Author: Amelia

Letting Go

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

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From an early age in life, we crave a bit of control. Control over a toy or our parents. Or a sibling. Control over what food we want to eat. Or not eat. Control over what ridiculous clothes we want to wear. “What? A swimsuit doesn’t look good with tights under it?” As we grow older, we strive to control bigger things. Situations. Our work environment. Our home environment. Our spouses. And oftentimes, our children.

I have found that sometimes God chooses the most inopportune times to show us that we are not in as much control as we may think. I have a chronic illness that has wrecked my plans on too many occasions to count. It’s a pretty helpless feeling when the world outside of your bathroom or hospital room continues on. Without you. I have had to learn to let go. Of what was supposed to be, but now will not be. I try and just remind myself to focus on the next breath. The next minute. The next step. Not tomorrow or next week. Definitely not next year. Just the moment right in front of me. This can be difficult with three little ones outside of the door. Waiting on me.

It’s a lesson that I quickly forget when I recover. It’s one of the hardest parts of having something always, something that never goes away. It’s an illusion to try and control something like a chronic illness. I think it is a practice that has helped me let go of certain struggles as a parent. I have three boys that help remind me on a daily basis that my plans may differ greatly from God’s plans for me and my family. I think God intends for this to take some of the weight off of us. Just wait. Stop worrying. He’s got this. He’s got you.

1 Corinthians 2:9

“No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.”

Maybe he hopes we will let go and let him help take some of the pressure off. The pressure we put on ourselves to do a million things a day and raise loving, compassionate, generous, caring, honest, and kind-hearted children.

The other night I was in pain and I couldn’t help put my children to bed. I hate when I can’t be the mom I want to be because of my disease. Doing it all. One of my seven year old boys came in to my room and said, “Mom, can I get you some water?” Of course. And maybe some toilet paper for my tears. My heart nearly exploded because of his unprompted kindness. And compassion. And patience with me. Then one of my other sons asked, “Mom, can I hold your hand?” Suddenly, I didn’t feel like such a burden. Suddenly, I could let go to realize the power in my sons’ tender hearts and love-filled actions trumped any of my shortcomings as a mother.

God worked through my two sons to lighten my load.

We can never predict the good that God will bring out of situations where we lack control. Situations where we feel overwhelmed. Situations where we feel unprepared for what’s before us. God looks out for us and constantly surrounds us with his grace and love. Sometimes the greatest lessons will come out of the mouths of the most innocent and dependent ones in our house. God works in mysterious ways. We have to let go of the control sometimes to humbly learn that there are much bigger plans in store for us. Plans we can’t begin to fathom. Because we love God. And he loves us more.

Third Nipple

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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A few of my friends in high school used to say that they really wanted to see me drunk. Sounds a bit like they weren’t the best friends, slightly awful, in thirty something year old hindsight. Though, I actually think they meant it as a compliment. The implication was that if I was as crazy and weird and unfiltered as I was sober, how much more entertaining would I be under the influence of some wine coolers? Maybe some weed? I’ve generally felt like alcohol really just made my routine, normal conversations and behaviors a little more socially acceptable. I tend to talk too much, share too much, say inappropriate things and do impulsive things, regardless of if I’m completely sober or a little tipsy.

Sometimes, I do have extrovert’s remorse. When I reflect back on a conversation and replay it in my head, I think, “Whoops. Maybe that was awkward (for them) Maybe I shouldn’t have shared so much.” And….it’s too late. It’s hard to shove those runaway words back in. I’ve gotten to be pretty good at apologizing for my wreckless talking. Buckle up. It’s the lead footed, swirving all over the place kind of conversation. Curb checking? Most likely. Maybe my friends just thought it was the one and half beers talking. Because who really talks about having a third nipple as a child?

Apparently, this typsy extrovert does.

My friends told me I should blog about it. My third nipple. It’s as if I can hear the echoes, “if your friend jumped off of a bridge, would you do it?” No. Of course not. But if they dared me to jump off of that same bridge, I probably would. Who can resist a dare? Here it is. It’s just writing. Most people know I had a third nipple. What if my brief third nipple blog would help another feel less alone? The mystery is uncovered. Revealed. Kind of. I used to be like Chandler Bing. I was one of the one in fifty women. That’s right. Who knew? One in fifty women. (Google search)

Supernumerary nipple awareness blog coming at you.

