Sacred time

It's been nine months since the Bug left us. I don't know why that is significant, except that I carried her for nine months before she was born, so this feels like some sort of weird symmetry.

It really doesn't make me sad. It is just a time to mark, I guess.

Tomorrow, we make our annual pilgrimage to the county fair at dawn. Mr. Bean and I have done this every year for the last 23 years. Breakfast at the Grange cafeteria (which isn't actually run by the Grange anymore, but it's still the same in my mind), a leisurely stroll through the barns, the sound of roosters crowing, horses pawing to get out for a bit of exercise, 4-H kids sweeping and mucking and watering, the smell of fresh hay, announcements of upcoming auctions. There is a peace to the fair before the midway opens and the music starts.


We will miss the Bug tomorrow. We will miss her taking pictures in the chicken barn. We will miss her talking to the goats. I will have to avoid the bunny barn this year, and perhaps every year from now on.

We will still go to the fair, however, because it is our time together. Sacred time that we do not violate. I had to back out on a weekend with friends, rather more at the last minute than I should have, because I realized too late that it was our fair weekend and it would get in the way of this time together.


Tomorrow night? The combine demolition derby.

Yes, I will repeat that.

Combine. Demolition. Derby.

Oh yeah. There's a post in there, I think.

In which we ask the question: What Would Jesus Do?

Lately, I find myself doing impressions of Rachel Maddow, without really meaning to.

I'm not sure if this means that I'm getting more cynical, or perhaps less tolerant, or as my mother would probably point out, that I'm letting my brain get the best of my manners.

As everyone on the planet has heard by now, a group in New York wants to build an Islamic community center in lower Manhattan, near the former site of the World Trade Center. Folks have their panties firmly knotted over this issue, either vehemently for it or vehemently against it, and have extended the debate into utterly ridiculous conjecture over whether or not our President has Muslim leanings that we all should be concerned about.

To which I say, "Really? Really??? So nobody has a problem with the fact that we have a dildo shop, a couple adult book stores, a few nudie bars, three gambling salons, 17 salons that will provide a bikini wax on demand, and about three dozen pizza shops within two blocks of 'ground zero'. Oh, and about a dozen churches of various denominations, (including Catholic, which was the flavor of Christianity practiced by Timothy McVeigh). But if we put in a worship and community center for Muslims, suddenly, we're defiling the area??? REALLY??"

I made a comment elsewhere on the web today, that Al Qaeda is to Islam as the KKK is the Christianity. Hate is ugly, no matter who's spewing it. That includes the hate that we are hearing from those who so violently oppose this community center. There are those who would paint all Muslims as bad, because there were a few who chose to commit a truly heinous crime. But by the same token, the KKK purports to be a Christian organization, and those who do things like bomb women's clinics also purport to do so because of their Christian views. WE don't paint all Christians as terrorists. We don't ban Catholic churches within two blocks of the former federal building in Oklahoma City. Why not? Because we purport to be a "Christian" nation, and we "know" that not all Christians are terrorists. And never mind that terrorist groups are motivated by politics, money, and hate, none of which has very much to do with religion.

So I will suggest to all those who feel that a mosque within sight of the World Trade Center attacks is an affront to the dignity of the area: Let's follow our Christian guidance and ask ourselves,

What Would Jesus Do?

Do you think Jesus would march around with a poorly-spelled sign on His back? Or perhaps show up on Fox News and say that He is insulted that a group of people want to worship His father within sight of a building that was destroyed by people who have doubts that He was really the Messiah?

Here's a news flash: I think that the Muslim community feels as much pain about 9/11 as anyone else does; If one of your neighbors, or friends, or distant relatives (or even one of your close relatives) murders an innocent, do you not mourn the death and wish to make a gesture that helps to heal? If a community is injured, and seeks to rebuild itself, is this an affront to God? This community wants to convert an abandoned Burlington Coat Factory into a space where the beauty of their faith (and the Islamic faith is as beautiful as any I have seen, despite what the radicals would have you believe) can shine and help to foster healing and love and understanding.

We should embrace that, in my opinion.

If you stopped to ask yourself "what would Jesus do?", I think the answer is that Jesus would view this as an act of love and community and understanding..and perhaps contrition, and would greet it with love and understanding...and forgiveness. Can we imagine Jesus doing otherwise? No? Maybe we should give His way a try.

So long as we respond to those who are different with hate and suspicion, those who foster hate will win. And hate really does defile the memory of those we love.

I think that, deep down, I must be a Luddite

I tried mobile blogging last night. Ha!

FAIL

If I borked your blog feeds, I apologize. It wasn't intentional. ;)

Exhaling

The experience of finalizing Daisy Mae's adoption on Tuesday was simultaneously momentous and anti-climactic, joyous and bittersweet.

