Plague Prevention

Yesterday was the occurrence of our Annual Family Bonding Ritual: “The Administration of the Flu Shot.” It is a day where I corral my unsuspecting children into the car immediately after school’s dismissal, and, once we are speeding down the highway at 50mph, I announce our destination. Then my three offspring glare at me, accuse me of sadism, and generally bond over their extreme abhorrence of me. It’s a lovely, sacred ritual.

After first sitting in the waiting room with other boisterous, anxious children, we were ushered by the nurse into a room. There my kids argued over whom would be first, and queried the nurse about her injection technique. Would it hurt? Really bad or just sort of bad? One by one they sat in the chair, and with a swish of an alcohol wipe and a quick jab, they were done in 30 seconds or less. Sit-swish-jab. Sit-swish-jab. I honestly don’t know what all the fuss was about. We paraded out of the office; my kids moaning, clutching their arms and acting like arthritis-ridden octogenarians as they got into the car. They complained all the way home of how tender their arms were, and how non-tender and horrible their mother was.

My nerves and patience were completely shot. I had fantasies about the dirty martini I was going to fix for myself upon arrival home, and the myriad ways I could show my children “Non-Tender and Horrible.” Perhaps I’d cook them liver and onions for dinner. With a side of spinach. And force them give me a foot rub, while listening to my Carpenters CD.

(Big sigh.) They completely misunderstand my motivations. I love them and do not want them to suffer from influenza. Last year, I was the only idiot in the family not to partake of the flu shot. And then I consequently caught the flu, and was under-the-weather for the better part of a month. I was sickly sick. Miserably ill. The experience wasn’t anything close to a 3-day respite where I lied around watching Reality TV and sipping soup. It was Hell. I could barely drag myself out of bed to use the john. I coughed and wheezed, sucking on my inhaler like a baby on a pacifier. The only blessing, if there was one, was the throaty Demi Moore voice I maintained for 6 weeks that Super Hubs found oddly sexy and alluring.

My family of five has each received the flu vaccine. And I’ve preemptively stocked up on zicam and germ-blaster. “The best offense is a good defense.” .....Or is it, “The best defense is a good offense”?..... Or, how about a flu adage? “She was white and shaken, like a dry martini.” Hmmm. Sounds like a suggestion. I’ll be back, two olives later.

Proud To Be An American

I went to an Election Party last night at a local sports bar. My friend had been invited, and I went as her “date” since both of our husbands were supposed to be working. (Super Hubs actually ended up coming home early, so he had to watch the news with the dog in my absence. The dog was an ambivalent citizen, and fell asleep on the floor before all the returns were in.) I’m not an Activist, and I’m generally pretty private about my political opinions. But I went to the party, had a glass of wine and some potato skins, watched the returns on the bar TV, and vastly enjoyed the company.

As Obama won his 270 electoral votes, I was privileged to be sitting next to an African-American man who said to my friend and me, “I grew up in the 60s, when the nation was segregated. Now we’ll have a black man as president. I can’t believe it! I’m going to have to go sit in my car and cry for joy.” It was an honor for me to be with him as we watched history unfold together.

However you are feeling today about the results of the election, God is still God. And Obama will need your prayers for protection and divine wisdom as he forges ahead as our Commander-in-Chief.

“There are Christians who have hysterical reactions, as if the world would have slipped out of God’s hands. They act violently as if they were risking everything.
But we believe in history;
The world is not a roll of dice going toward chaos.
A new world has begun to happen since Christ has risen…..”
(Jesuit Father Luis Espinal, assassinated 3-22-80 by paramilitary forces in Bolivia.)

Halloween

Halloween was One Perfect Day; flawless in every way, from beginning to end. A meritorious ending to a hellacious month…..

It was an unseasonable balmy October day with a vibrant sun and sky. I began the day with brunch at a darling restaurant with two young, charming, and entertaining friends who make me laugh and keep me “current.” They brought my favorite candy, jelly-bellies, which we shared with a pot of coffee and scrumptious cuisine. Satiated were my body, soul and spirit.

We then hightailed it over to a salon for pedicures, where we soaked our feet in a warm sudsy bath while the shiatsu chairs massaged us from the neck down. They rolled, kneaded and vibrated our muscles, unblocking unbalanced energy from our vital organs or some such Japanese verbiage. All I know is that between the shiatsu and the pedi, I floated out of the salon a Tranquil, De-Stressed Mass Of Human Jello with fabulous-looking toes painted “Midnight in Moscow.”

