Waiting

Two years ago, we opened our home.  We made room for another life to join us for however long he needed.  I am ready to do it again.  Its not just the extra bed that is waiting.  I've cleared room in my heart for another child to fill.  While he or she may occupy the extra room for a short time, the love I have will stay as long as my heart is beating.

I don't do this alone.  There is a man who stands beside me.  Although he isn't certain that he is ready, because he tends to worry and think about the worst things that could happen, he agrees none the less that every child deserves a home, a family, and while I wait with my arms wide open, he waits too.  Its why we are a twosome, his fear and my optimism together make us considerate but brave.  It means that we don't jump without looking, that we don't charge ahead without a plan.  We evaluate and discuss and decide together.

We're in a groove now.  This family-of-five thing is running smoothly, with a shampoo-rinse-repeat reliability.  The weeks begin with a full fridge and each day planned out, the laundry sorted and placed in the dressers, the house clean and the grass mowed.  As the days go by, the food gets eaten, the house gets trashed, the clothes are messed and tossed in the waiting machines, the library book pile grows, and always, always, we must be doing something, going somewhere, running running running because these boys are balls of energy that must be constantly engaged in some activity or else they will make up the activity, and there will be cracked eggs on the kitchen floor and flooded basements and footprints on the ceilings and toys down the heating vents.

But every time we add another person to this household, the whole family leaps out of the groove and we have to hold on tight as we figure it out, how does this work now?  It takes months to get back to that well-oiled place of understanding our roles and what needs to be done every day, every week, what can wait?  Its knowing this, that our lives will stall out, go off course, move from order to chaos, that actually makes the waiting bearable.  I can wait for a grumpy husband informing me that there is nothing to wear to work and he needs me to find something in 20 minutes, wait for the children asking for snacks and realizing that the cupboards are empty, wait for the inevitably difficult attempts to leave the house all together.  But, oh, the newness.  The energy that seems to well up from nothing, the excitement and the YES I CAN spirit that have helped me overcome the jarring transition three times now...I know it will be there.  And so I wait.  With open arms.

Accepting the 10

I was folding laundry recently (like, um, every day for the past 6 years), and I had an epiphany.  As I held up a pair of my capris and began to fold them together, my eyes fell on the number 10 in bold font on the tag.  And I cringed.  I realized that I don't like seeing that number on my pants.  I used to see a big, old 6, and it made me feel good.  Then I had a baby, and the number bumped up to 8.  Then I had another baby, and suddenly I was in the double-digits.  Size 10.  Four years have gone by, and although the Jillian Michael's Shred helps firm things up, the number on my pants stays the same.  Every time I see it, I feel fat.  But I have friends who call me skinny.  I have a husband who calls me beautiful.  I have children who rush to hug me and wrap their sweet little arms around the very body that I get disgusted by.  So maybe I'm the one with the problem.  Maybe I'm missing something they are seeing.  And I've decided it means I have to accept this number, and stop wishing it was different.

The tag on the pants and jacket says L.  Winston says that stands for Love.

1.  I want to be healthy.  I could definitely eat better...I drink 2-3 cans of pop a day and have a child-like love of candy (although, unlike a child, I have the means to head out to the store and get more whenever the mood strikes, and no one watching to make sure I save room for dinner).  I enjoy being active, and am constantly chasing my kids and going for walks.  Plus, just carrying one of these guys is a quick workout, now that the oldest is topping 50 pounds.  Try hefting that up to the top bunk 5 times a night.  So being healthy and skinny aren't always the same thing.  As long as I feel like I'm practicing moderation and taking care of my body, it shouldn't matter what size I'm wearing.

The dreaded task: shopping for new jeans

2.  I need to put it in perspective.  I don't have the stats, but I'm pretty sure there are millions of women in the world who wish they were a size 10...from both ends of the spectrum.  Women who are starving and literally don't know where their next meal will come from would be ecstatic to have such a round waist that they have to wear my size 10s.  And women who struggle on the other side, the plus-size, full-figure, Diet Coke-sipping ladies who can't find their size in stores, who resort to mumus to hide their curves...well, if any of you are reading this, don't roll your eyes and write me off because I don't even know what a weight problem is.  I'm in the middle, I'm smaller than Marilyn Monroe, I'm blessed, I get it.  And you all are right.  Being a size 10 is not an international tragedy.  Its just reality.