I was born with a third nipple. Don’t let your mind go to weird third nipple land. It looked more like a birthmark. You can google it. Well, not mine. You will most likely see a hairy chested man with a tiny third nipple. Did you know that some third nipples could be in random places on the body? Mine wasn’t that cool, it was just under another one of my nipples. I didn’t do anything crazy and get my little third nipple pierced as a teen or anything. Unfortunately, I actually got it removed during one of my surgeries for Crohn’s disease. My surgeon noticed it which seemed a bit awkward for my nineteen year old self. What was he doing up there? He casually asked if I wanted him to remove it during my next surgery. It was like a three for one surgery deal. It may have been the surgery they were fixing my gut, removing some staples from my knee and oh, yeah, removing my third titty. RIP, third titty boom, because that’s what we called them as kids.

It really is a funny story. A bit of my birth story. Two parents anxiously awaiting the arrival of their fourth (and most precious) child. Watching “I Love Lucy.” Then, boom. Go time! Birth time. “Waaah. Waaaaaah. Hello, world.”As my mom and dad wait to hear the report from my kind doctor on how I looked.  “She perfect….only she has a supernumerary nipple.” What the…..? And cue my father’s response, “She’s got a triple tit?” Cut the supernumerary crap. Welcome to the world, little one, with three nipples. Did you know Marky Mark also had three nipples? And Carrie Underwood? Yeah, I Googled it. Turns out, three’s not such an exclusive crowd.

My bathtub routine growing up entailed me being called, “Triple Titty” by my older sisters. What was worse than the extra body part name-calling was that I usually had to sit in the back of the pink tub. You know, where all of the leftover cold water hung out. It sounds cruel. And it kind of was. Though I survived. I’m sure my big sisters were probably just jealous that I had an extra nipple. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

In hindsight, maybe God knew what He was doing. He knew I might need it in the future. And maybe I shouldn’t have let my colo-rectal surgeon remove it. How could I have ever known? Free will happens. Good one, God.

My first pregnancy and the second ultrasound revealed twins. Say what?! Fast forward to postpartum. As it turns out, it was easier taking care of twins when they were inside of my uterus. They needed to eat. A lot.  And it was hard and demanding work breastfeeding tiny twins with just two nipples. Real hard. Maybe that third tiny titty would have come in handy. As the lactation nurse so eloquently stated, “your anatomy is just not matching up with theirs.” Really? Surely there is a Hallmark card you could have given me to soften the blow. Hello, remorse accompanied by the new mother’s inferiority complex tears. Unofficial diagnosis…Supernumerary surgery removal remorse. It’s kind of like I’ve had breast reduction surgery. Which seems odd considering the size of my other two assets.

Oh my. Just know, dear friends, that no, it was not the alcohol talking. Unless that makes you feel better about me. I have a problem. An over-sharing. Over-talking. Over-bonding problem. And well, an over cooking food problem too. I may burn something like your reuben sandwich, whether I have had the beer or not. That toast gets me nearly every time.

If you don’t come back to our house, I won’t take it personally. Really, I get it. I have a hard enough time understanding myself sometimes. And I’ve lived with myself for well, thirty six years. “Why would you say that, Amelia?” I semi-embarass myself on a regular basis. But I’m used to it. Thankfully, my husband usually has had more to drink than me. Tank sevened. And he thinks I’m funny. And my kids are still a bit young to be too embarrassed by what I say. Or write. So that’s good.

#supernumeraryawareness

#goodvibrations

#jesustakethewheel

Paper or Plastic?

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I want to be a responsible human being. I grocery shop a lot. Too much. When I make it to the front of the check-out line and the cashier asks, “Paper or plastic?” I want paper, usually. It feels more “Whole Foodsy.” I really wish I would bring several of the many reusable bags I have at home. However, that would require me to think ahead, a more premeditated grocery shopping trip. Forget about it. Yet, it would make me feel less destructive to the earth. I take certain earthly responsibilities very seriously. For instance, I have started cutting the plastic eight pack Sprite rings at work because someone posted a picture outside of the refrigerator of a sea turtle swimming or trying to with the plastic wrapped around it’s leg. Apparently, scare tactics work well on me. Unfortunately, much like my tendency to routinely take the last piece of toilet paper, I seem to always take the last Sprite at work, leaving the plastic ring screaming at me or maybe it’s the turtle. I can’t feel responsible for that sea turtle’s life of overcoming tortured leg adversity. I can almost hear him, looking down at the foreign non-ocean related thingamabob around his leg, “Why me, God? Why me?” Not on my watch, Mr. Sea turtle. I will carry the plastic rings around in my scrub pants all shift, if I have to, before cutting the rings apart. Multiple times into multiple pieces.

