and by differently, i mean perfectly. i didn't know exactly what this meant, of course, but that wouldn't stop my futile pursuit of idealistic normalcy. admittedly, i spent entirely too much time and energy compiling the exterior of my life and not enough... okay, zero... time on the interior. much like building a house on proverbial sand. or really, much more like the buildings that line the streets of universal studios in orlando. i have a photo of myself sitting on the front steps of one of them. it appears to be a brownstone building, strikingly similar to the one that the huxtables lived in on the cosby show. the front has all of the architectural and three dimensional details. looking at the photo - even sitting on the staircase - there is no indication that it's only a beautiful facade.

when cardboard shards fell down around me, i was exposed and vulnerable. i desperately needed to be loved for who i was - or perhaps, in spite of who i had been. only family can fulfill such obligation and i knew, i had to learn to do the same. coming to terms with my own [plethora] of imperfections made it easier - not to simply accept the imperfections of others or love in spite of them - but to love because of them; to love for who they are. exactly the way they are. that is the essence of family. and also of unconditional love.

our experiences. our regrets. our triumphs. our failures. in the life of a family, they become ingredients poured into our own unique communal melting pot. like fondue. much more like fondue than fudge.

solitude. aisle ten.

at least weekly, i escape to a strange and beautiful place where, once i enter in the shiny automatic dual sliding doors, a seemingly magical burst of fresh cool cold air washes across my face, rustling my hair. then, silence. everything pauses. even the hands on my watch come to a halt. i have to stand still and take this in this moment of arrival. i breathe in the fresh cool air and invariably, i hear a voice: "welcome to wal-mart".

"thank you!". i smile. i'm genuinely elated to be here. what is an inconvenience to others is a treasured luxury for me. it's usually dark outside when i arrive. the crowds have dispersed and when i enter in this massive warehouse-like structure there is an eery silence that yields to peaceful tranquility.

i haven't come here to actually purchase anything, yet i've already selected my over sized, androgynous gray cart. ready to begin my odyssey of aimless perusing. i have nearly perfected this peculiar, methodical ritual of filling my cart with random and utterly useless items that i find along the way. i scour the shelves and wracks like a seasoned treasure hunter.

indeterminable amounts of time pass. inevitably, i become weary. from walking. from pushing. from searching. the weariness gives way to an awareness of time and consequently, money. i realize that this escapade of mine doesn't come cheaply. glancing at my cart full of - for lack of a better word - crap - i realize that these precious moments of solitude are costing me, on average, at least fifty bucks an hour. i'm no mathematical genius, but i know that's more than i make. awareness has now given way to reality. i have to put something back. no. i have to put several things back; and thus begins the mental conundrum. it's true what they say about commitment phobia - it isn't exclusive to relationships - it can cause the most mundane of decisions to be agonizing. (do i keep the floral plastic tote or v-neck tee?) it doesn't matter that i have five variations of each at home or that neither are in any danger of selling out before next week.

i push the cart around aimlessly, futilely rationalizing and debating with myself. i travel from one side of the store to the other, working the aisles like a rat in a maze, pausing only at the price checker. solitude officially over. i want to flee, abandoning the cart - useless clearance crap and all. but i flee to the register instead where, despite whatever i have painstakingly chosen return, i already feel pangs of remorse and disappointment, which only grow stronger when i see the total.

"i'm never coming back", i think to myself as i'm rolling the cart away. and i won't. until next week. or until parker runs out of lightning mcqueen pull-ups. whichever comes first. :)

west bank muslim turns west coast christian.

alternately titled: um, wow...

Son of Hamas Leader Turns Back on Islam and Embraces Christianity.
"The story of how his life unfolded is truly amazing, whether you agree or disagree with his views. "

CLICK HERE TO READ ARTICLE.

befitting a name.

