A Beauty You Cannot Yet Know

It has been brought to my attention that I do not have enough fun in my life; that at 45, my daily routine could be summed up as pedestrian. 

Upon reflection, I can see how that might seem to be true.  Any given day, I write, I clean, I exercise, I pray, I drive people from point a to point b, take my medication, ponder what I should read, nag people to do their homework and clean up from it all so as to start again the next day. 

There aren't any bass guitar playing lessons or uber cool swanky restaurants scheduled or tickets to a jazz ensemble.  I don't cook gourmet food, whittle, design art work, sew, swing dance or speak French.  I haven't learned to sculpt or mastered hyper organization or couponing such that we would merit a television show for our efforts.  My blogging is the equivalent of being My Space in a Facebook world.  As for accomplishments, we're just doing what is required and the day can measured in diapers and lunches and schedules and assignments and bath times, diet cokes and beds made.  Looked   at with such a jaded jaundiced eye, it's hard not to say, "Wheeeee."

It's not that I haven't made my mark in the world. I can point to a burn on my right hand in between my second and third finger from rescuing smoking popcorn from the microwave on Sunday.  It's not that I don't try new things.  Today I can boast that I vacuumed the basement and I made oven cooked pulled pork.  I also can prove that at some point, I stop.  The couch is nearly sagging from the laundry I haven't finished.  Mentally making a note, tomorrow, the vacuuming gets the day off so I can tackle the great mountain of towels. 

I fell asleep with the thoughts, "Not enough fun." ringing in my head.  And I remember thinking, I can see how it doesn't make any sense to stay home, to have all these or any of these children, to spend all of our money on food and tuition and everything other than new stuff for ourselves.

But when you have these people and you wake up at 1 a.m. because you just remembered something that must be done, and go to turn off lights, check the bathrooms for dripping sinks, slip a note with dollar under a pillow after finding the tooth, and put the blankets over your sleeping children, this is something of happiness that cannot be acquired any other way than willingly through service born of love.

Collecting three sippy cups, two bags of clothing and making a mental note of who needs socks and who needs shorts for the next day, these things are given without thought partially because it's so late, but partially because it has become habit. This service is a limited gift with a limited time, even though I've done it for 18 years thus far. Coming back to bed, they've been a speedy and to my mind, fun 18 years. Despite all the laundry, dishes, beds, trash, paperwork, bills, reading of Green Eggs and Ham and viewing of Dora episodes, diapers, potty training, bed time routines and finding of shoes,  I can recall all the drudgery but it seems a small price to pay. 

The day starts at 5:50 so I can unload the dishwasher from last night's dinner and start on making the 9 lunches and 10 breakfasts that must be served before 7:30 and in some cases, before 6:30 to ensure everyone gets out the door on time.   Vitamins, clearing the table, two diaper changes, third and forth run out to drop people off and things finally settle down.  I still have dry cleaning and a patrol of the three floors to do, then lunch, then errands to pick up formula, bananas, and maybe a loaf of french bread to supplement dinner and make it more palatable for those who don't like pasta. 

It would all be Sisyphean and pointless if it weren't for one thing.  Love.

It's not Pollyanna to say that all service is joy if done with love. Love requires sacrifice, requires work, requires effort, requires some level of surrendering that only seems like nothing to those who do not know of the sacrifice being made.  If service with joy is done correctly, no one sees any sacrifice, because the giver does not browbeat the recipient with knowledge of the gift being offered.  If parenting were simply a matter of duty, it would be drudgery.  But parenting must be more than mere duty to be real.  It is my job to create hearth and home and make this place welcoming, safe, comfortable and yes even fun, to set up the experience for them to enjoy, and to derive my greatest pleasure from watching them enjoy the party.  
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So this is for all of my children, so they will one day understand. 

My life does not fit on a resume, nor does it make for good bragging at a 30 year reunion.
But this life, with all that it isn't, with all that has been deferred and denied or allowed to wait, is more than I expected, and fuller than even I on my best moments, can comprehend.  And sometimes, being fallen, tired, frustrated or feeling self indulgent and self pitying, I forget entirely.  For those times, I'm sorry. 

It is hard to explain to anyone who is waiting for the adult life to begin, to everyone who doesn't yet comprehend why one would want to fall in love or to surrender everything for love except to say, it makes all burdens light, turns water into wine, and makes even the toughest times and hardest tasks possible. 

Having all of you is a gift, a beauty you cannot yet know or comprehend.  Serving all of you is also a gift, a great mercy: it keeps me from falling into a self absorbed world where it is my indulgences alone that determine what I shall and shall not do. The horror of such a life is that eventually, it becomes very dull and boring and yes, lonely.  My heart is full to bursting and never lacking for someone to love. 

And my life, while full of repetition, is never dull except if I allow it.  Any day, I can play with blocks, color, practice piano, get schooled in Mario Carts, pull a surprise victory in Magic, kick a soccer ball, bake cupcakes and give bubble baths.  Christmas and birthdays and Halloween and Easter rock, and as a friend told me, every day at my house, dinner is Thanksgiving.  I get to read Half Magic and Harry Potter and A Little Princess and Black Beauty and watch you discover them ten times over.  I promise you, the fun of life as an adult is in the details.

So while you don't understand it, I will tell you "Thank you." for this seemingly predictable life that can't be obtained via a degree.  