And the backside...lucky this one didn't get deleted!

3.  I should focus on the positive.  My photographer friend once told me that she hates giving a new bride her wedding proofs, because the first thing she does is find the flaws.  "Oh, my hair looks weird" or "I hate my nose" or "That dress makes my butt look big!"  And she sits there, dumbfounded, because looking through her lens she saw a gorgeous woman on the most exhilarating day of her life looking amazing.  But we all do this, don't we?  We don't look in the mirror and say, I am looking awesome today!  I have the prettiest blue eyes!  I love how this skirt shows off my long, sexy legs!  My lips are just the perfect size!  Personally, my eyes are always drawn to my tummy (flabby), the mole on my chin (how did Cindy Crawford pull this off?), my frizzy hair (0% chance of precipitation my butt!).  My phone rang this afternoon, and it was a friend calling to tell me I'm beautiful, and (for the millionth time) what nice legs I have, and how she wishes she was tall and lean like me.  And I thanked her, because I really needed to hear that.  I've been feeling bad about my looks, particularly feeling fat and unattractive, and it pulled my eyes off the flaws and toward positive.  She's totally right.  I have amazing legs, and I love short summer bottoms that show them off.  Even the ones with a big, old 10 on the tag.

So these are my baby steps, trying to forge a new path toward loving my body.  I would welcome anyone else's perspective, how you love yourself, or even what is your best feature?

Cousins

I'm making some last minute preparations for tomorrow.  My mom and her sisters have worked for several months to arrange a special "cousin reunion", gathering their children, since the years and the miles have moved us far beyond the people we used to be, when family get-togethers were mandatory and forced proximity turned us into unlikely friends or bitter rivals.  In a strange collision of intentions, we are all gathering near my grandparents farm, the family beacon in years past.  Now its the place where our grandpa is fading, rapidly changing from our lively, vibrant patriarch into a sick old man.  What was meant to be a day of catching up has turned into a chance to say goodbye, and hopefully to remember what we mean to each other.

Its time like this when I get nostalgic, when my mind shuffles through images and feelings, funny stories and scary moments.  I remember traveling to the farm one winter, driving for hours from Texas and arriving, FINALLY, at a darkened farmhouse with a distinctive smell that makes me think of soft wood and baking bread, cows mooing in the distance and wet grass underfoot.  Grandma stayed up to greet us, and took us up the stairs to the middle bedroom, where snores crept up from a mattress on the floor and we somehow lucked into the bed.  Crawling under cool sheets with my sister as our parents disappeared down the hall, wondering who else was sleeping behind those closed doors, who was asleep on the floor?  Then morning, food sizzling in the kitchen, coffee wafting through the house, parents with scratchy voices murmuring to each other somewhere downstairs, thundering footsteps barging in, "Wake up!  Wake up!"  When we lived in Texas, we saw our cousins so infrequently that it took me a day to remember who belonged to who, what was his name again, where do they live? 

from left: Judy, Grandma, John, Papa, Marla, Jacquie, Jayne (1970?)

