Bird

Jesse brought home a bird, and I didn't know it. The bird died weeks (months?) ago, and Chris found it yesterday when he was supervising the cleaning of the boys' bathroom. This was really upsetting to me, obviously, and as a parent, I really wanted to handle it just right. I had to fight my urge to really lay into the boy, but I said a few succinct bits and clamped my mouth shut. As I thought about it, I remembered that Jesse is an inquisitive, curious boy who loves nature and likes to observe animals. I have to assume he was curious about this little pet and not malicious. Curious vs. malicious. I'm going with curious here, but concerns linger. I try to teach my children the dangers of black and white thinking, but when something like this happens, where does my own mind go? Oh Lord, I'm raising a sociopath! He killed a bird! He doesn't seem to feel bad about it! What am I gonna do RIGHT NOW?! Nothing. Remember the shades of gray. Breathe. He is not a sociopath. He didn't kill the bird in cold blood. He DOES feel bad about it, but he's overwhelmed.
I had him write a eulogy for the bird. He had to give it a name and feel how that bird's mother must have felt. He had to think about how the bird must have felt. Let me just say, Jesse is not a good eulogy writer. I hope it's a skill he does not have to hone through the years. As this "assignment" shaped up, the parallels between this bird and Jesse shaped in my mind. Jesse placed this bird in a box, far away from his Mama and bird siblings. Jesse was placed in foster care, far away from his Mama. He got to keep his sibling. The bird was denied food and water. There were many times Jesse did not have enough food. He placed the bird in a dark box and forgot about it. Jesse was placed in the equivalent of a box and pretty much forgotten about by the people that mattered most to him. The eulogy-writing assignment was shaping up to be a lesson is self-exploration, and hopefully potential healing.
Jesse sat down to share his eulogy with us last night at dinner. Startlingly, he named the bird "Mike." I don't think he intended to give this bird my brother's moniker, but it made me giggle just the same. I still don't know if this "assignment" was the right thing to do here, but Jesse seemed to embrace it, and I sense that it gave him a feeling of some control. I wonder if he's aware of the similarities between him and "Mike." He loves to capture little critters, and I think I understand why a little better now. I hope he understands it, too.

Watching the news

I was devastated last night as I watched the news. There is so much sadness in the world, it's not a completely rare occurrence for a soft soul like me to be moved. Having a newsman for a husband doesn't always help, for example his story last night concerning sex slaves in St. Louis. On a happier note, I do want to share that we were sitting in front of Qdoba with a sleeping toddler in the backseat while we listened to the live action launch on NPR. So exciting, and an end of one era as another begins.

The story that compels me to write this, and continues to haunt me this morning is the one about the man who fell to his death at a Rangers game while catching a ball that Josh Hamilton tossed into the stands. All this happened in front of the man's six year old son. He was alive when he left the ballpark, but had cardiac arrest all the way to the hospital and died.

There are so many life stories here; certainly the man and his son. Life is completely altered for that little boy, who now doesn't have a Daddy, as well as enduring watching him die. What makes it even more tragic in my eyes, is that they were having fun, without a worry, a man and his boy taking in a game. We all have these sweet occurrences throughout our lives, and we all take for granted that nothing tragic happens. I, for one, am not really in the habit of breathing a sigh of relief that nobody died when we all return in one piece from a walk, a visit to the Butterfly House, or the swimming pool. I'm grateful we enjoyed the event and time together, but there's not really an expectation of danger or death, so I don't thank God when we all return alive from these events. It's a lesson that it can all be over in an instant, and we should be grateful without crossing into anxiety or macabre-ness. It's also a lesson to treat the ones you love with, well, with love at ALL TIMES. All the time.

My heart goes out for Josh Hamilton, the player who flicked the ball into the stands. Just. Like. That. Chris reminded me this morning that Josh is the player that had addiction problems years ago, and he's sober now. He even has a book out called Beyond Belief. It is my sincere prayer that he will continue on his path of faith, sobriety, and healing. Hopefully he will know "beyond belief" that this was truly an accident and he did not cause it. I hope by writing this, a few more people will send out healing thoughts and prayers to all involved in this tragic event.

Writing Chops

My writing chops are a little dry. They're not the nice, succulent chops that have been lovingly braised and tended, resulting in a juicy chop you would like to sink your teeth into. No. My writing chops were thrown in the oven with no basting liquid, abandoned really, with a hope they would turn out moist and tasty. They are dry, tasteless, hard-to-cut chops. It's best to not even try to serve these chops, at least for today, so I'll turn to other people's writings. We'll savor these roasts, briskets, just-right burgers, medium-rare filets that have brought enjoyment to my life while I try to turn my chops into something you'd actually like to devour. Hopefully it will be a prime cut!

I just finished reading Alison Arngrim's Tales of a Prairie Bitch. Wow! Even if you did not grow up with Little House on the Prairie, you will love this book. Alison played Nellie Oleson on the show, and Nellie gave her permission, somewhat, to find her inner bitch. I'm so grateful Alison found her voice; she makes a positive difference in the world, and we're all better for it. My review does not do this book credit. She's funny, irreverent, real, and grounded. And funny. Read this book.