\ch-loe\KLOH-ee

when i was perusing baby names during my first pregnancy, i kept coming back to chloe. i just liked the sound of it. i liked it even more when i read that it is derived from a greek term that symbolizes "blooming". so perhaps it is somewhat of a prophetic irony that the botanic definition of precociousness is similar: "blossoming before the appearance of leaves" - which describe chloe's mental aptitude to a tee.

this child/clone of mine has already firmed up her choice of halloween attire [mermaid], began the process of compiling her christmas wish list and is already contemplating the venue for her next birthday party.

the christmas list hangs on its designated magnet on the side of the refrigerator. easily accessible so that she can reach it and bring it to me as needed. despite her inability to read, she pauses to inspect each time she passes, as if to ensure that i have not omitted or forgotten to add an item. to date - the list includes a set of pixos - of which i get reminded every time the dreaded commercial is on - a remote controlled helicopter, an art set and a roller coaster. i mentioned this last one to chris the other day in front of her and he says, "a roller coaster? wow, chloe, that's a really large gift. what kind of roller coaster do you want?". she looks at him, incredulously, tilting her head to one side and then replies with all the snarkiness of a tween, "daddy, you know what kind i want. a pink one!".

*sigh*. she is, undoubtedly, her mother's child, which - on one hand - is humorous. but on the other hand, oh the other hand... it is shaking with terror. admittedly, i'm an obsessive planner - as evidenced by the black leather daytimer (circa 1997) that i never leave home without. there are many days that i don't even open it, it's more like a security blanket, the "woobie" of my adulthood that i carry in my adult-esque tote in the same way chloe carries her stuffed animals in her princess backpack. as much as i love technology [and yes, i do love technology], i cannot let go of the daytimer. i love to open it up see the messiness of life compartmentalized into neat little squares. i love the ritulastic year-end process of opening a new calendar and a new year of life and filling in the squares with birthdays and occasions and events. inevitably, there is always something to look forward to, and that "something" [my mother says] - and not the daytimer - is really what i could never live without.

obviously, this is a concept that my four year old is clearly aware of, which isn't necessarily a negative one. there is no harm in looking forward to the future unless it prevents us or distracts us or disables us from enjoying the present. despite her penchant for planning, she remains my instructor for living in the moment, watering me with the wisdom of childhood as i belatedly bloom into adulthood, where we learn to balance both the present and future with equal joy.

barack obama: anti-christ or American?

Alternately titled, "Give me a freaking break".

[Disclaimer: Let me premptively disclaim that this is not a Pro-Obama rant, nor is it intended for publicly advocating Obama for the presidency. In fact, it is advocating something else entirely: integrity and intelligence.]

Admittedly, I shouldn't be concerned with or upset by people who rely on mass forwarded emails to obtain and consequently, dissmiate their information on political candidates. It is just a side note - or rather, a side show - to the condition of our culture. But, at the same time, I have to admit that if I receive another anti-Obama email forewarning me of his role as the (or an) anti-Christ, my head may very well explode. The most troublesome aspect of all is that the vast majority of these disparaging emails are coming from [supposed] peers in the faith, yet they reek of misinformation, corrupted scriptural references, flawed theology, gossip and insinuations of both racial and religious persecution.

It is ironic how the [always anonymous] authors of these emails ambiguously allude to scriptural references of the anti-Christ, yet pay no attention at all to any other pertinent scripture like, oh, i dunno... take your pick from the plethora of verses throughout Psalms and Proverbs specifically instructing against creating, partaking and distributing slanderous gossip; or 1 Thessalonians 5:21, which asks that we “prove all things, hold fast to that which is good/true”. Unless any among us actually has legitimate proof or factual evidentiary support about something, it’s very unlikely that it’s something that deems repetition.

I believe that our political and religious beliefs are deeply personal. I have no qualms about speaking about my own views from the comfortable height of my proverbial soapbox, but I am not going to try use alternative methods – even those that fly in the face of scripture - of persuasion in the futile hope of forcing my beliefs onto anyone else. That said, this is not a pro-Obama email. I am still largely undecided about who I will vote for come November (and I say that with the sincere hope that my mother will never read this blog). I will tell you that I have liked Obama for several years for reasons I’ll allude to in a bit, although I do have legitimate reservations about his candidacy. But the bias that I am seeing (i.e. reading) from people who obviously know me well enough to email me, is completely unfounded and quite frankly, insulting to the intelligence of all who receive it.