Aunt Judy (the oldest) was married to Uncle Rusty (neither of them went by their actual names), and they were parents to Christel, Megan, Jeremy (who now goes by AJ), and David.  Christel is the oldest cousin, born when my mom was still a teenager.  David was allergic to everything, but somehow unfrosted PopTarts were okay for him to eat, and I would watch him with envy at the breakfast table, as I spooned oatmeal or high-fiber, low-sugar cereal into my mouth.  Aunt Jacquie (second oldest) married Uncle Ross, and they adopted Ryan and Erynne.  There was a time many years ago when I wanted to marry Ryan, and thought we'd be safe since we weren't actual blood relatives.  Thank goodness that never came to pass, or I might be forced to live in Canada, cheering for hockey and enduring 9 months of winter.  Erynne was closest to my age, and this made our mothers think we should be instant friends, but we spent many years fighting over ridiculously unimportant things it took the hormonal balance of adulthood to clear the way for us to actually like seeing each other.  Aunt Jayne (the middle child) married Uncle Gene and they were parents to Karen and Jarrod.  Karen and Jarrod were just old enough to be considered examples of everything cool that I would never be, but not so old that they were a complete mystery to me.  I remember sitting in Karen's bedroom, playing with her Peaches N Cream Barbie doll, flipping through her novels (I'm pretty sure that's when I read VC Andrews, thanks for the nightmares!), studying her like a celebrity on the cover of US Weekly.  When I'm 16, I thought, I'm going to perm my hair and wear acid-washed jeans just like her!  Jarrod, on the other hand, was like a template of inscrutable boy.  He was just as likely to be found reading a Louis L'Amour novel as cleaning his cross-bow, helping Grandpa with the farm chores or playing a video game.  What did it all mean?  I could never quite figure it out, but I knew that with Jarrod around, there would always be a second meal option whenever sloppy joes were on the menu.  Thank you, cousin for sharing my dislike of glopping meat between a bun.  My grandparents must have been so excited when they finally had a boy, my Uncle John (finally someone to balance out all the estrogen!)...so excited that they lost all sense and had my mom exactly one year later.  She was such a surprise that they abandoned the J name scheme and called her Marla.  Uncle John is married to Aunt Kathy, and they decided to fill their house to bursting with Jonathan, Will, Emily, Mary Kate, and Nathan.  Nathan is our youngest cousin, and now that he is 18 and graduated from high school, we are all officially adults.  I always loved to be around my Uncle John's family, because they projected such a sense of unity and love.  I've never heard them fight or call each other names, although certainly people have lost their patience or needed their space in such a large group.  For most of my life, my Aunt Kathy was the only mom I knew who stayed home with her kids.  I don't know if it made a difference, but she really seemed to enjoy them.  She was the one who would take us to an indoor pool in the winter or to the park in the summer.  I know its a daunting task to add two more kids to your group of five, but she never seemed to mind the extras.  And then there's me and Liz at the end.

Grandma and Papa surrounded by their grandchildren 1987?

One time, when all five families found themselves at the farm, it was decided that the adults would sleep inside and the girl cousins would stay overnight in our grandparents large camper parked in the driveway.  The boy cousins were relegated to a smaller, pop-out camper near the barn, but such is the luck of the less plentiful gender.  It had gotten very late, and Karen suggested that someone sneak into the house to get popsicles for us all.  She and Megan left on the mission, since Karen could navigate the house in the dark, and apparently Megan was quiet and sneaky enough to be a good accomplice.  For whatever reason (really ladies, why?), the oldest cousins (Christel, Karen, and Megan) decided to scare the younger ones (myself, Erynne, and Liz), by returning to the camper and telling us in solemn voices that bears had broken into the house and killed all our parents.  With a property surrounded by trees, and the darkness closing in, I took their words at face value and spent the night alternating between crying into my pillow and trying to figure out who would take me in now that I was an orphan.  I hoped I would fare better than Sarah in A Little Princess or Annie.  But with the morning sun came the revelation that the night had passed like all the others, and our parents were alive and well and sipping coffee in the kitchen.

Emily, Melissa, Will, Mary Kate, Jonathan 2008

For many years, while we lived closer and saw everyone more often, I looked forward to seeing my cousins.  I knew I could count on noise and activity, expeditions around the farm and whispered secrets, endless viewings of Turner and Hooch (one of three movies my grandparents owned, and apparently deemed child-friendly by our savvy parents).  It was a time when I knew we were having more fun at the kid table, when my grandparents had transformed their wooded "backyard" into a magical hiding place with a babbling brook and secret trails, and every moment was full of possibility.  We started to dwindle as first Christel went to college and got married, then everyone else followed suit.  My cousins moved to Massachusetts, Montana, Michigan, North Carolina, Georgia, and some ridiculously northern town in Ontario (Collingwood?).  And then it was my turn to fly the coop.  It didn't seem so important to come back, and my cousins became a memory.