I’m pretty certain the bagger guy gave me a sort of “are you fuckin’ kidding me?” look when I requested paper bags. I may have overreacted in my head but still, I didn’t want to ruin his day, so I said, “Maybe you could use both. I have a lot of drinks.” Like he cares about all those Gatorades. Indecisive much? I don’t think that my new decision helped ameliorate his unhappy disposition. I probably made it worse requesting two kinds of bags. Who do I think I am? Next, the cashier lady chimed in, maybe to help me feel empowered as a grocery shopper or a woman. She said, “Honey, you get whatever you want.” How kind. Thanks. Maybe she knew that her co-worker’s attitude had bullied my overly sensitive thoughts. She seemed pretty intuitive. And spunky. She even had a mini-rant after she charged me double for the yogurt. Since it was over $3, she put her light on, she needed the manager’s code. After he came over, she let me know how ridiculous it was that she needed a manager to let her undelete items over $3. I agreed with her. I didn’t want to not agree with her. She told me she rings up stuff twice a lot. Maybe she’s got fast hands, like “supa fast,” as my four year old would say.

After I loaded my paper and plastic bags into my van, I wanted to just sit in the parking lot for a minute. Because I could. I needed to pause. I had been going non-stop all day. Get the kids to school. Do laundry. Do dishes. Take the recycling. Drop another kid off at school. Grocery shop. Then, stop. Time out.

Later in the day, my husband told me to hurry and come outside. He thought he had found something I would want to see. He was right. From outside of our garage window, I peered in to see a butterfly flying spastically, bumping into the window over and over again. It’s wings, were black with bright orange splotches on the tips. But when it’s wings were closed, it looked more like a moth. Either way, I wanted to help free it from inside of the garage. It looked pitiful repeatedly flying into the tricky glass pane. How confusing for a simple moth-butterfly to understand. I trapped the moth in my son’s insect catching box. I wasn’t sure if I had hurt it’s wings or not. I felt bad so I asked my husband if I should get the moth-er-fly one of our sweaters to eat. Moths love our sweaters. He did not think this was a good idea. I wasn’t going to give him a brand new sweater, just one of the ones that a few of his cousins or friends had already feasted on. Forget about it. I won’t give it a sweater, I said. I will just go try and let it go outside. I showed our boys, they weren’t that interested, probably because it was more moth than butterfly. And because they were watching the boob tube.

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I layed down outside next to my moth-er-fly. I tried to shelter him a bit from the crazy winds knocking his wings back and forth. He probably hadn’t experienced these winds before living in our garage. I thought I may have done some wing damage in attempting to free him from the garage. I watched the moth-er-fly play dead for a while. Maybe he was shy or pissed that I rescued him. I got a bit bored, so I looked up into the sky and you will never believe what I saw stuck in a tree.

A damn plastic grocery sack.

I couldn’t even believe my eyes. Seriously. Life is just too weird sometimes. The wind filled the grocery sack with it’s strong breeze over and over again but that grocery sack was wrapped around a few branches. It was stuck. Oh, great, is this some sort of a sign? I would have never noticed the plastic sack if I wasn’t waiting for my moth-er-fly to escape. I got to thinking scare tactic thoughts. Is that grocery sack going to suffocate some innocent bird flying through the air? Great. I didn’t recognize the label on the bag without my glasses. But it was stuck in our tree. I watched the plastic bag for a minute or so, then I looked back to check on my rescued insect.

I peeked in. Holy cow! The moth-er-fly nearly hit me in the face as it flew out into the breeze. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. It wasn’t like “Free Willy” at all. Just gone like a kite in the wind. Or a plastic bag in the wind. That gets stuck in a tree.

My husband is going to think I’m crazy when I ask him to help me get that plastic bag down. It’s up really high, like above the roof. Maybe I will be better in the future about taking my resuable grocery bags afterall. Or perhaps I will ask for “paper” with a new sense of assertiveness. I could tell this really long story to the bagger guy. Surely, it would help him understand how difficult it can be to answer a simple question, “paper or plastic?”

