Ode to Clothes

Yeah, I know—it's a poem (not mine--do I look mean?). Give it a shot. It's easy and you might like it.

Ode to Clothes

Every morning you wait,
clothes, over a chair,
to fill yourself with
my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Barely
risen from sleep,
I relinquish the water,
enter your sleeves,
my legs look for
the hollows of your legs,
and so embraced
by your indefatigable faithfulness
I rise, to tread the grass,
enter poetry,
consider through the windows,
the things,
the men, the women,
the deeds and the fights
go on forming me,
go on making me face things
working my hands,
opening my eyes,
using my mouth,
and so,
clothes,
I too go forming you,
extending your elbows,
snapping your threads,
and so your life expands
in the image of my life.
In the wind
you billow and snap
as if you were my soul,
at bad times
you cling
to my bones,
vacant, for the night,
darkness, sleep
populate with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
if one day
a bullet
from the enemy
will leave you stained with my blood
and then
you will die with me
or one day
not quite
so dramatic
but simple,
you will fall ill,
clothes,
with me,
grow old
with me, with my body
and joined
we will enter
the earth.
Because of this
each day
I greet you
with reverence and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one
and we will go on
facing the wind, in the night,
the streets or the fight,
a single body,
one day, one day, some day, still.


- Pablo Neruda

Just Whining

Speaking to me is a bit risky these days. I burst into tears without warning. Not without reason, just without warning. Wanna talk about my mom's cancer? Leakage. Wanna talk older children's testimonies? Shaky voice. Tears. Snot. How's about the homeschooling of my special daughter? Bewildered look. Quivering lip. A muttered mention of an upcoming appointment with the pediatric neurologist which might (or might not) yield helpful information.

New charter school for three of the kids? Good for two. Pretty unpleasant for one. It's likely I can get through that subject with a totally calm face. But don't ask how I'm feeling. Don't ask how my husband's business is going. Or how the finances are coming along. Definitely don't ask how all these stressors affect my poor husband.

How's the rheumatoid arthritis? Better, thanks. Yay, I can hold a convo on that one. The weather? It's been strange lately, don't you think? As long as I stay away from anything that I need to talk about I can talk. Ironic, no?

I've taken to ditching Sunday School for the family history library. (Dead folks ask no questions. If they're rejecting the gospel, they are keeping it to themselves. There's not a thoughtless comment among them.) At home (in between dealing with all of that weepy stuff) I've planted my butt in front of the twenty-some odd seasons of Star Trek in all it's mind-numbing diversity.

The bishop wants to meet with Sam and I to talk. I can't think of anything I'd rather do less than cry for the bishop, but I can't even manage to say that without crying. Maybe I can pull off the first lady adoring gaze at my husband while pondering peaceful fields of wildflowers. I don't have a good hat, but I still think I can do it. Sam can field the questions.

But then again the bishop might just be asking us to work in the nursery. He's a nice guy; I'm sure it'll be fine. Tearful, but fine.

The Snack Time Minefield

Nine years ago when Nat was a Kindergartner, we had some issues with class snack. We were montessori-ing it at that point, and snack time and civility was a big deal—bring your own placemat. So the plan was that every twenty days we'd bring snack for twenty kids. Simple enough, no? No.

First came vegan mom's horror, Oreos. ("What kind of person would feed their five-year-old Oreos?!? At 10 in the morning!?!" [I plead the fifth.])

Then came nut allergy mom. ("Actually, if any of the kids eat peanut butter before they come to school, would you mind bathing them thoroughly before they leave for school? In fact, could you just stop eating peanut butter in your homes? Thanks!")

Then the dairy allergy raised it's ugly head. ("Not everything. Just milk, yogurt, cheese, butter, sour cream, those sorts of things. Bread is OK.")

"Please no wheat allergy. Please no "dried fruit causes cavities" dentist's kids, please!" became my prayer. I distinctly remember the day I went to make ants on a log and bought cream cheese to use instead of pb, but then realized that cream cheese was dairy. OK, ants next to a log.

Such a stress. It took months before the teacher came to the conclusion that everyone should bring their own snack for civility time. In the meantime, I just brought in boxes of back-up snacks and tried to stay out of the line of fire.

It's hard to find something that works for twenty different mom/kid combos. One person's yum is another person's yuck. Hummus, a favorite of vegan mom, gagged my daughter. People's definition of healthy varied widely. Although most of us recognized Oreos as a nutrition fail, fruit snacks, yogurt, and muffins also raised a ruckus among some parents.