I am not opposed to healthy political debate, even opinionated debate… about real political issues, even those encompassing the moral and religious spectrum. I wouldn’t be in the midst of this rant or as my mom would say, have my panties in a wad, if my inbox were full of emails declaring the inadequacies of either candidate’s foreign policy or energy plan, (not that i am insinuating that I have the political savvy to discuss either at great length). But, if you want to persuade me with arguments on Obama’s inexperience, his questionable former minister and religious affiliation, have at it. If you want to reiterate his voting record on the Illinois State Senate or the US Senate, by all means, knock yourself out. But please, please, fortheloveofblog, I beg you: do not send me any more emails filled with half-truths and defamatory content regarding his possible role as an anti-Christ.

The latest one, the one from this morning, the author ended with the statement: "I refuse to take a chance on this unknown candidate who came out of nowhere".

Any person with the physical, mental and technological capacity of forwarding a mass email should also be equally as capable of accessing wikipedia, where they would learn - within a few seconds - that Obama did not mysteriously emerge from an ambiguous dark cloud of nothingness.

In fact, his childhood background is strikingly similar to my own: an immigrant father who came to America in search of the American dream, an education and the hope of a better life. His mother was a lower middle class woman from the South (Kansas). His parents divorced when he was two, his father all but disappeared from his life and he was later raised by his maternal grandmother. The beginning of his story is parallel to the beginning of my own story and it is not one that simply materialized on its own.

Having an immigrant father who fulfilled his own American dream, I know firsthand that their perception, and consequent love, of our nation is not the same as those of us who are born and raised here. There is much more hope than cynicism; and a stronger belief in equality amongst our diversities than we could ever hope to obtain. Every aspect of our lives that we take for granted, they know - not as a right – but as a privilege. And a blessing.

Aside from the parallels in our upbringing, what I initially liked about Obama [as a person] was that he was not a descendent of great wealth, nobility or power. There is no grand political or financial lineage; rather, he is a descendent of his father’s American dream and at his core, is his father’s sincere belief in the innate goodness of America. It is this embodiment of the American dream that has awoken an entire generation – my generation - from political apathy.

Does this mean that he is the right choice for the presidency? Absolutely not. My point - and I promise I have one - is that there is a fine line between advocating an opposing political candidate and defaming the character of another. We expect those antics from political parties and pundits, but we can't [and should'nt] justify it as Christians.

I am not attempting to instruct or persuade anyone on how to vote. I could easily write as many paragraphs with an equal amount of biographical content on John McCain… or any other political candidate. What I am attempting to do, however, is to get people to think before they click ‘FWD’ and to base the merit of what the dissimate on fact rather than fiction. (As my coworker, "Ted", did by immediately flooding my google talk with links to legitimate articles on why I shouldn't vote for Obama.) :) I have no qualms with ANTI-Obama messages, as long as they have some merit and I don't feel compelled to check them on Snopes.com.

Standing on my soapbox,

mosaic: slivers and shards.

i've been rummaging through old papers. again. perhaps as an act of the willfull unpacking process. i always believed that i performed this ritualistic revisiting only to satisfy periodic fits of nostalgia. i viewed the literary works of my teenage years as nostalgic mementos. visual and audible vignettes of my past that transported me through time much the same way that photographs and songs often do.

most of us are familiar with the pangs of adolescent, romantic angst and heartache. few among us escape unscathed. even so, what seemed the cause of my pain didn't warrant the asperity that unfolds on the pages of my tattered notebooks.

the naivete of my youth is belatedly eroding, yielding reluctantly to adulthood... and consequently, to the most disturbing revelations. while adolescent romantic rejection was on the surface, prompting me to write, there was a much stronger, inexplicable pain flowing beneath. on the outside, it seemed i longed for unrequited love of a boy. yet on the inside, it was another love i was longing for: the love of my parents. and perhaps more significantly, the love of a father.

abruptly, without warning, it all made sense.

i was, naturally, writing when stumbling upon this epiphany, my right hand and subconcious in seeming solidarity, moving together as if i am a separate entity standing by, waiting to read what will come next. i had to pause and catch my breath and breathed out, "o.ho.ly. crap.".

words on a sheet of paper had just formed, one by one, onto a line, piecing together an ambiguous puzzle.

this would change everything, forever morphing my mementos. and my perspective. each page is its own soliloquy. it was no longer lovesick poetry, but heartbroken expulsion: it was my pouring myself out onto blank pages without any motivation other than to move what was inside of me outside of me. the rejection of a boy occasionally [or frequently] pricked my heart, or scratched the surface and inevitably, it would overflow, bleeding each word onto the pages. invariably, the context angst and despair and pain and anger. over and over.

