Thought for the day

The longer I live, the more I am rendered speechless. I'm expecting to be a mute by age 40.

Heavy, Heavy Hang Over My Poor Head

Remember when we used to say that at birthday parties? "Heavy, heavy hang over thy poor head." And then we'd smack the birthday kid in the head with our gift and say, "What do you wish me with a bump on the head?"

Where do these strange traditions come from?

But I digress. There is heaviness hanging over my poor head and not in the form of gift wrap. I am going to stop challenging the Universe with thoughts like, "This year can't get any worse." I'm beginning to fear it's like tossing the Universe a soft ball, and the Universe can't resist proving you wrong.

This has been a monumentally difficult year and on Friday it got exponentially worse. (That's right, I'm pulling out the five-syllable guns for this one.) As one dear friend of ours is fighting the good fight against cancer, another of our dear friends was snuck up from behind by it, sniper-style, with what looks like a fatal blow to the pancreas. And the ripple effect of that blow has brought us to our knees. In a year filled with heartache, frustration, worry and angst, there's nothing quite like the looming death of a loved one to be the proverbial cherry bomb on top and change your perspective on just about everything. And I mean everything. The problems and stresses of Thursday seemed embarrassingly manageable by Friday afternoon. I can't even feel bad about my lack of employment in good conscience anymore.

I feel especially drawn to my kids right now. I want to soak them up and hope that their resilience rubs off on me, just like their scent of must and grass stains. They take terrible news in great stride. They care, they love our friend as we do, and yet they keep moving along finding joy in the same places they always have--candy, corny TV shows, friends, and pizza. They don't try to resist the news, spinning the wheels of "whys" and "what ifs" as if they will turn back time and give us a chance to undo what is already done. Is it because they are still operating in a world protected by the umbrella of our love and security? Because the structure of their world--mom, dad, house, food--is still in place? Or is it because they understand more than we do that there is very little in this life that we can control, and it's only as we get older tinkering with checkbooks, thermostats, and career paths that we mistakenly believe we are in charge?

My first reaction on Friday was to cry. My second was a fleeting determination to stop loving people because it often includes instances of pain. My third was to try to approach this situation with acceptance. My fourth was to bake.

And the baking, as it turns out, was the most productive thing to do. Our friend seems to have developed a healthy sweet tooth in spite of his physical decline. Apparently a cookie can provide temporary joy in this temporary life. Apparently when there seems to be nothing to do to help, a small act of kindness is something.

The kids probably could have told me that.

Emotional Growth: As Seen On TV

Something is happening to me. It's the kind of thing I expected to happen around the time of Christian's high school graduation or maybe when I decrease the time between my hair appointments to keep up the blondification of the increasing gray hairs. As it is, I am only 33 years old with only one silver eyelash---a persistent one I have to keep plucking out---and two little boys who still get excited about Legos. But still, something is happening to me.

Maybe I brought it on prematurely with the purchase of the Clapper, a product I've fallen in love with since its arrival at my doorstep last month. We have a wonderful working relationship, the Clapper and I. I stand in applause and it lights up my life, and then we do it again in reverse. As much as I love the Clapper, maybe it's the cause of the something that's happening to me.

The something is a haunting, a mild ache in my chest, a tendency to be sentimental, reflective, and quick to produce tears. It happens at inopportune times, like at Max's second grade class program a few weeks ago. The class was strung across the room singing a cheery song about being America's kids, America's future. I cried because it was true. It was very inconvenient. Most everybody else was chuckling at all the nose-picking and fidgeting of America's future. But I was crying. I was also crying because of the old wrinkled granny in the audience who was shaking her head and lamenting about the number of Mexican kids in the class. She didn't think they should be part of America's future. That made me cry too.

In the name of full disclosure as I ponder this mystery, I should also admit that I have recently been outfitted with a Snuggie. I did it to myself. In fact, I outfitted the entire family in them for Christmas. We don them while watching movies together or reading books. Today I found Max in his tan church pants, no shirt, and his child-size blue Snuggie worn backward, robe-style. He resembled a young, blond Moses. He parted the couch pillows and settled into a cartoon. He's America's future, you know. I'm wearing my Snuggie as I type this, and I am comfortable declaring my affection for it. The Snuggies are wonderful. Ridiculous? Yes. The cause of my sentimental streak? Perhaps.