Fast forward to Caroline's class which started last week, it took precisely two days and a glance over everyone's health forms to reveal that some of our cuties have nut allergies (almonds, walnuts, pecans—no peanuts, amazingly enough) and dairy sensitivities. By that night an email went out explaining the issue and explaining the new snack procedure. It was pretty complicated: bring something your child can and will eat in a container marked with her name. Works for me.

But here's where my brain stalls out. You can run into kids with conflicting needs. My best friend's son had food issues. He ate nothing but Jif smooth peanut butter and honey bear honey on Home Pride butter-top white bread (PBH). What happens when that PBH boy is in the same school as death by peanut fumes girl?

When Nat was in fourth grade she couldn't bring PB in her lunch, because there was a girl in her class that had a preschool sibling at home who had a deadly allergy. There's an entire school in our district that is peanut-free. And I get it. You can't just say, "Suck it up and carry an epi-pen! Gotta enter the real world sometime, kid." But can you say, "OK, we'll go to tube feeding for you, PBH kid"?

I'm guessing most people would vote for PBH boy to just be hungry until he gets home and say that if you just feed a picky child a variety of healthy foods and don't give them their food of choice when they fail to eat the options before them, they'll get hungry enough to eat something other than PBH. Eventually. I bear my testimony that there are children in the world who will not eat rather than eat undesired food. I've met them. I've seen heroic efforts put forth by admirable parents. I've seen the kids begin to waste away. Not pretty in a land of plenty.

So what to do when picky runs into food allergy? No clue. And I'm glad I don't have to decide it. Just glad our Kindergarten teacher decisively took care of snack so quickly.

Stand Strong, Little Domino

I know you're thinking "what's with the domino?" If you're not, you should be, because the sweetness of this gift is all about the domino. It's a gift from a kind and busy woman. This week, one of the speakers in sacrament meeting had been talking about adversity, and afterwards my friendly acquaintance and I were talking about life's challenges and I shared my domino image.

When things get tough and it seems like things are hitting from all sides, I have a mental image that holds me together—dominoes. I see lines of dominoes all converging at a single domino. And then from that single domino come another set of domino lines, from which spring even more domino lines. The first set all fall one after another, and then stop at the single domino. That domino stands strong and doesn't knock over the remaining lines.

I'm not saying I'm Super Domino. I'm not. And something may happen down the line that topples the setup, but it won't be me. It won't be because I quit. I don't want to do hard things. I'd much rather life was fluffy and more picturesque, but it's not. And I have dominoes depending on me. Most of the dominoes that strike me are things or situations, but all of the dominoes that stand in front of me are people. People worth standing strong for, regardless of the pressures from behind.

So that's the deal with the domino (and the flowers are pretty too).

My Yvil Sister is Concerned

I'm not feeling particularly depressed or insane, but my sister who despises blogging recently hinted that perhaps I'd be a bit more sane if I started blogging again. In the same conversation, she suggested that therapy might be an option or maybe a caretaker's support group. I guess she thinks I have an issue. Perhaps she has a point. I could use an outlet. I could use a thought-comber, something to untangle the nasty, painful knots of thought I've got. Obviously I've used the blog as a therapist before--I have a whole slew of past posts under "blogging is cheaper than therapy." Therapy is expensive and blogging's cheaper than almost everything.

I did go to the caretaker's support group with the yvil-sister a few weeks ago and I don't think going with her is going to be particularly supportive. There was one other person there, another care-giving daughter, about twenty years older than us. The poor woman hardly got a word in edgewise as we pumped the social worker for info and opinions. The social worker (in self-defense I think) gave us a few books which are proving helpful.

I've been walking with a friend, one of the smartest, kindest women I've hung out with in a long time. That's been therapeutic, physically and mentally. (I've been taking a new medicine for rheumatoid arthritis which has enabled me to exercise for the first time in years. Guess that's a subject for a different post though.)

Don't have time to fiddle and edit the post. But that's the news and I guess I'll try blogging again to see if my sister feels better.

Sad News

My mother-in-law died on Thursday after courageously going through nearly four years of chemo. (Not a whiner, my mother-in-law.) I'm surprised at how sad I feel. We weren't close. If she lived another twenty years, we wouldn't have become close, but she is the mother of the dearest man in the world and the grandmother to my favorite six kids. Her death is a reminder that my mother's is coming. That mine is coming.