I went home and relaxed a teensy bit more with a delectable book. Then I ushered my little Power Ranger and husband out the door to beg the neighbors for candy, and greeted trick-or-treaters for the better part of an hour. Exhausted from that endeavor, I collapsed into a heap on the couch, where I watched “Poltergeist” and other retro scary movies for the rest of the evening, stopping only to enjoy my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup-and-Jelly -Belly dinner. I fell into a dreamy sugar-induced coma by 10pm. Bliss.

What a yummy day. Wonderously wonderful. (And I’ve got killer toes to boot.)

Deceleration

I never cease to be amazed by the things I learn from my children. My kids have been, undoubtedly, some of my greatest Life Teachers. Little Squirt, right now, is instructing me in the joyful art of In-The-Moment-Living.

I am trying to slow down after a crazy-busy month, although I still have a few affairs to attend to. (“Affairs” meaning “projects.” I am not a Desperate Housewife.) I don’t think I’ve encountered an October in my lifetime that has been quite so active! I’ve had to add some responsibilities onto my plate that I hadn’t seen coming and don’t feel excited about. But mostly, it’s been positive stuff; things I enjoy tremendously when taken in healthy doses. I’ve had Starbucks dates and evening glasses of wine with girlfriends, fun projects with my beloved Drama Team, a delightful weekend visiting with Super Hubs’ visiting family. I’ve been to church meetings and school meetings and prayer meetings. It has, for the most part, been good and filling and rich.

But too much of a good thing is overkill. Like when I gorge on jelly-bellies. A handful is tasty. A couple of handfuls, still delectable. But shoveling them into my mouth at mock speed is just plain greedy and deserving of a fuzzy-mouthed, stomach-bloating Sugar Hangover. And that’s how I am feeling this week. I have an Activity Overload Hangover that has made me cranky and exhausted and resentful, and finding it necessary to feed my children cereal for dinner. I’ve been going joylessly through the motions of life, in a flurry of busyness, trying to just get through one more day. I haven't actually delighted in much of anything. This is not a pace that is healthy for me, but I really haven’t had much choice. Oh, Dear God, please let November bring me more margin! (“Bwa-ha-ha!” I hear God laughing maniacally at my naiveté.)

But Little Squirt, God bless his laid-back little 6-year-old heart, has been forcing me to practice In-The-Moment-Living. He relishes and celebrates the ordinary with such abandon! He lives in the present and enjoys the flavor of each and every jelly-belly, savoring them individually on his tongue. He has two paces of life: Slow and Stop-And-Smell-The-Roses.

While I see snow flurries as a depressing premonition of a brutal winter to come, Little Squirt dances in them, tongue stretched to Heaven. “I caught one!” Where I see a yard full of leaves as yet another chore to add to my overflowing plate, he sees an opportunity to make a pile for crunching and rolling and experiencing joy. He insisted I walk with him in his school’s Halloween parade, the only non-volunteer mother to do so. “Isn’t this SO FUN, Mommy??” he exclaimed.

The other day, my heart was filled with angst over so many burdens and so much water-treading. Little Squirt was sitting at the kitchen table in no particular hurry, coloring a picture, and singing a song at the top of his lungs. He was thoroughly enjoying the moment. I had the unmistakable impression that the voice of God was saying to me, “Be still, and learn from your child. Stop, and relish. Each moment is a gift.”

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

I feel the need for a poem today; for beautiful words to fill my soul. And so I defer to one who can weave words together so much more eloquently than I……

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
(Emily Dickinson)

"A Complicated Woman" Anniversary

Last year week was the one-year anniversary of my blog. I intended to write a post on exactly that very day, but things got crazy around my household and so it never happened. Sadly, the blog is the first to go when my day is overwhelmed with busyness. And writing keeps my soul healthy. It’s a conundrum. I need to write yet I have no time to write. Go figure.

On that note- in reviewing the past year of "A Complicated Woman," I’ve noticed that my postings have dwindled dramatically. Abysmally dramatically. One reason for this is because, candidly, it is an excruciatingly painful season for me for some very personal reasons. So my Fun-O-Meter is reading in the negatories. There are days when I consider blogging authentically from my heart, but, my goodness, I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer and send you running for Prozac afterwards. I’d rather make you laugh and bring you joy. Life is difficult enough right now with the bad economy and all, and I don’t want to contribute to anyone’s melancholy mood. Or have you worry that I am going to become a tragic Sylvia Plath-like figure. Which I am not. I have hope within me.