every experience of rejection evoked emotion in me that left me absolutely blindsided with pain so intense I could hardly breathe. this unidentifiable anguish, i assumed, was what everyone felt in the throes of longing and love. and so i wrote, frequently, fervently, expressing the depth of my pain as if it were a reflection of forsaken teenage romance.

i can no longer turn to these volumes of my youth for nostalgic thrills. they are certainly no longer an effective refuge from adulthood. i can no longer find humor in [what i formerly perceived to be] superfluous puerilities. i read them now with a parodixcal combination of empathy and envy for that teenage girl who was silently and inadvertently drudging her way through something much deeper than she knew.

i read them in this new light of understanding. (the light of adulthood)... a light that reveals every esoteric allusion that has, for twenty years, lied hidden in the darkness beneath the ink of delicately scripted words. hidden fragments of a fractured childhood and a fractured heart. i collect them, shards and slivers, and begin to piece them together. some pieces are forever lost in time. others, unusable. so i salvage what i can and perhpas for the first time, i let go of the idea of restoration and unattainable perfection and lay them out as an intricately patterned mosaic. one that may, eventually, be even more lovely than it ever would have been unblemished and unbroken.

fireproof.

sherwood pictures (a ministry of sherwood baptist church) continues their call and mission to change the world from - of all places - albany, georgia.

i don't know which scriputral theme underlies this particular ministry, but i do know that it should be matthew 19:26, in which Jesus states that "...with God, all things are possible." there is simply no other explanation for the success of their first film 'facing the giants'. it was a limited release (less than 1,000 theaters) and yet, went on to gross one hundred times its budget of $100k.

their newest film, fireproof, is going to be a wide release on 9.26.08. i am anxious to see this film and the impact it may have on the current landscape of the film industry. this is an incredible endeavor considering shoestring budgets and volunteer staff.

humptiness

humpty dumpty: a childrens rhyme. a peculiar allegorical tale. or perhaps... as i can attest, an accurate depiction of our perilous fragility and profound lack of self-awareness.

and since i find it amusing to take humpty to new analogical heights, avoiding the true metaphor altogether, i have to inquire, what was the motivation for climbing in the first place? was it curiosity about what lied beyond the wall? perhaps he was simply sitting, diligently pondering. perhaps he needed a quiet place to compose the lyrics to the humpty dance, and consumed too much hennessy in the process. eventually becoming lost in thought and inadvertently, in balance. all the while completely oblivious to the fact that he was, after all, an egg.

we often ignore fragility in our lives, literally and figuratively. we have an innate sense of invincibility. taking unwise risks. making unwise moves. and unwise climbs. on the way down, we are unaware we are free falling into irretrievable brokenness. (or sometimes, irreconcilable differences.)

we chastise people for seeking to "find themselves"; those who want to know who [and what] they really are. and yet for humpty, even the most elemental hint of self-awareness might have led to self-preservation. instead, his exterior: shattered. his interior: splattered. and all that was inside, flowing out of the brokenness and seeping downward into the ground.

our hearts. our bodies. our relationships. in our naive humptiness, we often perceive them to be rock solid, but the truth is, they are all as fragile as an eggshell.

"peace and humptiness forever." digital underground lyrics

blogs in the hopper

fear not, fans... [and by fans, i'm referring to my biggest and non-coincidentally - only - faithful reader, sonya, who has loyally followed my intermittent weblogging for nearly a decade]... i have lots of blogs in the hopper, patiently waiting for their revisions and final stamp of blogtastic perfection before being released into the world wide web with the click of my 'publish post' button.

stay tuned...

organized chaos.

the interior of a vehicle in the throes of adulthood.

aside from providing further evidentiary support of my dire requisite for a mini-van, this image of the interior of my car on a monday morning could just as easily be a depiction of the interior of my brain. on any given morning.

adaptation 101

the day after surgery...

there is much philosophical wisdom to be gained from two year olds. the grin on his face says it all.