Grass Stains

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

 

 

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As I pulled the wagon up the hill, holding my four year old, and carrying the portable soccer goals, one of my sons lagged behind, barely walking as he held his soccer ball in his hands. Everybody had low blood sugar. It was nearing dinnertime. I looked back and I noticed that my son was visibly upset, with his head looking downward, while his shoulders stooped. I stopped the wagon and saw his tears. I asked him why he was crying.

“He’s gooder than me.” The words sputtered out. “He’s gooder than me at soccer.”

There was something so painfully innocent, yet heartbreaking hearing the words escape through the gap of his missing front tooth. A beautiful seven year old boy with disheveled, sweaty blonde hair and one pant leg pulled up. I had just finished watching and playing soccer with my three boys. Throughout the games, I stopped and talked about the rules of soccer after several (overly) competitive bouts had landed one or two boys tangled up on the grass. It looked more like rugby or football. “You can’t elbow or tackle each other. You can use your shoulders. Soccer is a contact sport, which means you’re going to bump into each other, fall down and most likely get some bruises.” Their boney knees were covered in grass stains. I shuffled the teams around. My youngest boy happily played goalie, unaware or perhaps painfully aware, of the battle going on in front of him between his older two brothers.

Our walks home from the park tend to be the perfect time for talking about important issues like nature, bullying, death, or today, sibling rivalry. I talked to my boys about growing up with sisters. I talked about my older sister, specifically, and how great she was at basketball. Much better than me. She could score on any defender from any where on the court. I spent countless hours after practice in high school rebounding her free throws and three pointers. I talked to my boys about why I think I became such a good defender besides the fact that I was skinny as all get-out and I had to out-hustle all of the bigger girls. It was also because I grew up guarding my older sister. I think I should credit the majority of my skills to the fact that I usually had to guard “Miss Basketball(she literally was)” in driveway pick-up games and practices. And I had my own fair share of frustrating, tear-filled moments of my sister being “gooder than me.”

We talked about how different we all are from one another. We talked about how our weaknesses can help us get stronger if we don’t give up. That it’s okay to get upset, maybe sad or disappointed, but then we have to keep working hard to figure out how to be better. Or maybe different. I talked to my boys about how young they are, how they have so many things that they haven’t even tried yet. It’s these kind of moments, when I’m talking to my twin boys, that help me realize how important it is to not define ourselves by comparing our strengths, weaknesses, or capabilities to somebody else. Not even to our very own twin brother.

I know as a mother to three boys that I will be dealing with this battle for years to come. My husband and I work really hard not to label or predetermine the places or heights that our children will soar. But it’s a tricky business navigating the places we’ve never been or experienced through the eyes of a parent and vicariously through the lives of our children. We do the best we can with the knowledge and experiences we have, both good and bad, which sometimes feel inadequate. At the end of the day, the most important and truthful thing we usually have said all day is how very much we love them. That will be something that they will never ever have to doubt. No matter what. No matter how good they are at soccer, no matter how good they are at playing the drums, drawing, reading, riding a bike, or any other thing they try. They will always know they are loved beyond measure.

Mom Smarts: the Playground Pooper

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

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I like to think of myself as somewhat of a professional. I’m actually in my seventh year of mom school, like a resident or fellow. Except that I didn’t ever go to school for mothering. I read a crud ton of books and listened to a lot of moms’ solicited and unsolicited advice, but most stuff, I’ve learned the hard way. The real life way. Through observing others or trial and error, cause and effect, the “what the….?” and the holy shit” moments. That’s seven plus years worth of mom smarts. Which ultimately amounts to nothing. I know nothing.

Today, my four year old son walked over to me on the playground and told me, “I have to go the bathroom.” Then said, “It started coming out.” Game changer. Oh. I looked down and his pants weren’t visibly wet. “You went poop?” That’s the one. I looked in his pants to find out that he was telling the truth. He not only had “started,” he had finished. Ignored the urge in the name of fun and crapped his pants. So, on a school playground, you don’t have a lot of options. Meanwhile, the five other boys I had brought continued happily playing. They needed to release some energy. This fact eliminated the option of me having everybody walk home, a long walk home for the one boy with crap in his pants, who most likely, would want me to give him a piggy back ride. Thankfully, a veteran boy mom friend of mine said “just go over there and empty it out.” There was an area outside of the playground. Good plan. I took the Capri sun box with me as a makeshift trash can. As I walked with my boy, who could have cared less that he had a load in his pants, he gave me a play by play commentary on where the poop had travelled. “It’s down my leg, Mom.” Oh, dear god. And now to suppress gag reflex, mom mode activated.

