12/24/09 - Merry Christmas Eve!

Merry Christmas Eve!

I remember when I was a kid, Christmas Eve was like the previews of Christmas Day. I spent all day hollering “Merry Christmas Eve!” to anyone and everyone who would listen. We had our big Christmas dinner with my grandfather and my great aunt on Christmas Eve and I would get to open one gift. I would painstakingly write my letter to Santa. I would slowly pour milk into my favorite glass for him to wash down the tasty iced sugar cookies my mom and I had labored over. I would lovingly peel the carrots left for his reindeer and set it all up together in the most prominent (but out of dogs’ reach) place I could find in the living room. Once everything was set up perfectly, I would go to bed, feeling dutiful in my need to be asleep quickly and without fight so that Santa could come to my house as quickly as possible. As if I could imagine him somewhere tapping his fingers on the side of his sleigh waiting for me to go to sleep as the minutes ticked by, quickly screwing up his efficiently run, once-a-year, delivery service.

The whole tradition of it was huge for me. As was my rock solid belief in Santa. I had friends at school telling me left and right that I was just flat silly to still believe in Santa. But I just knew that he was real.

One night, however, I was bolder than normal and when I awoke for no reason and saw the light still on in the living room, I crept to the doorway to try to catch a glimpse of Santa himself. I felt certain that I would see the fuzzy white trim on his bright red suit as I peeked around the corner.

Instead I saw my mom and dad laboring over the Barbie pool I would awaken to the next morning. I was heartbroken to say the least. But in the years to come, I chose to still believe in Santa. Barbie pool be damned. So when The Boy asked me tonight if Santa was real, I could without any doubt, say yes.

Trust-ish in the Process

The doctors let my dad go home this afternoon. The jack ass cardiologist (he is actually a jack ass, it’s not just that I disagree with him) decided yesterday that the main priority was to get his heart rate down and if they could manage that, then he could go home for the weekend and go back for the procedures on Monday as an outpatient. So it took two days and an obscene amount of medication, but they were able to get his heart rate down from the 150-160bpm range to the 90’s, which was their target. So they unhooked and unplugged and sent him on his merry way with the absolute instructions to do NOTHING for the next day and half. Seriously. Nothing. I think the doctor’s exact words were to “sit in your chair and watch football, nothing else.” That, at least, makes me happy.

I am not exactly thrilled that they let him go home. But it is what he and my mom wanted. It’s almost as if they are already treating him like a terminal case. Yes, their gut feeling is that the massive tumor in his lung is cancer. And yes, I know that if it is indeed a terminal diagnosis that he will choose the most intervention free path possible. So maybe they aren’t entirely wrong to look at him that way, but until we know something for certain, I’m just not going there. I want a diagnosis. I want a treatment plan. I want a prognosis. I want information and I would like to have it now. Instead I’m going to have to wait for Monday for the procedures and then Wednesday for the results. It’s infuriating.

It’s not that I like to be in crisis mode. I really don’t. But I really do thrive on information and until I get it, there’s just nothing for me to do except sit and wait. And do nothing. And I’m really not good at doing nothing when someone I love is in danger. To be still right now is taking a tremendous amount of faith and trust in the process. I guess it’s good practice for what is to come.

Unbecoming the Fixer

“If you can’t fix it, Jack, you gotta stand it….For as long as we can ride it. There ain’t no reins on this one.” – Ennis Del Mar, Brokeback Mountain

I’ve always been a fixer. I am the queen of research. Whenever I encounter a problem, big or small, I research it. I find out everything I can about it and then I put together a plan to fix it. It’s what I do. And unlike a lot of people who mostly just want people to listen while they vent, I would be more than happy if after I’m done venting someone would step in and just fix whatever it is that I’m railing about. I like quick fixes. It speaks to the instant gratification part of me. I like certain fixes; the ability to know something inside and out and then make it work for you. So much of everyday life exists in hues of gray that I deeply appreciate those times when things are black and white enough to be able to fix them.