I just started No Biking in the House Without A Helmet by Melissa Fay Greene. This is shaping up to be a good one. Melissa and her husband have four biological children, and not wanting to deal with the "empty nest" have adopted five more over the years. They just like having young life around. This is a great book for anyone considering adoption. It's the book I wish I could write. It won't sway people away from adoption (well, it might, but that's not the intention), but it will help folks go in with open eyes. She's funny, grounded, real, and irreverent. Hmmm....I'm sensing a theme here.

These books are "prime" cut beef, and I'm stuck at "select" right now, but if I feed and water my cow, and pet her daily, maybe I can end up with a "choice" offering. You do pet cows, right?

Faces

Since having a baby, I've realized that I've never really noticed people's faces before. Sure, I recognize the well-known faces of family and friends and the familiar faces of acquaintances, but I've never really studied faces the way I have since Eric's birth. I could look at his face all day and all night not withstanding physical demands like sleeping and hitting the bathroom. I have etched into my memory how he furrows his brow when burrowing into my breast as if to say, "How dare you make me work so hard for my food, Mommy!" I wonder what he is thinking as he scrunches up his forehead, and I cherish the little "Os" he makes with his mouth. His big blue eyes are open more now, and he looks at me and tracks me. I love the time we spend just looking at each other. I also love his little face when he is howling for food or a diaper change. Forehead wrinkled, eyes sealed shut, mouth open as wide as it goes, tongue quivering...it somehow reminds me of a lamb bleating, just louder. It shifts within nanoseconds. It is such a sad, pathetic little face that breaks my heart. Then, he shifts back to that peaceful, eyes closed, chubby cheeked look when he starts eating. After howling like that, he sounds like a baby dragon when he eats. Wheezing, snorting; I fully expect him to breathe fire. And then he settles in and his breathing evens out, and he gets down to the business of eating. Eyes open and he gazes at me and we study each others' faces. When he's finished, he literally smacks his lips, and it is the sweetest, cutest sound. My most favorite look is when his eyes are open and he's got an open mouth with a half grin as he's searching for the source of his next meal.
So what does all this have to do with other people's faces? Since Eric's been born, I can literally see the "babyness" in each face I encounter. It's a strange thing, but I'm able to get a real sense of what each face looked like as a sweet, innocent little baby. I appreciate each face as I detect the not-quite-hidden baby fat that hopefully none of us loses. The sweet look in each set of eyes as they look into my eyes, each of us searching for that human connection. I look at faces and take the time to really look at the person in front of me, giving them my complete attention. I'm softer. I'm able to see the innocence in each face.
My sweet baby hasn't really done anything since his been born other than eat, poop, cry, and sleep a little, but he's already made the world a better place simply by being. He's brought a little peace into the world by helping his mom really look at faces and see the sweetness in each one.

New Low

I may have sunk to a new low...It's after 4 a.m. and I'm watching a show called Guilianna and Bill. Guilianna is talking about sausages at the sausage counter, and the things she's saying are most likely bringing her to a new low. Let's just say the butcher is looking very confused about her "Italian sausage" statements.
Chris comes in around 6:45 a.m. and this show is still on; I explain I've sunk to a new low in my television viewing.
Christy: "I've sunk to a new low."
Chris: "What are you watching."
Christy: "Guilianna and Bill."
Chris: "Who are Guilianna and Bill?"
Christy: "You know, the guy who won the first "The Apprentice" and Guilianna is one of those people who stands up and talks on E! What are those people called that stand and talk?"
Chris: "You mean an anchor or a host?"
Christy: "I guess she's a host of a show on E!. She wouldn't be an anchor because anchors don't stand."
Chris: "Sure they do. Anchors stand all the time."
Christy: "Well. Still, she's no anchor."

Hey, at least I'm not ordering things off QVC or Paid Programming. Yet.

Meme'd

Alrighty then, I've been memed by Amy. That has a nice ring to it. Now I'm going to come up with seven things that all you folks might not know about me. I'm kinda dovetailing on Amy's friends and fellow bloggers here, so this may not be too hard.

1. I love winter. I secretly anticipate snow days and I love it when we get more feet than inches. I don't admit this to just anyone-like the mail carrier or the guy at the grocery store that is out gathering carts. I think snow days inspire a stronger sense of community and belonging since we're all in it together. I also love snow days because I love the look on my kids' faces when I get to tell them "It's a Snow Day!!!" Being Arizona babies, this is all still relatively new to them. Last year during the big ice storm when power was out, Joseph looked out his window with major anticipation after my proclamation of "It's a Snow Day!!!" It was sad to see his little face scrunch up in confusion..."Where's the snow? I don't see any snow." And then looked at me like I'd really done it this time. I guess I should have announced, "It's an Ice Day!" but that doesn't have the same appeal to it, now does it? We still had fun by the fire place playing card games and thinking. It's the only time the kids have gone to bed at 5 p.m. It was dark, they were bored, and the dog was cold, forcing them to snuggle up.