Watching a judge sign a piece of paper and shake your hand is no where near as exciting as watching a doctor hand you a squirming new infant, but the squirming infant also doesn't look over at you and mouth the words, "I love you."

Standing together as a family in front of your community is beautiful, but the knowledge that you were supposed to be a foursome, not a threesome, is heartbreaking.

Still, no differently than the weeks following a wedding can leave one with a sense of satisfaction and relaxation, the days following an adoption leave one with a sense of peace and closure. We can plan now. We can look toward a future that does not including weekly check ins with state and county officials, lingering doubts about commitment, or rules that govern everything from where she spends the night to how often she gets her teeth checked.

It is very good to have this done. We can exhale, finally, at long last. It feels good.

Forever. Family.

...Aaaaaand we're back.

It's not that I haven't had anything to talk about for the last 8 weeks. (Good lord! It has been 8 weeks, hasn't it?) On the contrary, many things have happened.

I had a fascinating trip to Ireland with Daisy Mae and ClevelandK8. Galway is like living in a Renaissance Faire.

It's like...well, it's like this:














and this



Dublin is like being in Piscataway, NJ, with better architecture. But just barely.


I went to Washington DC and got to hang out with people who have stars and letters after their names. I love these trips; all good news, big plans and restoration in faith in our government. It doesn't last too long, but it does give one a few ideas to work with.

I got a chance to try to bring together a group of surgeons who hate each others' guts as a matter of course. And they got along. And promised to work together.

All of that pales in comparison to yesterday.

Yesterday, I got to officially become a Mom again.

Yes, yes: I know that once you are a mom you never stop. But there's something about having someone in your house, calling you "mom" (or in my case, "mother"), that makes you actually feel like a mom.

I'm Daisy Mae's mom. Forever.

It's been a long trip. We have endured almost unimaginable heartache along the way. But we made it. And it's worth it.

Take a look and see.













Welcome, Daisy. I can't promise to be a good friend. But I can promise to be a good mom.

Perspective 4: Your Blues Ain't Like Mine

**With apologies to Bebe Moore Campbell, who is heartbreaking and brilliant.


Ed looked up from his salad and stammered.

"I...well, I almost feel embarrassed even talking about this. I mean, compared to what you've been through, this seems really trivial, but..."

I can't tell you how many times over the last six months friends and acquaintances have started conversations this way. Not a single tragedy is described, except as preceded by the caveat that the story I was about to hear could not, in any way, begin to compare with the pain I've experienced in losing my little girl.

And in some ways, it's true. In my experience, there is very little any of them can describe that can be as heartbreaking...for me. But just because my experience has been tragic and awful, doesn't mean that they don't have legitimate heartaches, setbacks and disappointments.

"Ed, your problems are real. Don't discount them because they're different from my problems."

"But you've been though the worst thing that can possibly happen."

"Ed", I said, "I'll tell you something. Three weeks after Kiersten died, my mom told me a story about her co-worker. Her 20-year-old son was a heroin addict. After the third time he dropped out of the rehab center, he hung himself off the backyard swing set. I don't know; given a choice, losing a happy, innocent child instantly doesn't sound so bad."

I wasn't trying to be flippant. We each live our own experiences; we each define pain based on those experiences. I can see how much my friends are devastated by divorces, job changes, lost homes, illnesses. They are overwhelmed by the gulf oil spill, or local drilling for natural gas, or illegal dumping of waste.

For each of them, this pain is real. My personal loss doesn't lessen that for any of them. Likewise, knowing that my mom's co-worker suffered a more difficult loss than I did doesn't at all diminish what I have gone through over the last six months. I won't miss my daughter any less because she lost her son so terribly.

Some of us will gain perspective at one level, some at another. But we cannot pretend to judge the experiences of another based on our own joys and heartaches. If you've never lost an arm, that paper cut can hurt pretty bad. If you've never lost a spouse, the breakup of a 6-month relationship can feel like the end of the world. And we cannot diminish our own pain because it is different from that of another. There will always be someone worse off. There will always be a story of another that takes our breath away.

As humans, we need to treat each other, and ourselves, with compassion.

So Ed, and the rest of you. Don't apologize. Your blues ain't like mine. But they're still your blues.

Friends, Roses, and the Beach Girl's Enduring Spirit

My friends, Cathy and Mike, performed a remarkable and beautiful favor on behalf of another friend, Patty, last night. That sounded convoluted, didn't it? Well, read about it here; it'll make more sense.

So I haven't mentioned this too much before, but Bug loved the ocean. When she had just turned three, we took her to Florida for the first time, and immediately headed to the north point of Captiva Island on the Gulf coast. I love that point -- it's a haven for Dolphins, Herons, Egrets, sport fishes of all kinds. The beaches are covered in shells, the waters are sparkly, and the sand is fine and soft. Bug took one look at the place and fell deeply in love with the great expanse of water that lay before her.

