Blog Posts

October is gunning for me

10/4/2016

We were in a van. Roger was driving, and I was in the front passenger seat. The three youngest kids were in the backseats. The street ahead was crowded with people, many of them armed with enormous guns with wide barrels. Roger turned right at the intersection, but took the turn too fast and -- through a slow-motion series of events that can only happen in a dream -- the van ended up completely upside down in the middle of the now deserted road.

I unbuckled from my seat and crawled to the back of the van to free the kids from their car seats and seatbelts. They were unhurt, and I felt such relief! But relief soon turned to worry; how were we going to get out of this mess (read: how are we going to pay for this?), and WHERE THE HECK WERE THE PEOPLE WHO CAN HELP US?

Then gunshots, so many gunshots. I lost count of how many as I scrambled to keep my kids flat on the floor of the van (which was actually the roof) to avoid being hit by a bullet. The entire van was filled with the very palpable presence of fear and anxiety.

Fortunately, because it was a dream, the people shooting at us had terrible aim and no one was hit.

What does it mean? Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Scientists are keenly interested in sleep research and what happens in the brain when we slumber. Meanwhile, armchair philosophers claim to be able to interpret dreams. I've never given any of it much thought other than waking up from a particularly weird or scary dream with a deep sense of relief or sometimes longing.

But here's my private theory: October arrived again, as it always does, and sucked the air out of the room. October means pain.

And now, apparently, October is gunning for me and a few more of my kids.

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Age and Treachery

9/27/2016

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Today is a big day for my fourth born child because today she's 18 year's old! How is this possible? I mean, what sort of weird time-bending bubble do I live in where my children are aging faster than me? Surely I'm not old enough to be the mother of yet another child who has reached the age of adulthood.

Yesterday I realized something. When you're the oldest person in the classroom, don't shy away from it. Rather, you should own it! That's the thing I wish I knew last fall when I started back to school.

(I'm not always the oldest person in the classroom.)

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Music triggers

9/20/2016

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Some days more than others, I am reminded of how important music is to me. For instance, this song -- actually the entire album from which it came -- helped lull Max to sleep when he was a baby. I hadn't thought about this little memory tidbit in ages.

Thanks, Harvest Moon 2016, for allowing me to remember a little slice of joy from my life with my son.

Recently, I was sitting in Roger's music studio listening to a song that my 11 year old recorded when he was 6. I was simultaneously struck by 2 things:
1) It's really good.
2) When he dies, I'll want to know where to find this for the funeral.

That, my friends, is what my brain does every day.

Since then, I've had this next song running in continuous loop in my head. Facebook reminded me that I had shared this on my page in
2010, well before Max died and while deeply pregnant with my last baby when I was really worried about someone very, very dear to me.

If a song can stick with a person through many intensely emotional seasons, it must be good.

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My digits

5/21/2016

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This might sound really stupid and trivial in the grand scheme of things, but lately whenever I feel anxious, depressed, and inclined to listen to the voice in my head that tells me that I can't do anything on my own, I look at my fingernails.

You see, I was a dedicated nail biter for decades. I bit them until they were bloody and sore, then did it again and again and again. All day, every day. To my shame, my terrible example influenced my daughters to do likewise.

(This is the hand and these are the nails of a woman who tried and tried to stop chewing herself to injury for years, and each time she failed she felt lower than the last time until finally she convinced herself that her hands were just ugly like the rest of her.)

But now, look! I did it! I quit mutilating myself. So whenever I feel worthless and incapable, I look at my hands to remind me that I did this.

And if I can do this, I can probably do other things, too.

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Spring Rites

5/7/2016

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Mother's Day and graduation ceremonies are all colluding this year to kill me. Or at least that's what it feels like.

But first...

...Mamas, I rejoice with you as you celebrate and share the accomplishments of your children. You are so, so, SO very proud of them, and damn well you should be. You worked hard, prayed hard, cried hard, and loved hard to help shepherd them to reach their goals.

Ya done good, Ma.

I submitted one of my final projects tonight. With finals next week, I'm this close to finishing the semester, and unless I flub it completely, I think I will be able to maintain my 4.0 GPA for awhile longer.

But there's this heaviness, a weighty oppression that sucks the oxygen out of the room, that reminds me while I'm studying and while I'm not that none of this is normal.

Not one damned thing of this is normal.

Maxwell should be the one agonizing over finals week. Not me. In fact, Maxwell should be graduating from Kent State in six days.
I should be proud of all he's done and fretting about his future. I should be bragging about him on Facebook and bombarding my loved ones with photos documenting his triumphs. In short, I should be doing regular mom stuff.

I wish I could tell you that I am going somewhere with this maudlin navel-gazing. Alas. I am not. Except, perhaps, for this:

If you have a mother, please hug or call her this weekend. If you are a mother, please hug or call your children this weekend. And if you know a bereaved mother, please know that this is probably an intensively difficult time for her.

Mother's Day and graduation days are likely conspiring to undo her.