Another reason for my recent low volume of postings is that I broke my right ring finger when I caught it on a bread basket at the market. The splint is too large and cumbersome to wear comfortably, so I’ve been not wearing it, and trying to hold it straight on my own. But I often forget and bend the finger, and it is quite painful…..blahblahblah…too much information…..to summarize my long-windedness: It’s been difficult to type.

Now on to The Gratitude Portion of this post. Thank you. Thank you for reading my blog over the past year! You have been extremely encouraging and gracious, and I am beyond humbled that you stop by. (Especially to the Train James’ Boys. You know who you are.) It took me two years to work up the courage to start a blog. It felt so self-promoting. And one of my pet peeves is the Shameless Self-Promoter. She ranks right up there in my book with the Entitled Narcissist. The self-absorbed among us really irk me for reasons that I don't know but should discuss with my therapist. And having a blog felt like I might be perceived that way. But I decided that it would be good accountability for me to discipline myself to write on a regular basis. So I began to blog for my own pleasure, and therapy, and desire to chronicle the lives of my family. So I hope, in some small way, I have succeeded in entertaining you…..or making you think or learn more about yourselves through some of my processing. Or point you to God. Or, at the very least, feel better about your day when you read about my son peeing on the dog.

So Happy One Year Anniversary to us. I look forward to continuing my posts over the next year. And I put my stories in the hands of the Master Story-Creator. Who knows what He will weave together?

His Goodness is Beyond

I know that my God is good all the time. But sometimes His goodness jumps out at me and grabs my soul and causes me to pause and notice and celebrate. Just like the faithful maple tree that guards my home. I pass it by several times a day, barely giving it a second thought. But this week it has turned a vibrant red, and I find myself slowing to look and drink in its brilliant color. God has felt “vibrantly red” to me, this week, like the maple. His goodness has been remarkable and outstanding and entirely intimate. And oh how I have needed that!

I had heard, last weekend, of a news story about a little 6-year-old boy named Cole who had been abducted at gunpoint and taken from his home. There was apparently a link between a drug gang and the boy’s grandfather. The details didn’t matter to me. All I focused on was the fact that a little boy, the very age of my own little boy, was taken from his home by some violent and dangerous men. He was missing, and undoubtedly terrified. And in grave danger.

Something stirred in my heart, and I began to connect deeply with little Cole. I felt a burden of prayer for him so heavily, it was as if I’d suddenly added chain mail to my attire. God waved the news story in front of my face, so to speak, and said, “This one’s for you, Kel. Pray hard! I’m counting on you!” And so I did.

For several days, I was drawn to Psalm 91. I read it back to God, day and night, imploring Him to remember His word, and protect this little boy. Was Cole scared? Cold? Hungry? In pain? I worried, and I cried out to God, and I prayed. “Be his refuge and fortress, God. I trust you to do that.” (vs.2) “Cover him with your feathers. Give him a refuge under your wings. Let him not be harmed!” (vs.4)

I was awakened at 3am Saturday morning, my face wet with tears. I felt an urgency to intercede for Cole, as if he were my own son. “May he not be afraid in the night!” (vs.5) “Send your angels to protect him right now!” (vs.11)

The next morning, I read God’s promises, “I will rescue him….I will protect him…..I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him. With long life I will satisfy him, and show him my salvation.” (vs.14-16) I begged God to answer those prayers. “Let this little boy find his way home this very day, God! Please!” Peace flooded my heart as I felt a gentle reassurance from God; as if His hand reached down from Heaven and patted me on the back and said, “The little boy will be okay. It is done.”

I cannot fully articulate the jubiliance I felt the next morning, when I read that Cole had been found walking a suburban street by a bus driver on Saturday night. His abductors had let him go. He was returned to the arms of his overjoyed parents, safe and sound, 3 days after his abduction.

And so I celebrate the compassion of our Father, who cared so much about a very little 6-year-old blond boy with glasses. He heard his cries, felt his terror, and grieved at the injustice. His eyes searched the earth, seeking the attention of some intercessors who were paying attention, and used them to pray this child home. I am beyond humbled to have been part of that.

God is good. So overwhelmingly, fabulously, beautifully good. It is abundantly clear to me this week! And I am grateful that He reminded me!