Maybe the combination of the Clapper and the Snuggie is the reason why, at plenty o'clock one morning I was alone by the Christmas tree, watching a movie about a family. There were funny parts that made me laugh and sad parts that opened floodgates of emotion. And instead of policing the emotion and rationing its release, I surrendered to it. I let the tears and heavy sighs have a free-for-all with me. I bathed in all of the wonderful sadness. If I'd had a spoon nearby, I would have eaten it. I was wrapped in an overwhelming feeling of content. My soul reached from the inside out, tugged at my ear and whispered, "Just FEEL!"

The feeling thing is a big part of the something going on with me. It's not just feeling emotions at classroom programs and midnight movie viewings, though. It's a new version of feeling, an emotional upgrade of sorts to my internal software. The emotions are accompanied by a new understanding that I have no need to transform them, explain them, or resolve them as I used to believe. I don't have to find ways to turn sad into happy, scared into secure, lonely into loved. Everything is what it is. Feel it, embrace it, and let it go.

Is all this written in the fine print of the Clapper user manual? I'm not sure. I throw away users manuals.

If it's true that these As Seen On TV products propel the aging process and its accompanying maturity, I'm conflicted. I'm enjoying my new outlook on life, not to mention the comfort and convenience of on-demand ambient lighting and soft fleece. But are there other, less-enlightening side effects headed my way? Hot flashes? Hip replacements? Bingo nights? Only time will tell.

In the mean time, however, I'm going to put off ordering the Perfect Brownie Pan or the Microwave Pasta Boat. I can only handle so much wisdom at once.

The Family That Saves Together

Since losing most of my job a couple of weeks ago, we've been fully engaged in Operation Tight Belt around here.  I have to tell you, it's pretty amazing how much money we've been able to save by doing just a few simple things, such as:

• turning off lights 
• lowering the thermostat a bit
• wearing clothes more than once 
• eating at home
• letting the dog clean the dishes
• charging the neighbor kids to use our bathroom
• panhandling
• shoplifting
• extortion
• blackmail
• knocking over convenience stores

I'm happy to say that we've really grown together as a family, and you simply can't put a price on that.

(Seriously, though, things are okay here. A great big thank you to everyone who has reached out with support and networking. I am blessed with the world's best friends and family. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Good things are to come.)

A Change of Plans

Max was in a melancholy mood the other night. He explained that after a lot of thought, he was going to stop saving up for a Lamborghini. It wasn't a realistic dream. He had eight dollars in his wallet and he figured it was going to take every nickel from every petsitting job from now until adulthood to have enough for his beloved car. And even though he was sure he could do it, he realized that he would probably want to purchase other stuff along the way, like video games and candy.

Goodbye, Lamborghini. Easy come, easy go.

He consoled himself by googling images of Mustangs and Camaros. His plan now, he explained, was to purchase one of each. The two-seater Camaro for himself and the four-seater Mustang for the wife and kids. I nodded approvingly.

There was a lot of life planning going on beneath all that blond hair. When I told Ryan about it, he thought it was sad. When I told the neighbor about it, she thought it was hilarious. When I think about it, I'm somewhere in between.

Do you remember the plans you made as a child?

I Under-Think, Therefore I Get Stuff Done

My dad left me a voicemail a few days ago. He was checking in to say he missed my voice. I saved the message because it was sweet.  And the funny thing is, I've been missing my voice too.

I've been guilty of over-thinking lately. I highly discourage the practice of over-thinking for myself. It's not my job. Ryan is the resident over-thinker, and he's quite good at it. He can think about and analyze and discuss something 1,152 times before breakfast. And although I often accuse him of mortally wounding a dead horse to deathly death, his over-thinking is often valuable and productive. He foresees issues and problems in advance, and often skirts disasters both minor and epic on a regular basis.