Thank you for all of it.  But I promise to have more fun while you're watching so you'll maybe get a better grasp of the bigger picture.  Tonight, I'm firing up the Lord of The Rings game, dibs on Legolas and you'd better watch out because once I get those fighting knives on fire, I'm unstoppable.

The Lost Story of Meeting Tony

Names have been changed to protect the young –not necessarily the innocent, a true story, warts and all.


Last week I took Jeane, Grace and Thomas to see Tony Melendez, the musician who plays guitar with his feet, as he has no hands. It was in the church at my kids' school. My girlfriends Claire and Susan had brought along their preschool aged children as well, Kobe and Greg.

Claire is a savy mom, way cooler than me and thought to bring tootsie pops for all the children to keep them quiet during the performance. We were all feeling very good, like “proper mothers,” because we were exposing our children to diversity and culture and music and all of that on an ordinary Tuesday and it was free.


Thomas happily sucked on his third tootsie pop five minutes before the concert started. He was strapped in his stroller and I was praying he’d fall asleep. Grace and Kobe were having a bit of a theological argument in the pew, books should be shut and put in the book holder, books should be opened and thumbed through. It was a quiet three year old skirmish, mitigated by tootsie pops.


The microphones were turned on. All eyes were on the small stage that had been set up on the altar, as the classes from the school filed in to take their seats. Members of Tony’s band and family have arrived. The crowd hushes.


Tony comes out and introduces himself. Jeane looks at Tony as he starts to speak. She immediately begins to suck her finger hard and twirl her hair. She does this when she gets stressed. The music starts. People are clapping, singing along and I think, “She’ll get into it, she loves singing.” Jeane continues to stare hard at Tony. We are ¾ of the way back in the Church but she is on the end and has a clear view. She sucks harder. A blister is starting to form. I try to get her to sing like her sister, Grace or her friend, Greg. Kobe is dancing, even Thomas is humming. My girl friends chime in with additional maternal pressure, trying to encourage her to engage.


She violently shakes her head “No.” and I know, in my head, I can feel the tsunami of feeling coming towards me, “It’s going to get worse.” My mom voice whispers.


The first song ends and Jeane begins poking me. “Where are his hands?” she demands. I explain about the same time Tony does to the audience. “He doesn’t have hands.”
“Why not?”
“He was born without them.” I explain.
“Will our baby have hands?” she asks, pointing at my pregnant belly.
“Yes.”


She begins holding her hair and sucking harder. A mean thought crosses my mind, to mention she could lose her hand by sucking and twirling but I just pat her back. Jeane puts on her coat. She never wears her coat. She stamps her feet. I ignore it. Knowing we are not leaving, she slumps next to me, still sucking her finger. I stroke her hair. By mid song, my attention has wandered to Thomas, to Grace, to the music, to Tony, and then I look over.


Jeane is in the fetal position on the pew, with her coat over her, covering every inch of her body. I peek under, she has her eyes shut, her finger in her mouth, her hair is a knotted mess and she is shaking. She opens one angry eye at me and pulls the jacket back over her face.


Feeling annoyed and embarrassed, like she is way overdoing it for someone who is five, I pull the jacket off her, stuff it behind me and explain, she is going to sit. She is going to sit up and she is going to stay for the rest of the concert. Clare sends me a concerned mother look and offers to take her out of the building. But I have my back up. I have decided, she needs to be stretched a little and this won’t hurt her.


Jeane sits stiffly for the next thirty minutes, her fingers are red and several knots will have to be cut out of her hair. I don’t care. I feel mad at me and her because the concert has been lost on both of us in the process and I wonder what if anything did Grace get out of this, let alone Jeane. I know Thomas got three lollipops and a nap.


That night, I search the kids’ library for something to help, and find Shriver’s “What’s Wrong with Timmy,” Jeane hangs on every word and seems to be better so I start to relax about the whole thing. I still worry about how to help her with the next encounter.


That weekend, Tony played at the 10 am mass, and Jeane sees him. She does not flinch or even suck her finger, but after she knows it is him, she just stands like a statue for the duration of his meditation song. My older son buys a cassette of the music.


Moving on the next week, I am cleaning up after Thomas has ransacked the girl’s room. Grace is on the bed, playing with her baby dolls and some cardboard musical instruments she made at school. She has a drum, (coffee can), a horn (paper tube with tape and streamers) and a guitar with rubber band strings.


She explains to me as I go about cleaning up, “My baby is playing like in the church.” She moves the doll’s feet to pluck the rubber bands. “I can do it too.” She plucks the strings with her toes. And somehow, everything was better.


Thought you would like to see what I learned today, don’t get so worked up, and everything will work out.


Postscript, this morning, "Jeane" went nuts this morning as only a young adolescent can at the fact that her sister "Grace" took her shirt. Today is a mass day and they have to wear button downs, which Jeane hates to the point of wearing a sour face whenever she must endure such a garment. Having to opt for a long sleeved button shirt as versus a short was beyond her coping ability. She refused to get dressed. A cat fight ensued.



As I am laying down the law about such tizzies in the morning to one, the other slips into the closet and comes back with a short sleeved button down to replace the unbearable long one. All is right with the world and I start looking for her to twirl her hair into knots or a blister on her finger.



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