But for the majority of life, there are no reins, no fixes. You just have to hold on and ride it out, for as long as you can stand it. And that’s the part that I’ve always had trouble with.

I think though that I’m learning how to appreciate those times where the issue at hand cannot be fixed and must only be stood. I’m learning how to use those times to my advantage. Because even if it can’t be fixed, the opportunity to thoroughly learn it still exists. The moment of being can so easily be transformed into the chance to become.

And I think that it’s taken me so long to learn this because I was so utterly attached to the action; the choice to make each moment into something other than what it already is. But this newfound faith is allowing me to see that each moment stands on its own, regardless of my action within it. It simply is, with or without my choice to act. Once I’m able to let go of the need to act, I can then know each moment in its entirety.

Wily Universe Renewal

The call came today. The one that I’ve been hoping for, but didn’t really expect to receive. My alma mater called today. Even as the HR Director was saying hello and asking how I was, I fully expected her to say that they had chosen who to interview and I wasn’t one of them. And then she said the exact opposite of that and said they wanted to interview me next week. Next week?!? Normally that would be more than enough time to figure out childcare and preparations. But this interview is in Nebraska. And The Boy starts school on Monday. A school whose handbook clearly states that parents should not take their children out of class unless absolutely necessary.

So as I could feel the adrenaline starting to pulse with the anticipation of having this interview in a week. I could also feel the panic start to set in as I was quickly trying to figure out how to make all of this happen. I asked if I could call her back so I could make arrangements, called my husband to see if he could get the time off, which he couldn’t. Called my mom not really expecting her to be able to help much except to brainstorm with me. Sent emails to all of my friends who still live in the area around my college to see if they had any ideas. And waited for inspiration to strike, or maybe the fingers of the universe to reach down and work their wily ways and just make it all work out.

And you know what? Those fingers got right to work. My mom called me back to ask what day the interview was and then to tell me that she’d be here the day before I had to leave to drive back there and would stay through the weekend to help with the kids. Just like that, it all worked out. It’s moments like that that renew my faith. Moments like that and the fact that my dear friend R had her sweet baby boy today, on her birthday.

Moments like that, healthy babies and the fact that my mom is a rock star.

Handle with Care

I’ve sort of always had this impossible image set for myself.

One of the perfect friend who always remembers everyone’s birthday, how they take their coffee, always has something perfect on hand to say to celebrate or soothe and can always be counted on to come through for every imaginable situation.

One of a perfect mother who never gets frustrated with her children, who always has fun activities planned to further their education and creativity, who above all else puts their needs and wants ahead of my own.

One of a perfect wife who always cooks scrumptious meals in perfect timing, who keeps a clean and organized house, who is always ready and willing to support my husband in whatever way he may need.

One of a perfect daughter who is always grateful for her parents teachings and sacrifices, one who is always available for their need or want and one who is always willing to return those sacrifices.

One of a perfect citizen who is always informed and prepared to act on my civic duty, one who contributes whatever wealth I may have to those who have none and one who is constantly aware of my personal responsibility to my fellow human beings.

And I think my biggest self doubt comes from the fact that I’m very few of these things. I yell at my kids daily. I haven’t vacuumed for two weeks. I can’t remember the last time I watched the news. I hardly ever say thank you to my parents outside of cheesy greeting cards for one holiday or another. The list could go on and on, and it does most days. I reel through countless ways in which I do not live up to these images I’ve set for myself.

But I suppose one of the things I’m trying to learn is how to reconcile my need for my own personal perfection with the restraints of every life. In short, I’m trying to learn how to give myself a pass. Hoping not to let myself totally off the hook to pick up a life of mediocrity, but instead to handle myself with as much care as I want to handle others.

Where Does God Live?

The Boy: “Where does God live?”.

Me: “I don’t know where he lives. Some people think he lives in the sky, some people think he lives in the stars, some people think he lives in the trees and the oceans and the earth, some people think he lives in the moon and some people think he lives in your heart. Where do you think he lives?”

The Boy: “I think he lives in the stars. That’s where I would want to live.”