OK, now I'm going to go watch a comedy and laugh until I cry.

Longer than a facebook update, but not much.

I know most people who visit my blog are here to look at lice-ish pictures, but for the few who come because they know and love me, here's a quickie update. In January, my mom came super-close to death. The second chemo treatment left her gasping and pretty much unable to get out of bed. Freaked me out. So she stopped chemo for a while and then started up a different type. Same meds, but by pill instead of IV pump. And it's going much better. Looks like she'll be able to complete this set. She just finished up her third two-week round. I think they're doing another nine. She's tired, but not nigh unto death. She's back to talking about her 10-year plan. I think the 10-year plan would be miraculous, but I'm glad to hear about it again. So now the borrowed computer is telling me I have 7 minutes, so farewell for now. I miss blogging. Maybe I'll start again. Though I must say facebook is making me lazy. Like. Click. No thinking required. Anyhow, chao.

Miss Delacourt is Très Charmante.

I love me a good regency.

And what, pray tell, is a regency?

Well, let me tell ya.

You know this lady, right?

She wrote these novels,

All are set in Regency England

when the Prince of Wales was regent during

George III's insanity, 1811-1820.

They wore clothes like this:

(Just spent thirty minutes

staring at 19th century fashion images.

Where does the time go?)

Anyhow, back to regencies.

So, the thing is Miss Austen died a while back

and many addicts fans needed more.

More clothes, more banter, more romance.

More. More. More.

(It's sort of an insatiable little habit.)

Writers began to oblige the market.

(Georgette Heyer, Elizabeth Mansfield,

and Marion Chesney,

to name a few of my faves.)

Lots of sparkling dialog.

Glorious clothes.

Some farce.

A little social commentary.

Plenty of variety,

always returning to the basics,

frothy, sweet, fun and CLEAN romance.

In the 90s, publishers began to lose sight of the basics

when they began to encourage writers to filthify their work.

I stopped reading them.

In fact, so many readers stopped reading them

that authors stopped writing them.

I could only get my fix by re-reading.

Which sucked.

Enter Heidi Ashworth, novelist

When I realized that she wrote clean Regency Era novels.

I begged an advance copy of her first novel

Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind

which I blogged about here.

In general, I'm against sequels in romance.

Most characters just do not have the oomph to

make it through a sequel credibly.

Miss Delacourt and Sir Anthony do.

Grandaunt Regina and Lucinda do.

Miss Delacourt Has Her Day

maintains the Ashworth sparkle

without taking itself too seriously.

It's filled

with fun and romance and

longing and doubts

and clothes and banter and

obnoxious relatives

and sweet resolution.

I love this book.

I'm betting you will too.

Goodreads is giving away a copy.

Go Enter.
(By clicking the highlighted words.)

Also Heidi is having a Miss D-inspired rosy giveaway at her place.

Go see.

Made a Video For My Mom

It's three minutes of symbolic fun! OK, it's just symbolic. Not fun. But it made me cry to make it and it made my mommy cry to watch it. The good kind of tears. She wanted her friends to be able to see it so here it is. Cut to the chase if you like by going to about 2 minutes 10 seconds.

Sonnet XIX: When I Consider How my Light is Spent

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

John Milton

His and Hers

My husband and I don't actually have a lot in common, but the things we do are pretty big. For instance, my mother-in-law also has stage IV cancer. She was given a year to live a few years back. So he's has been dealing with this for a while. And I haven't understood him at all. I tried to restrain myself from nagging. (Don't you want to go spend time with your mom? Maybe you should send flowers? Do you want to send a card?) Because my husband's response has been that since she's not feeling well, she'd like a little peace and quiet, and he's going to give it to her.

My mom's been in the hospital all week, and I've gone as often as I could to be with her, to just sit there and watch her breathe, to get her a cup of peppermint tea, to do nothing at all. I've been keeping my mom's friends posted on her progress. And he doesn't get it. He thinks I'm being borderline cruel. Discussing her stuff. Staring at her while she's less than composed.

I'm sure there are times my MIL wishes he would step up the sympathy and attention and mine wishes I'd back off a bit. For the most part though, my mother-in-law appreciates his brand of support and my mom appreciates mine.