2. I got to give my sons their middle names since they came with their first names. Jesse Nicholas and Joseph Anthony. Nicholas for St. Nicholas; patron saint of children, among other things. Anthony for St. Anthony, who helps me find lost items. I really owed it to St. Anthony as he's come through for me many times. I figured, too, with everything Joseph had been through, he might feel a little lost himself, so Anthony would be a good namesake.

3. I wish I could say my favorite book was something literary, like Crime and Punishment, or I Lay Dying, or some Camus book...alas my favorite read is Auntie Mame. More surprising yet, I rather look at her as my role model. All quirks aside (and it's her quirks that make her who she is), she modeled unconditional love in the way she cared for her nephew. Sometimes I get a little irritated and annoyed with my sons, and I sometimes ask myself, "What would Auntie Mame do?" Aside from pouring a drink and lighting up, she usually comes through with sophistication, knowledge, curiosity, and compassion.

4. I've written two novels. The first one is about twins separated at birth. They are meeting for the first time, and their father does not know there are two of them. The mother kept it a secret that she had given birth to two girls, and quickly one of them placed for adoption. It's the story of the families and a lot of secrets. I wrote the other novel in November 2005, during NaNoWrMo (National Novel Writing Month). My grandma had passed away that August, and I wrote a fairy tale based on her life. There were dragons, witches, fairies, and other fun stuff.

5. I love Taco Bell. I really do. I sometimes go through the drive-thru after teaching a yoga class. Maybe I shouldn't be admitting this?

6. I'm a horrible housekeeper. If you come to my house, you will see. I always say, "I'm a good homemaker but a lousy housekeeper." It works for me.

7. While I consider myself artsy and creative, I hate pottery. Making pottery, that is; I love to have pottery in my home. I hate throwing the clay onto the wheel-it's always crooked. I hate sitting with my back all scrunched up, leaning over the wheel. I hate holding my hand a certain way to produce a vase that caves in on itself. I had neck spasms for days after my first class. They were gone by the second class. Neck spasms for days. Made it to the third class. Neck spasms for days. That was the last class as my doctor was getting suspicious about my frequent requests for muscle relaxers and Vicodin. Physical therapy worked it all out, and I haven't been back to class since.

Now, I'm going to tag one of Amy's friends since I don't know anyone else here. I hope that's okay, and maybe we'll be friends too. I tag Melissa Peach at http://watchingpeach.blogspot.com/. Amy, maybe you'll let her know she's been Meme'd?

Yesterday was April 19. It was the anniversary of our dog Farley's death four years ago. That is also the anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, as well as the anniversary of the tragic end to the siege on the Branch Davidian Cult. Today, April 20th, marks the anniversary of the massacre at Columbine. So much tragedy in the world, as I continue to remember my neurotic little Farley.
Farley was with me in 1995 when we watched the Alfred P. Murrah building crumble to the ground. It was nearly incomprehensible to me, and I don't think I fully grasped what was happening. I was a newlywed, home sick from work that day, and I just happened to have the t.v. on. I remember being scared and knowing this was a Big Deal. Two years before, the end came for the Branch Davidians in a fiery siege. It seemed so far removed to me, as a young 22-year-old caught up college life. So, these big things happened in the world on April 19, and then Columbine April 20, 1999. I remember these tragedies as well as my sweet little dog Farley.
Actually, she wasn't all that sweet. She was pretty neurotic, and probably would have been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder if she were a different species...but we loved her in spite of (or because of????) her...quirks. She pooped in our car...more than once. She chewed through the seatbelts in the backseat of our car. She chewed the window blinds. She was difficult to walk on a leash because she wanted to go where she wanted to go. You could try to guide her, or rein her in, but she would then hack and cough as if you were choking her to death. People would stop and look. She once got into a box of fine chocolate sent by my in-laws. Did I mention it was very fine chocolate? When we got home, the chocolate was gone, but there were some pretty vile poopies all through the apartment. Very vile poopies. Oh, and she also chewed our carpet. She had her fine points, too. When we welcomed Scooter the kitten into the home, Farley allowed the little gray cotton ball to nurse on her. Scooter would nestle in, and slurp away. After a month of having this little beast nibble on her, Farley gently growled to let Scooter know those days were over. She weaned the cat, and they became buddies.
Farley came to let us "eskimo kiss" her. Toward the end she and I used to put forehead to forehead, and I'd sing a little Farley song then kiss her between the eyes. The month before she died, Farley allowed me to take her to Jesse's classroom for "Show-and-Tell." She was fabulous! The 1st and 2nd graders sat in a circle, and I walked her by each child, who each gave her a gentle pat. She seemed to enjoy herself. When we got home, she decided to dictate a letter to the class through me, thanking the kids for inviting her. The kids loved it-a dog that writes. Just by being Farley, she helped Jesse fit in better with his classmates.
Farley was with us for nine years, and I do believe she knew she was deeply loved. We knew she loved us just as much. And I guess that's where hope blooms in the tragedies that also share the date of her death. It might be our "job," "business," or even "duty," but it is also our deepest desire to love and be loved. Farley was able to do that, despite abuse early in life. She was not a perfect dog, or even an easy dog, just like us humans at times (most of the time???). She served her purpose just by being Farley. Maybe we can do the same.