tips and tots

I've been eating, breathing, dreaming Olive Garden, filling out day care papers, worrying about my babies, and wondering about how my family is feeding themselves. There's so much to do and it's all happening so fast the road beneath me is a blur and I worry I'll get run over if I don't keep running, but when I risk a quick glance in the rear view I'm impressed and inspired with the distance I've come (well, we, really) with little to no damage. It's enough to revive me and provide me with the hope I need to stay my path.

Tonight was my first night soloing as a server in about 5 years, and it happened to be a very busy Friday night. I kept afloat and even had three separate tables tell me they'd request me the next time they came in. Everyone I work with is so supportive and encouraging, it makes this all so much easier.

Claire cried this morning because she couldn't go to "school" today, while Josh reminded me on my way out the door that he did NOT want to go. He is very fond of his birthday gifts and really was offended that he had to leave them so soon after receiving them yesterday. Over all though, those little babies are doing very well with the sudden 6 hour days away from familiarity. Still though, I stress for them imagining how terrorizing it would have felt for me at their ages.

I miss cuddling them and kissing every scrape. I dread the day I find I don't know what they are talking about because I wasn't there for the background, or to find I can't understand what they're saying or what they know because I wasn't the one who witnessed what happened or taught them what they're explaining. I worry and hope that they'll continue to be stretched and encouraged and comforted as if their every fear and cut was the priority to be addressed and mended. They're gone 4 days a week for the active 6 hours of each day. Will I still have enough time to be their main influence? I have to find a way to ensure they don't feel I'm abandoning them. I know that what I'm doing is for my family and is necessary at this stage of our lives, but by the time they're old enough to know that, will it be too late? Will they already have it engrained in their fragile minds that Mommy left them? Will they still cry out for me when they fall, or will it be some name I can't pronounce? These are the things I wonder when I come home to a dark house of emptied play things and no used dishes.

I have the next two days off. Maybe my confidence in my choices will be elevated after some good quality family time. I hope so. Winning the affection of an Olive Garden patron is flattering, but I can't survive without the faith and security of my family, money or not.

once red haired

I used to idolize Tori. She spoke to a quiet only I had, in my self consciously self centered universe. I could be beautiful because she knew me and I loved her.

I grew out of me. I saw the quiet music everywhere. I listened. I fell asleep, a promiscuous slumber party of hard dreaming, harder waking. Not forever was the story forever ago.

Vacated vacations and no destinations make a hard schedule for the retired wanderer, so I danced to ticking and whispered whims of adopted patrons. I punched through the clocks and squirmed to the surface and sneaked to an alter and love and nine months and nine months and nine more, shedding the clock and the dance while they grew.

I get up from my made bed now, shaking off responsible hours, to the rented bedroom of my night scared daughter. Hush kissed tears I swallow her boogie man. He has the bills and my sleep but I take him to save her and I toss with the dance and when I had red hair.

A Child's Prayer

Claire wasn't really thrilled with the idea of holding silent and still for family prayer this evening. She was upset that we wouldn't let her watch another 20 minutes of Sailor Moon, and refused to fold her arms. She was mumbling a quiet tune "fighting evil in the moonlight..." I had settled for the small victory of a quiet song and a still body and was already into the prayer. I asked the Lord to bless Nerfertiti, unwilling to repeat the many previous, specific pleas to have her returned to us. I felt the bed shake as Claire jolted to attention, and with a fervent plea shouted, "and make sure she has somewhere warm to sleep!" I unsuccessfully fought the mental urge to point out that would be an easy blessing to fulfill, being an Arizona August night. It was a sweet request and I should focus on the prayer, not selfish pessimism. I repeated her request and attempted to close when another one leaped forth. "And please help her to find some sticks and mud to make a bed."

I had worried about how I could explain to Claire why it was that her prayers to have her cat come home hadn't been answered with a yes. I was bracing myself for the conversation, unsure myself why. Tonight she taught me something about faith and trusting in the Lord.

Joshua Ray Watson

"I wanna jump on the trampoline"

"O.K., go on out and jump."

"Mommy, can I bring my tummy with me?"

in the quiet moments

I don't know how much of what I say is ever heard outside of myself. Tonight I heard my ears tell of quiet after Jaren commented on the movie, but I had to finish "listening" before I could address the stillness of my words. It got me onto a new discussion about how much I leave others out, at least those who don't think to include themselves when my eyes close in. But even then, sometimes it's hard because I have to update them. I find myself getting frustrated that they didn't already know, having been there the entire time. To them it's all so quiet, and it's hard to remember that. The buzz makes their words hard to focus on, particularly once they've gone dull, then I contend with a roar. Sometimes I even get bored with my roaring, and as such, find myself busying with some procrastinated task that suddenly has great urgency.

When did it all become so intense? That's the latest topic. I think it has always been. I can almost remember it coming alive when I was stuck on a blanket of bright patterns and frayed yarn, watching footed socks swoop by while wet stuck to my chin. Awareness.