We made it behind the air conditioner vent where I began the heinous process of de-pooping his leg, his pants, etc. Goodbye, older brother’s Spider-Man underwear. Shhhhhh, I’m not saving you, and don’t give me any guilt, into the Capri sun box you go. I looked down. I had no options for wiping his butt except to use some large leaves from a plant that I hope was a non-poisonous alternative to toilet paper. My son cooperated as I wiped his butt cheeks the best I could. With plant leaves that were “cold” according to him. I will pause to let you know that as parenting book savvy as I may claim to be, I never ever read any parenting book that addressed how to dispose of any sort of pee, poop, vomit, etc. when not near a toilet. Please tell me every parent has several or too many to count of these disgusting stories.

Quite frankly, one of the most horrifying poop scenarios happened long ago, when my twin boys were under a year old. The sweet little guys were able to sit up and play in the water for what seemed like eternity. I didn’t mind. It was like a water filled pack n’ play. A mom vacation. I spent hours upon hours in that bathroom. I love-hated it. Until the day that one boy pooped in the tub. I can’t remember who. As a sleep deprived twin parent, your critical thinking skills fall into a coma of sorts. Oh. My. Wake up! What do you do when you see a new mysteriously shaped brown bath toy floating in the tub?

That’s. Not. A. Bath. Toy.

You freak out. Then your boys look at you. The babies start crying. Oh no! Affect regulation. It’s ok. It’s ok. No, it’s really not. You’re silently cursing every parenting book and parent who has ever talked to you. WHY would they never prepare you for this unwelcome bath time visitor? All of the lame stories but never “Turd Alert….what to do.” I adapted and quickly picked up and plopped their two slippery bodies out onto the bath mat. No towel. You want to just grab the kids, exit strategy. Leave the sudsy water and poop bobbing under the bubbles and brushing up next to toys. All the nine hundred toys. That’s enough trauma for one day. Get the boys, close the door. Surely, you could never go in there again. Or tell your husband when he gets home. He’s a much better fisher”man” than you. But you can’t because you’re going to have to bathe your poopy children. Again.

If you’ve never had the debate of whether you should drain the tub with the poop in it or go “poop fishing” with your hand, you’ve never truly lived. It’s a disgusting sort of adrenaline rush. In fact, every new parent should get one of those small fish store nets at their first baby shower. Maybe they should even learn about this scenario before conceiving a child. If not, the fish net should be a mandatory baby registry item that comes complete with instructions to be placed in the bathroom cabinet for “the code brown bath when you will need it.” The instructions should read “Baby/Toddler Poop Net.” That’s all.

If you didn’t know, now you do. If your child never shat in the tub, congratulations. As a parent, you can’t let emergent unexpected pee or poop ruin your day. Or you’re going to have a lot of shitty days.

Good Friday

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

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I feel weird about showing up on Easter Sunday without having ever grieved the unfairness, the pain, the beautiful life and the awful death that Jesus endured. Without recounting his voluntary, beautiful, raw, bitter, and torturous last days and moments, I have a difficult time fully celebrating the joy and promise and hope of Easter, the resurrection.

I want my boys to know that Easter is not just about the happy frilly pastel colored Sunday service complete with egg hunting and Easter baskets. I want them to be aware of the reason, the pain, the loss, and the brokenness surrounding Jesus’s death. I want them to know why His resurrection changed the world. His hope. He lives.

After a crazy, busy week and solo Thursday night parenting, I knew I needed to improvise and stay home from Maundy Thursday service with our three young boys. I wanted to include and teach them about what Jesus’s death meant. I wanted them to have a visual, hands-on, concrete understanding. Teaching them the “why’s” the best I could meant more to me than going to Maundy Thursday service. I created an activity to help them understand.

I decided that popcorn kernels, toothpicks, macaroni noodles and marbles would represent the hurt, the brokenness, sickness, our shortcomings, “sins” or mess-ups, etc.

Our vacuum would represent Jesus.

At dinner, we prayed, then talked about Jesus’s life, the ways he cared for and showed love to others, why he died, how he died, and what that meant. I told them about the experiment we would do to show the power of Jesus’s love for us. One of the boys said, “isn’t that going to break the vacuum?” I hoped not. I didn’t do a practice run either. I let them each choose one of the three items: popcorn kernels representing the things that “get stuck in our teeth” or heart or mind and distract us from loving others and God, toothpicks represented physical and emotional hurt we cause others and the pain we experience from diseases, illness, death, etc. and macaroni noodles, well, they were all I could find as a third item. Three boys. I didn’t know how many marbles the vacuum could successfully suck up, if any. I gave a marble to each of my boys and myself. The marble represented the biggest, heaviest thing we struggle with. I should have taken all of the marbles for me.