parker continues to amaze and consequently, dismay following his knee surgery. the doctor's orders were to keep his foot elevated for three days post-surgery (i.e. through today). insinuating that we were to keep him immobile as much as possible. without sedatives? riiight. every time i turn my back, he is barreling off across the floor or already out of sight completely, having escaped with his partner in crime who is more than happy to aid and abet. i have caught him trying to crawl up the stairs, scoot down the stairs, crawling off the sofa and back onto the sofa. other than lack of speed, he seems to be totally unhindered by the cast.

but it isn't his physical adaptation to the cast that is fascinating, but the obviously immediate emotional/mental aspect of it. he has not whined or complained about it once. in fact, he hasn't even mentioned it. it's as if he woke up from surgery and immediately accepted the cast, and consequent inability to walk, as part of himself. no transition period necessary. apparently, toddlerhood doesn't yet afford the extravagance of self-pity that we are accustomed to here in adulthood. no need to inquire about the hows or whys of what simply is. nor any trepidation about the future.

he has ten more days in the cast and i'm curious to see if his renewed ability to walk will be met with the same level of passivity. living in toddlerhood and thus, also having no concept of time, i know that he is oblivious to when or even if the cast will come off. yet he remains impervious, which is evidence (to me) that we are all innately equipped with the ability to not only see the "bright side", but only see the bright side. somewhere in our journey to adulthood, cynicism seeps in and erodes our natural defenses.

leaving the hospital, it felt as though the entire two day hospitalization had been a mini-adventure/vacation of sorts. a special overnight getaway that, because of his happiness, really was fun. even for me. as we left the room, the fact that he was unable to walk out, this seemed an insignificant side note and one that was completely eclipsed by the super cool wagon ride to the car.

if only we, as adults, could so easily [and happily] adapt to life's inconveniences.

unspeakable

when chloe was just a few days old, i distinctly remember holding and rocking her in the glider in the corner of her room. sobbing. not the stereotypical 'baby blues' tears and not the tears of sheer elation, which also fell from time to time during those first few weeks, but at this particular moment it was an outpouring of anxiety that came with the realization that my heart was no longer contained inside of my body.

i was raised by a survivor. i was raised by my grandmother who's first husband (my grandfather) died a heroic death in vietnam. she was my age (32) when she became a widow and consequently, single mother of three girls, ages 5, 11 & 13. i remember standing beside his grave in oklahoma with her when i was a child. i wasn't old enough to read, but i could recognize that her name was preemptively etched into the heart-shaped carving next to his name. years later, i would stand with her at the graveside service for her mother (my granny), who had suffered a prolonged and degrading battle with alzheimer's. ten years later, we stood together at the funeral for her husband (my stepdad) who died suddenly in a tragic automobile accident twelve days before christmas. i greived tremendously, but i was learning what she already knew about life: it goes on. even against our will, sometimes.

before i reached adulthood, i had already learned from my mother's life experience and example that i could survive seemingly insurmountable losses: the loss of a spouse. the loss of a parent. but the loss of a child was, and still is ... unspeakable. "i don't know how they survive", my mother would always say, followed closely by, "i'd rather die myself". i never understood what she meant exactly. loss is loss. survival is survival. or so i'd thought. until that moment, holding my precious newborn baby girl in the corner of her nursery. i knew that life would never be the same. i knew that i would never be the same. i would never breathe quite as easily on this side of eternity. parents, spouses, closest friends, we love them with all of our hearts, but our children, they are our hearts.

two years ago, when chris and i separated, i began having panic attacks and a recurring nightmare that would startle me awake, immediately rendering an attack that would leave me shaken and the nightmare itself would haunt me for days. the nightmare was, invariably, the image of either of my children falling into deep, murky water and immediately vanishing from my sight. i always awoke immediately at this point, but during the course of the panic attacks, in which i couldn't get my thoughts or breathing under control, i would always envision myself diving in, frantically searching, reaching and grasping through depths and darkness. total darkness.

the panic attacks have subsided, as have the nightmares. i am still shaken to the core every time i hear of a child's drowning.

this afternoon, my nightmare became a tragic reality for a mother on lay lake. "his family rushed to the pier and into the water to attempt to save him, but they could not find him." unable to rescue her four year old child, five hours elapsed before he was recovered by a dive team.

i am without sleep tonight. and i am without words, except for the one: unspeakable.

>>>please pray for the shaver family<<