I don't have a calendar marked with exact offenses, for which I'm grateful or I may not quite as much enjoy spending time with myself. But sometimes I think it would be an adventure to go back and learn precisely when I discovered that people have false interpretations, or interpretations at all. All I remember is being deeply wounded by misunderstanding and confused at learning all the many ways in which it could occur! Why CAN'T I stare? They're beautiful, or they know they're short. Why must I pretend not to see what's there? I could never understand the answers I was given as I learned that the answers and even the rules were ALL based on perspectives. So I divined my own answers and my own rules. I got so into this practice of inward speaking, that I would find myself vocalizing half a conversation, then argue a point I had already addressed, only to find that was the part of the conversation I had kept to myself. Growing was hard, but communicating was impossible.

While I am still the ignorant offender of many delicate minds, I have become less irritated with the communication process now. I find people to be lovely books and am tickled when I've discovered pages under one's cover. I know we all have them, I don't mean to say we don't. But some people work so desperately to perfect their cover, or protect their binding, that they become impossible to open. Whatever the case, browsing this great library of life begins a silent art (or rather, an inward one) before the lips can touch it. Yet even after I've settled on a good book, I often pause for reflection.

So if I'm being watched you might tell I'm getting to know you or that I'm having a "discussion," but you might not hear anything from me until I find you familiar. It may sound terribly prejudice, but that's the folly with words, they carry sounds.

This boy says more than anyone I've known.
He's mute.


Then there are those you wish you said more to,
just in case they didn't know how you felt.

pressing flowers

When I was young my family would regularly take walks together, usually on Sundays. We would often fight over who got to hold Dad's hand. There were four of us, then five, and six just before he died. His hands were more fun to hold. He was a kid, like us. A gentle jungle gym with an eye for adventure and a tendency toward mischief. He would take us exploring in abandoned houses, catch small wild animals that we would bring home to care for until death or escape, light bottle rockets in city parks and rehearse us in what to say if the cops came, and play kick the can till past dark when all we had was the street lights to reflect our goal and the loud twang of defeat as that light from the can flicked off into the air. Game over.

Mom was the planner. The strict organizer with the busy mind and the stern face. She was very creative. She would make journals for all of us that we would write in or draw pictures for on family nights before bed. She drew sketches of us that I would admire from my bed while I waited for Autumn to turn out the lights. She sewed, and canned, made baskets, taught me about plants and flowers and which berries to eat. She gardened and cleaned, hemmed pants and made quiet books. I felt sorry for her sometimes. One day we were all told to go play outside so She and Dad could talk. That meant they were fighting. As soon as we were out of earshot I informed my siblings and neighbors that they were probably going to get a divorce. I think I had just recently learned about divorce, in fact, they may not have even been fighting after all, maybe they just needed some "Mommy Daddy time." Well, whatever the case, I was convinced their marriage was history and it was time to do some serious thinking about who would live with who. We all insisted that we would live with Dad. I got to thinking about how lonely Mom would be and finally decided that I would stay by her side, she could be fun SOME times. Besides that, Dad only knew how to make popcorn and banana splits.

When we would go for our Sunday walks we would find ourselves negotiating who got to hold Dad's hand. I was always seeking for ways to please my elder siblings, to win their praise and affection. I was often left out of their play, unless they were fighting, then I'd get swindled into the middle of things and sent to do one or the other's dirty work until they made up and pitted their anger against me as if it were all my doing in the first place. Regardless, I saw how much fun they would have together and knew that if I just played my cards right that fun would be mine. So with the promise of playtime or a game of "keep away" (pig in the middle) where I didn't have to be in the middle, my turn on Dad's hand was purchased and my hands were free to pick my nose (as seen above) and gather flowers. Mom would often use these walks as an opportunity to collect willows for her baskets, or flowers for her stationary. She would point out which ones would maintain their beauty when pressed and which ones would bleed out on the pages, which ones could keep color in the heat and which ones would crumble when dried.

When Dad died, leaving six children underfoot and one in the womb, I thought what a twist of fate it was that all of us had ended up with Mom after all. I didn't think she'd make it, shutting herself in her room all day, sobbing in the night. They were hard years, still are sometimes and there have been 19 of them since the day (not exactly, but I believe anniversaries should be reserved for happy occasions). Shamefully, I had despised my Mother. I thought of all the ways she should have made our lives better. I didn't know the full weight of the burden, and even now, with facts previously unknown, I don't. She kept that pain from me, and even in keeping it took from me the pain I offered her in my judgments. In retrospect, I see her now, and with admiration I realize, I couldn't possibly have kept the color and beauty she keeps.

Every day that Jaren leaves me I wonder, sometimes quietly, is that the last time, the last kiss, the last word? My children fight for him, climb and clobber him, explore and capture with him. I now wear the stern look and buzz the busy mind. I try to remember though, to stop and press the flowers.

So here I am.

It's a beginning.
-C