We threw all of the items into a box representing the world and all of us in it. Each time they dropped an item in, we would share what it could represent. “Pushing somebody..” “Calling someone a name…” I wish I could remember all the things my older boys said. It was truly amazing.

Then, came the time to turn the vacuum on representing Jesus. One of my boys held it and began sucking up all of the popcorn kernels, macaroni noodles, up went the marbles and lastly, those rascally toothpicks which needed a little rearranging and then they disappeared too. The box was empty. Jesus also known as our hand-me down vacuum, had done his job. He cleaned up a mess that really wasn’t his to begin with. It was his box but not his mess.

My boys went back to playing with their cardboard box forts. I vacuumed the rug, to make sure it still worked.

It’s hard and painful to think about Jesus’s last days. The knowledge and power that he had, the stress, the exhaustion, the extreme emotional and physical pain he endured. The horrible mistreatment and details surrounding his torturous death. I think of all those who loved him there and the pain they must have felt and the pain he witnessed in their eyes and faces. I think about his mother, and nearly lose it, being a mother to these three beautiful boys. I know she had to be held up and carried by those who loved her. It’s all just excruciatingly heartbreaking and awful.

As a society, we tend to avoid the hurt of this world, when possible. Yet, that’s not what Jesus did. He submerged himself into the communities of isolated, the diseased, the broken, the mistreated, the wrongfully accused, the orphaned, the widowed, the outcasts, the poor, the selfish, the rich, and the grieving. He engaged with and loved people in a way that they had never been loved before. And he did it because he knew they needed and welcomed and sought out his love. They craved something they had never known. And he had an endless supply to give to those willing to receive it. And he still does.

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“So now I am giving you a new commandment, love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.”-John 13:34

Piles

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

I like to make piles.

Piles of bills. Piles of laundry. Piles of super hero toys. Piles of books. Really, you can make piles of everything. It makes me feel like I’m taking inventory, being responsible. Developing a plan. Dare I even say it? It makes me feel (pseudo)-organized. My piles aren’t in control of me. That’s right, I’m the queen of my piles. After all, I did create the piles.

On the days that I decide to attack the piles, I get myself ready. I put on my armor to help promote victory. I clear an area. I turn on my “Sad Shit” spotify mix. That’s right. Eva Cassidy, Damien Rice, Ryan Adams, Patty Griffen and many others serenade me while I de-pile. I have always found that good music makes life more bearable. Whether you’re cleaning the toilet or sitting in a hospital room by yourself, music can make hard things not seem so hard. Or more hopeful. Even fun. Music can make you truly feel your emotions so you can move on. Or stand still for a second. Heck, I didn’t even mind reaching into the garbage disposal to retrieve a couple of marbles today. Because there was my music playing in the background.

I usually come to a great epiphany when I’m doing the work of an adult: being an adult can really suck sometimes. Why did I always want to grow up? I would much rather be playing in a creek or even running suicides in a basketball gym than sit at the kitchen table sorting piles of mail. Medical bills, house bills, gas bills, library bills (ARGHHHH) Toyota recall notices, Department of Justice crap, and more bills, and more bills. I don’t know why I thought they would magically pay themselves if I left them on top of the piano. Without piling them into their specific category: Shred pile, Recycle pile, Pay now pile, Pay last month pile, Hurry Up! Pay faster pile, Don’t worry “Not a Bill” pile….

After opening, sorting and piling, I let myself take a break to unload and reload the dishwasher. And make myself a cup of tea. All the while, with my Spotify mix playing and the sun shining. It would be so much worse if it was rainy without music and Thai tea. So, I just plug away, thankful that I don’t have a massive headache today like I did yesterday. Thankful that I have a somewhat good attitude even though I really want to set all the piles on fire. Thankful for the starving artists who play and sing and make even the boring, mundane, sad, hard and yuck more bearable. Thanks, Jeff Buckley. And Eric Clapton. And you too, Sting, and all of the rest of you on my Spotify mix. Sorry that it’s titled “Sad Shit.” It’s really not shit at all, its a bit of brilliance. And it goes along perfectly with the budding cherry trees. The sun. And my piles.