I am best off sticking to under-thinking. In fact, I run the Department of Under-Thinking around here. (The department logo is an instruction manual with one of those red circles and a slash over it.) It's a system of checks and balances, if you will. It keeps the flow flowing. It's the Metamucil of our marriage. Without thinking, I can make a decent meal, move the laundry along, remind my kid to flush and wash his hands, write and edit seven headlines, remind my other kid where his baseball glove is, come up with the name of singer you're trying to remember, change the toilet paper roll and write an above average blog post. Let it be written---every family needs a good under-thinker.

But remember to keep your boundaries, you under-thinkers out there. Don't let anybody convince you to forsake your shrug-and-do ways and dabble in the practices of measure twice, cut once. There are people taking care of that. You're in charge of the other stuff. The world needs your... what's the word? Hmmm. Can't think of it. Whatever. The world needs you.

I guess that's what I forgot. I've been neglecting my position, trying my hand at a little rumination, and working myself into a fine frenzy. I've been over-thinking my self, my writing, my writing goals, my body mass index, my parenting, my family, my relationships, my self-esteem, my philosophies, my lunch habits, and even my dishwasher loading techniques. There's a fine line between introspection (healthy) and intro-spewing (gross and chunky) and I'm afraid I crossed it. Unlike Ryan, my over-thinking is completely unproductive, a poorly made casserole of worry, doubt, and self-focus.

It's not that I'm a thoughtless dummy, it's just that I do a much better job of being who I want to be when I get out of my own way.

So {heavy sigh} I'm going back to the basics, retiring my thinking cap and settling back into life by the seat of my pants. Late tonight I realized that tomorrow is July and that I said I'd be back in July. And I almost made the mistake of pondering whether or not I was ready to jump back in to regular writing. And then I remembered my dad's voicemail. And then, without thinking, I sat down to write.

Life in the Lobby

Recently, Ryan cashed in some soon-t0-expire Sky Miles for magazine subscriptions.  (Did you know you can do that?  You can.)  

And now our family room feels eerily like a doctor's lobby, minus the fish tank.  Added to our regular subscriptions, there is a plethora of current reading material at arm's length for every member of the family. 

Our lobby includes (but is not limited to):

• People
  
• Time
  
• Glamour
  
• Sports Illustrated
  
• Sports Illustrated for Kids
  
• National Geographic for Kids
  
• Philadelphia
  
• Game Transformer
  
• Martha Stewart Living
  
• Real Simple 

I have to say that I'm enjoying life in the doctor's lobby.  There is always something to peruse.  And I like to peruse.  I even like just saying the word "peruse."

What do I do for a hobby?  I peruse magazines.

And I find that the more I peruse, the more I begin to speak in headlines.  Instead of calling my family to dinner, I shout: "A Budget-Friendly Dinner that Beats the Bistro!"

When Ryan and I sit alone on the porch,  I whisper in his ear, "Want to Know the 7 Things Women Can't Resist?"

When my children are restless and whining, I gather them at my feet and direct, "Say NO to a Sluggish Summer with 10 Easy Projects for Kids."

You see, what people who live in doctors' lobbies know that the rest of us don't is that life's biggest issues can generally be managed in five simple steps.  Sometimes less.  And with the use of a lot of alliteration.

I have to say, though, that I'm having sort of a strange conditioned response to one of my glossies.  The only time I ever purchased People magazine in the past was at the airport or gas station before a trip somewhere.  I always found it enjoyable to catch up on the latest celebrity gossip and hometown hero at the beginning of a vacation; it was my pre-furlough meditation.

But now when People shows up in my mailbox (every WEEK, by the way) I have a strange, unsettling feeling that I should hurry and pack my bags.  I'm trying to cope by reading the magazine and then promptly taking a trip to Costco.

And speaking of Costco, have you seen the giant magazine rack there?  Your Favorite Reads Now at Reduced Rates!

Oh dear.

This is getting out of control, isn't it?  Perhaps I need a doctor appointment.