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Compassion: a conversation

4/28/2016

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Today a young woman sat down at a computer next to me in a study lounge, sniffling like crazy. I was working on a project, and from the way she sounded, I thought she had the Plague. I don't have time to deal with that. I mean, we have finals in a week. So I started to plot ways to save myself from her disease.

After a few minutes of sniffling, it started to sound like maybe it wasn't the Plague. It actually sounded like maybe she was crying. My brain processed this slowly while I sat there thinking about saying something basic like "Are you okay?"

My brain is slow. And I am a cad.

While I deliberated, a counselor (I'm guessing) came from out of nowhere and spoke soothingly to her and by then, the woman was in full-on sob mode. The counselor (God bless her) talked her into taking a break to have a chat with her.

And I sat there with the reality that I am an ass. I was worrying about germs while a person less than two feet from me was having a crisis.

Aren't we all though?

I think about compassion more than I act on it.

Me too. Being thoughtful and kind is hard.
And then you kick yourself because you weren't thoughtful, or you tried and just ended up sounding dumb and awkward.

Yeah.
I'm 45 years old and I still don't know how.

Some people have a gift.

Like that counselor. Where did she come from? Who alerted her? Does she have a spidey sense for stuff like that? Because it's a big campus.

Maybe somebody else saw the crying girl and also doubted their ability to be compassionate, so they alerted the counselor.

Probably.

Or maybe the counselor just has a superpower.

Absolutely. Yes times infinity. I missed an opportunity to show compassion to a fellow student in dire need of someone willing to lend her some time. The woman who approached her, engaged with her, and presumably gave her a bit of comfort is a super hero. I am humbled.

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Pain

4/20/2016

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I had to go to Kent State Tuscarawas campus today to drop off some paperwork. As I was arriving, a young man driving a red Cavalier was leaving. It looked just Maxwell's car, and the young man could have been his age, too. I know I told you all last month that I used to dread seeing cars like that, but that now I look forward to it because it's an opportunity to say, "Hi Max!"

Today's sighting was different. Today I imagined what it was like when Max left campus that sunny afternoon, oblivious to the fact that he would never make it home. Today it hurt. Today I'm reminded anew of the future that was taken from me when he died.

He would be graduating from Kent State next month if only...

I should be planning his graduation party; instead I'm reeling again from a sucker punch to the gut.

Death is a miserable bastard.

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We're experts in inefficiency

4/11/2016

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I was late to school today. We're nearing the end of the semester, and it's starting to feel like I'm late for everything, even my thoughts.

In between classes I took a moment to check my Facebook on my phone. Facebook likes to remind me of things that I posted about last year, the year before, and so on. Naturally, since I'm a sucker for nostalgia, I took a look.

Oh my.

Apparently, my goats have an organized and coordinated effort to escape their shackles. And also, apparently, I write about it every year.

You might chalk this up to random happenstance, but I'm not so sure. I think there might be an animal conspiracy at work here. Further evidence (like I need more, because hello? I think I made my case already): tonight at dinner I learned that one of the lambs broke out of his enclosure shortly after I left for school.

They're coming for you. You've been warned.

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Hi Max!

3/20/2016

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Just about every day, sometimes multiple times a day, I see a red Chevy Cavalier like the one Max drove. In the months after he died, it used to really upset me. I mean, I can still see in my mind's eye his little car parked in the driveway, and I can still see the smashed wreck of his vehicle and hear the buzz of the metal saw the rescue workers used to free him from his metal prison...

...but now.

But now I look forward to passing one of these cars on the road. Every time I do, my heart says, "HI Max!" For a split second in time, we're connected again. I relish it.

There will come a time when this won't be as common an occurrence, I know. And I dread that inevitability. But until then, every red Cavalier circa 1999 or thereabouts that I encounter brings me comfort.

I miss my son in ways I am incapable of expressing.

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A Sure Sign of Spring

3/10/2016

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This is Sally. In October of last year, Sally and her herdmates were each bred to our Lamancha buck so that in the spring, they would have babies. And we would have milk.

(Goat pregnancies last about 5 months, so the time is near for babies to be born.)

A couple of weeks ago, Calvin -- my intrepid 10 year old goat farmer -- told me that Sally wasn't eating like the rest of the goats and that she spent much of her time lying down.

This is almost always bad news.

Fearing the worst, I went down to the barn to check her out. I did a thorough examination and could find nothing wrong with her. Her temperature was fine. Her eyelid color was nice and pink. Her poop looked normal. She wasn't in pain, and her respiration was normal. She was chewing her cud, and when offered food, she ate it with gusto.

So I concluded that she was just in the very end stages of pregnancy and didn't have the energy to fight the other goats for access to the hay feeders. And then I prayed that I was correct in my diagnosis.

This past Sunday morning, as the family was scrambling to eat breakfast, get dressed for church, and finish all the animal chores, Calvin hollered from the door: "SALLY HAD BABIES!"

Well alright then! All hands on deck in the barn!