Makes me wonder: nature or nurture? I'd totally say it's a family culture thing, but my kids have been thoroughly trained in over-the-top sympathy responses and still I've got two who are give-em-their-space types. Maybe it's a gender thing. Maybe it doesn't matter. Too tired to tease out the tangles in this one.

It Sucks

Posting lots and lots over at my mom's caring bridge blog. Little details about her recovery from surgery. Everyone always wants more. They think they do anyway. They don't. I know I don't want to be as sure as I am that I'm going to lose her. Suspense sucks, but certainty is its own brand of hell.

I ran into a post somewhere from a guy who regarded his stage 4 cancer as a chronic disease and had vastly beat the odds. I've grasped onto that story. And I chant it to myself as I'm going to sleep and the surgeon's voice is replaying in my head, telling what he had found and where. A chronic disease. A chronic disease. Sometimes I even forget for a bit. Then I wonder why I feel so sad. Then I remember. And it sucks.

Regret

It's been a year. Almost to the day. My mother and I share a tumultuous history, but this was the tumultuous-est, an argument that was all the more vicious because everything that was said was true.

During the nastiness my mother posted a vague something on facebook that hurt and angered me. I clicked the "remove from friends" button then gloried in my newfound freedom. I could say whatever I thought without having to worry that my mom was going to be offended or nag me endlessly about something I had posted.

Healing has been slow. We've moved on. Kinda. I wouldn't re-friend her though. Even though she had asked nicely several times. Because I was right. I was right in what said. It needed to be said. And I would say it again. And she was wrong. Wrong in her original behavior and wrong in her response. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Besides I liked my freedom of speech. No mom on facebook.

Last Monday, she had a CT that showed a large mass in her colon. Thursday, a colonoscopy showed it to be cancer. Tuesday, I sat with her as the surgeon told her that there was very likely a second tumor in a different place. They wouldn't know until they got in there, but he was fairly sure. Stage IV. The fatal stage.

And you know what? I friended my mother on facebook last Friday. Because I was wrong. Wrong in my original behavior and wrong in my response. And I'm lucky. Because I got a little notice.

First Day of School

I'm homeschooling the whole clan this year. (Not the original plan, but we're working with it.) I've got a senior, a sophomore, an eighth-grader, a sixth-grader, a third-grader, and a preschooler. If I ponder it too deeply, I begin to get jittery.

Really though, the only difference between the day before school starts and the first day of school is that starting today I will begin to sing the Song of Math. Everything else works itself out with a lot of reading and co-op classes, but Math is painful and relentless. The first day of Math involves a lot of whining. The second goes better. If we get cocky and skip the third, the fourth will be as miserable as the first. In fact, every single time we skip a day of Math there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth when we start the next lesson. The principle holds true even on weekends. If they get Saturday and Sunday off, they seem to truly believe that they are done. For life.

Math Boy is the exception to this. He collects Calculus books. He likes the stuff. This more than almost anything testifies to me that we lived before this life. Jacob, he studied Math before he got here. And spelling. Because brilliant though I am, Math and spelling are not my strong points. And even if they were, I still couldn't have imparted that brilliance through any normal teaching methods. He's just wired for it. He picks it up by breathing. Not so for the rest of the monkeys. We labor for our Math accomplishments.

Anyhow, gotta run. No time to edit. It's time to start the joy of Math. Happy day to you all.

Weight, Weight, Don't Tell Me!

OK, so I'm forty pounds down. That's a lot, but 260 looks a lot like 300, so I don't have any new pictures.

For a short while I went the medically supervised weight loss route. (That'd be Ph*nt*rm!n* aka legal speed.) I felt like crap. After I took my pill in the morning, it was like I had been struck with narcolepsy. I wasn't hungry, but neither was I awake. The weight loss was swift, but not worth it.

At this point, I am just forgoing sugared foods. Since I am a compulsive overeater, with sugar and flour items topping the binge list, that action alone has been resulting in slow weight loss.

The "plan" is to add good things to my diet and eliminate things that trigger my binging or are just bad for me:

1. 'Bye sugar.
2. Buy fruits and veggies.
3. 'Bye white bread.
4. Buy whole grains.
5. 'Bye Diet Coke.
6. Buy water.

Number five may just keep moving down the list. To quote Miss Scarlett, "I won't think of it now. I can't stand it now. I'll think of it later." Today's job is no sugar and plenty of fruits and veggies. Later is a good time to ponder the rest of the list.