I’ve got some checks to write. And some stamps to find. Old school style. I also have $.40 to spend at REI. What a bonus. Forty cent credit. #Winning my piles.

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Monday Morning

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

imageI held on tightly to the cold scrawny hands of my seven year old boys. I habitually reached down for them when we had to cross the road. And I didn’t let go the entire walk to school. My boys must have understood that I needed to hold their hands today. And maybe they wanted to hold mine too. After a weekend away at work, holding other kids’ hands as they cried, I had a hard time letting my own boys go as we approached their school. I love them so extremely much all of the time, but in a painfully sensitive and grateful way on Monday mornings. I stood on top of the hill and watched their backpacks bop up and down as they ran and disappeared through the school doors.

I didn’t think I could walk home. Physically. I felt like Monday had already knocked me over. And held me down. I felt defeated and it wasn’t even 9 am. The “I just can’ts…”had already crept into my head. “I just can’t brush my hair. I just can’t clean the house…and so on.” I walked across the street and Connie, the school crossing guard, told me to hop in her car and she would give me a ride back up the hill. She has done this for me many times. Maybe she notices the lack of pep in my step. My ratty hair. My coughing. Or the bags under my eyes. I always plop down in her backseat because she usually has a laundry basket in her front seat. She’s always giving stuff away to others. She’s enormously kind-hearted and will go to great lengths to provide for and protect kids. She takes off her neon vest and a few layers of coats, scarves, etc. before she sits down in her car. And exhales. She drives me around the block, up the hill and into my driveway.

It’s a small gesture that feels like a million bucks. She and I have the quickest, most deep, honest and awesome talks in those short minutes. We usually sit in the driveway finishing up our conversation. She graciously shares marriage and mothering stories with me. The lessons she’s learned. The sacrifices she’s made. She relates to me, encourages me and helps me feel less like I’m drowning most hectic mornings. She tells me I’m a good mom. And I believe her.

One morning, she held her stop sign up as we crossed the street. My husband was out of the country. I was trying to be two-parent strong by myself. And I’m not a morning person. I walked across the street with my three boys and two nieces. One of my boys cried the whole walk down the hill. I talked with him but couldn’t get him consoled before he entered the school building before the second bell rang. I felt awful. Like pure therapeutic grade shit.

Prior to leaving for school, my son had playfully laid on the floor kicking the wall with his shoes, accidentally leaving several mud prints. I didn’t freak out. But we were running late. I told him when he got home from school, he would have to clean up the wall. My request turned him into dramatic melt-down mode because apparently he thought he would never get to play again. In his life. Because he would be cleaning the wall. F-O-R-E-V-E-R. I tried to diffuse the situation with no success. So he cried. And cried. And he must have envisioned himself cleaning those three mudprints and missing out on the rest of his childhood. The whole walk to school.

Connie saved my morning. She talked with me. And helped me with that sneaky guilt that had leapt onto my back as I headed home. She told me I did need to have him clean up the mud prints. She told me I had done the right thing, even though I felt like crap. She reminded me that kids recover quickly. Then, she shared one of her stories of raising her son with me.  She helped push that mama guilt down off of my back. It still hung out by my side as I walked up the hill. It was easier to ignore there.  So, I purposely left it outside my door when I got home.

Connie unknowingly reminds me of the beauty in small kindnesses. Sharing a story or two, some advice, encouragement and a ride up the hill. She also stops cars and kids from running into school traffic. And she helps build up, encourage and strengthen parents like me. A real crossing guard kind of personality.  She’s a true hero in my book.

You really can’t ask me for much on Monday mornings. I don’t like to talk politics(really ever but especially not on a Monday). I don’t like to brush my hair. I need coffee. And patience. Lots of both, please. I’m an overthinking, over feeling, exhausted, missing my boys sort of mess. My favorite answers to questions are “I don’t know” or “give me a minute” or “I’ll do it tomorrow.” But there’s one thing for sure, if you ask me if I need a ride back up the hill, I will gratefully answer, “yes.” Every Monday morning.

Dear Outdoor Gas Station Bathroom

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Dear Outdoor Gas Station Bathroom-

I don’t feel like many people write you letters. You probably stopped checking your mailbox years ago. Maybe you’ve got the junk mail blues. I know you haven’t paid your bills. So, I thought I would acknowledge your existence because you have saved me from crapping my pants on numerous occasions. Although, in hindsight, maybe it would have been better to just shit my pants.

That was a low blow. I’m sorry.