I have absolutely no idea where this question came from today. We are not a religious family. I’ve never been baptized and neither have either of our children. I mean I went to Catholic school for first through fifth grades, and I went to youth group in high school (solely for the friends, not the church) and was one class away from a religion minor in college (solely from an academic point of view, I loved studying the mythology behind religion), but that is the full extent of my religious involvement. I have always had a hard time with religion. I’ve grilled many friends into the ground about their faith and beliefs, many to the point where they just ended up yelling at me to leave them alone. I’ve read and researched and studied. I’ve tried to do religion. Because I would love to be a part of the community inherent in religion. And I would love to have the certainty that faith gives you; the trust. But it has always been a struggle for me.

The Boy went to a Jewish preschool for three years, but that is the full extent of his religious exposure. And this is the first time that he’s ever asked me about God or anything else religious for that matter. He started singing the Jewish children’s songs from the age of 2 and would re-tell me the stories he heard (particularly the ones with his name in them). But that was about it.

I find myself both grateful for and scared of this question. Scared that I will provide wrong answers. Grateful that I get another crack at understanding this level of faith through my son’s eyes.

Faking It

“It was an act of complete faith, so simple yet so grand that it took my breath away.” Bonnie Wach

Another saying that I grew up with was “fake it till you make it.” The first time my mom said this to me I wanted to scream at her. Because faking it was not an acceptable way to make it through the days. It felt like lying. That I could just waltz through my days faking confidence, faith or self-esteem. But the deeper I plunge into the piled up luggage fort in my past the more I’m starting to see the wisdom in those words.

It’s not a dishonest act. It’s a simple way of trying to re-train yourself. It took a long time for me to believe that I wasn’t pretty or that I was worthless or stupid. It took a long time to form the conviction that I wasn’t worth being loved. Logic dictates that it will take just as long to unlearn those unfortunate traits. So faking the opposite of those is one way to re-learn how to look at myself in a more honest way. The thought being that if I fake it long enough, there will eventually come a time when I actually stop believing those things to be true and will at long last be able to objectively look at myself as the intelligent, beautiful, confident woman that I am.

But every day becomes a walk of faith. Faith that that day is indeed coming. Faith that my faking it will be good enough. Faith that I can make it through the day with borrowed beliefs that I can one day adopt as my own.

The simple act of facing each day with head held high, shoulders back and anticipation instead of dread is actually so grand that it should take my breath away. And it does. When I let myself see my own courage. When I let myself see my own wisdom. When I let myself see my own spirited gait floating across the landscape of this life. Those days are coming closer and closer together. It is a lot of work teaching an old dog new tricks.

Walking the Talk and Talking the Walk

“Now we understand that the blanket really does protect Linus and that Schroeder really does play lovely music on a toy piano, because both of them keep at it. They believe.” – Anne Lamott

Here I am, back again at the subject of faith. Belief. It’s a recurring theme in my life. Always has been. Ever since my mom put me in Catholic school for first grade and I was suddenly submerged in this vast culture I knew nothing about, but was rooted in this thing called faith. Where we went to church every day and all the other kids bowed their heads when the priest told them it was time to pray. They knew when to sit and stand and kneel and I just followed along, trying to figure it out as I went along.

I remember in second grade when the rest of the class was gearing up to start the first communion classes (which I was allowed to watch, but not partake in as I had never been baptized). I struggled with watching my classmates learn and take on this tradition, walking in the well-worn footsteps of their families before them, to figure out what the tradition had to do with the concept of faith. There seemed to me, to be a great disconnect between the two. The tradition was walking the walk, but I didn’t understand how that walking translated into talking the talk.

I like to think that I’ve learned a bit more about faith since then. Although I have to admit that I’d be hard pressed to put it into words right about now. Right now I am simply focusing on being present in the moment. Being grateful for being able to breathe in and out and put one foot in front of the other every day. I think the role faith plays for me right now is trusting that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. My walking right now is paying attention to where I am and what there is for me to learn here. My talking right now is believing that the walking will eventually get me to where I want and need to be.