But now, thanks to facebook and email, I'm looking forward to seeing them again.  I think we might have more in common than we think, and I'm hoping a little bit of what made those days special will transform our time together once more.  Its going to be a job, remembering who belongs to who, what's his name again, and where do they live?  Because we've multiplied, and I hope we can all squeeze into a picture with Grandma and Papa one more time.

What kind of Vert are you?

I had the immense privilege this past weekend to go out of town with a group of ladies who amaze and fascinate me, and perhaps the most amazing part is to realize that I am one of them, that there is a place for me in their group (there's a place here for you, come with us next time!).  As our time together was winding down, I was like an electric charge of energy, despite the very short night of sleep and the assured chaos waiting for me at home.  I thought, I must blog about this experience.  I need to write out what this weekend was for me in order to process how much I loved it (and also to answer my husband's barrage of questions without having to actually talk).  But once I sat before the computer, my brain refused to cooperate.  There was too much, I was exhausted, and it just wasn't going to happen that night.  So I hoped inspiration would come to me this week as I ease back into my every day routine.  And this is the first part that I can properly relay here.

After a day of conversations (how easy it is to talk to each of you...I loved how our words weaved in and out, how we could have one large conversation or 3 smaller ones, how it was more than just noise, but love and encouragement and laughter bringing us together), we ended the day at The Melting Pot for chocolate fondue, coffee, and even more talking.  Then came the question:  Are you an introvert or an extrovert?  Each woman spoke, gave her reasons and examples.  I considered not speaking up, because I was right in Mandy's eyeline, and I just knew that she would disagree with my answer.  Sure enough, when I said, "I'm an introvert," she responded, "What makes you think that?"  Well, dear Mandy, only my lifetime of experience being me.  HA!  But then I thought about it.  Is it possible to change from one to the other?  After spending decades as an introvert, could I have turned into an extrovert?

I am an introvert.  As a child, I lived in my imagination.  My parents love to tell stories about how Rachel could sit in a corner with a dish towel and a stick and entertain herself for hours, making characters and telling stories.  I have always had a small group of close friends, one or two "best friends", and everyone else intimidated me.  I was quiet anywhere public, terrified to talk to new people, completely mute the day a sub showed up to teach my first grade class.  But in private, with my friends or family, the people who knew me best, I was a ham.  I cracked jokes and my voice became loud and I could "be myself".  When I was 12, I found Melissa, my very best friend, and realized something magical had happened.  Because no matter how many strangers or new people I found myself with, as long as Melissa was by my side, I had the courage to be myself, in all of its loud, sarcastic glory.  When we went to separate colleges, I floundered, completely isolated and not knowing how to make a friend without Melissa there.  That was the year I started dating a boy who became the man I married.  And the magic continued.  Because Chris became, not just a crush or a love interest, but a friend.  Over the years, he has become my partner, my other half, and slowly, I have been able to pull back the curtains on my inner self.  And because of this unveiling, I am, for the first time, completely myself, comfortable with who I am and able to be that all the time, not just in certain approved locations, with an exclusive list of people.  I can meet someone new and say "Here I am, this is me!" and be content for them to take it or leave it.  As a mom, I've been forced to push the limits of my own comfort, with children who need an advocate and a spokesperson, being quiet and avoiding new people is just not an option.  Does that mean that I'm an extrovert?  I'm not sure.  I still need some time to myself.  I often escape to my room when my husband gets home and take some much needed alone time, a chance to regroup, be still, have no little hands grabbing at me.

 But I think there's something to Mandy's questioning.  I have moved out of my hiding hole at the extreme end of the introvert spectrum.  It comes from embracing what's inside, and sharing that with a man who welcomes the revelation.  It comes from rising to the role of Mama Bear, being the advance guard for my cubs.  And it comes from a comfort and love that are bigger than all of us, knowing that I am loved by my Creator, that I am living a life that was made just for me.