To be honest, you’re really a weak bladdered or irritable bowel diseased person’s nightmare. It’s not your fault. Despite the large obnoxious wooden key that a person must ironically request from the apathetic or pissed off cashier to gain access to you, you’re not all that. You’re pretty sad. And disappointing and disgusting on multiple levels. Why you require a gigantic key has always baffled my mind.

It’s not your fault.

Some bathrooms are born into privilege, you know, being constructed inside of an establishment. Not you. You’re not quite a Johnny on the Spot, you never get to adventure to festivals or construction sites. You’re stuck behind that creepy gas station. You’re cold, stinky, and “out back.” But not like Australia. Toilet paper readily flees from your hostile living conditions. Has poor scared soap ever set foot into your locked chambers? I don’t think so. Your toilet silently cries out at your shit-smeared walls. Because it won’t flush.

Who does this? What kind of monster would smear shit on the walls of a gated community of sorts bathroom. (See that? I was trying to build you up) It makes me wonder what bacteria clings to the ridiculous key or is it a self-defense club to be used on the walk of shame as its returned to the cashier who probably wears a diaper most shifts or drinks nothing and is sworn into employment, “I solemnly swear to never, ever clean or walk inside the outdoor gas station bathroom.” And….You’re hired.

I feel like if you could break free and escape, maybe even make it to some shady park, you would be much happier. More fulfilled by the routine drug deal or flasher or occasional sound of children’s laughter. You’re the last resort. And that can’t feel good.

I will probably keep on using you on road trips. In desperate times. Until you go extinct.

Hang in there.

Sincerely,

Amelia (the girl with quads of steel that holds her breath and ungracefully kicks your flusher and door before dramatically squeezing out to fresh air)

Kitchen Sink Prayers

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I looked out my kitchen window at the sky. The purples, pinks and oranges melted together as if they were exhausted but in a beautiful way. I loaded the dirty dishes as my boys ran around and around. In and out of the kitchen, careful of the open dishwasher. I tilted my head and noticed a crooked bunch of clouds shaped like a heart. Only there was a hole in the middle. I began to slow, sneaky tear cry.

I talked to God in my head and questioned who gets healed. Why not the dying child whose parents have a faith so thick it nearly suffocates all who witness it? Why not heal the women who so desperately want to fill their wombs with a child? Don’t worry about my gingivitis, but could you heal my diseased lungs? Or the starving children? Or the child that hides from an abuser day in and day out? Please heal the broken marriages. Heal the broken hearts. Heal the lonely. The alone. The abandoned. The orphaned. The neglected.

I looked out the window again at the fading sunset. The heart cloud had disappeared. My son walked in, looked at me, reached up and began pushing on my face with his hands. He was trying to physically make me smile by pressing on the sides of my mouth. I must have looked the way I felt inside. Hurt. Forgotten. Unimportant. Not worthy enough to be healed.

It’s a delicate and extremely sensitive matter. Opening up old wounds, not forgotten but semi-healed, from the inside out. Who gets to be healed, blessed, cured, saved and fed?

I wiped my eyes on a dirty dishtowel next to the stove and left a mascara print.

I can’t believe in a god who picks and chooses. I can’t wrap my head around a god that does not heal the woman who could not make it close enough to touch his clothes. I can’t believe in a god that does not love all. That doesn’t feel the hurt, the pain, the breath-stealing moments of all. The emptiness. The loneliness. The desire to do more but to be so physically or emotionally restrained. Tied to a chair. In the middle of nowhere. With no one.

I go to God. Plead with God. With a faith that’s been around the block a time or two. A faith that questions, cries out, begs, grows then nearly gets extinguished by the pain, unfairness, and people who say the wrong thing. A selfish faith that sees the world through my near-sided eyes. What do I know? Less and less.

I know the beauty of a sunset. The beauty of my son’s toothless laugh with his squenched up nose. I’ve felt the love of many, the endless unconditional love. I’ve laughed a million laughs. I’ve held countless hands. I’ve felt the kicks, elbows and hiccups of the babies I’ve held and snuggled in the middle of the night. I’ve chased giggling toddlers. I’ve answered late night phone calls. I’ve hugged mothers. I’ve heard the cries of many. And through it all, I’ve held on tightly to this faith that I can’t begin to comprehend. It’s far too complicated so I just do the littlest and the most that I can. And love through it all. And I pray that God is okay with my confused, wounded kitchen sink prayers.