At three, she didn't have the skill for ocean swimming, so I held her hand tightly while she was in the water. She hated that. She longed to venture out. I longed to keep her from being carried out to sea. But she loved it. There are a lot of stories from that week. Stories that include her getting cold in the water with resultant pooping on the beach and hungry seaguls and Mommy deciding that she could no longer show her face in public and having to find a new beach after that. Stories of our needing to stop at every alcove and inlet, so she could get out of the car, feel how the water was "different" on her feet in each place, and dip her bottom in the water. Stories of first encounters with manatees, including more impromptu swimming forays. But we can tell more of those stories another time. They made her life richer, and ours, too.

Bug insisted I teach her to swim, immediately upon our arrival at a pool, and at every opportunity thereafter, so she would never again have to spend her beach time tethered to her mother.

By the time she was seven, she was "Beach Girl". Here she is, saving sand fleas in a bucket.



Have you ever seen sand fleas? Also called "Mole Crabs", they're tiny crustaceans that live on the beach, just at the breakline. They like the extra oxygen that is generated by the churning of the water as the waves break. When you pick them up, in a handful of shells, they try to burrow into the sand and they tickle your hands. This was Bug's definition of "The Best Animal God Ever Created".

Cute little suckers, aren't they?

No? I don't think so either.

But Bug loved them, which doesn't surprise me. Because she was always finding wonder and beauty in the things the rest of us found odd or even ugly. And because she was, is and always shall be a sea-loving creature.

So the favor? Cathy and Mike took a rose from Bug's funeral, lovingly saved for the last six months by Patty, and cast it into the ocean when they reached the shore yesterday. It was a beautiful gesture of love and remembrance. I'm sure her spirit was there to catch it. And I'm sure she smelled it, then smiled and laid it on the beach next to her bucket, just before she grabbed her dip net to head back into the water.

Perspective 3 -- Living in my own personal episode of Glee

I had to go in for a sleep study last night -- I've been suffering from some pretty overwhelming fatigue, and Mr. Bean says I keep kicking him at night, so it made sense to check for things like apnea or restless leg syndrome.

As I was answering questions for the technologist, she stopped and looked at me. "I know you! We went to school together!"

I get this question all the time from people; I have one of those faces that reminds everyone of someone that they know. I am almost never someone from school. At least not their school. This time, however, it turns out we did go to school together; she graduated with my younger sister.

This made me cringe a little inside.

I try hard not to think about high school. I was as awkward, and frankly as obnoxious, as any character from Glee. I had a small circle of friends, and a significantly larger circle of detractors and tormentors. It wasn't as bad as middle school -- nothing is -- but it's still not a time I'm keen to return to.

Then she kept talking. "I'm sure you don't remember me. I hung around with Jim's younger sister, Heather. You were always with Jim and Dave and the rest of the cool theater kids and the swing choir and you were always on stage. I wanted to be just like you. I used to sit in the prop room and listen to you sing."

"Me? ME???? You're kidding, right?"

"No. You just always seemed so confident and you had so many friends."

The truth of the matter was that I was always in fear of the next taunt, of losing my lines, of Jenny, and Jean, and heaven-knows-who-else, who were always waiting for me to fail so they could move in and take my part. I was afraid that, at any time, Jim and Dave and the rest of the cool theater kids would decide that I wasn't cool enough for them anymore. This would happen periodically. I was always on the fringe of the really cool, talented kids group, for all that I used to pull down the lead roles in the musicals. So I compensated by never really engaging with anyone. I didn't remember this girl, apart from her being part of the cloud of friends who hung around with Heather. For all I knew, I might have treated her like dirt, in an attempt to assuage my own insecurity.

I swallowed hard. "Was I ever mean to you?. I was a total brat sometimes in high school."

"No; you were really nice to me. You always said thank you and you encouraged me to keep singing. Gawd, I mean it; you haven't aged at all since then. It's kinda scary."

"Well I'm not so sure about the aging thing, but I'm glad I wasn't mean to you. Because you seem like a really good person." I went on to tell her about what was going on with several of the kids she had graduated with; that Heather had opened a couple of very successful cafes here in town, that Tracy was living in Phoenix with my very cool brother-in-law, that Angie had lost more than 100 lbs and was an athletic trainer.

During this whole time, she was putting electrodes on my skin, in my hair, behind my ears. I felt like I was on The Machine from Princess Bride.

It was a fairly miserable night. I couldn't get used to the electrodes or the belts or the other devices she put on me. I also had an infrared camera and a microphone on me all night long, with her in the next room. So there I was, facing a night of subjecting someone who apparently didn't recognize what a total dweeb I was in high school to my snoring, my sleep talking and the nighttime functioning of my digestive system.

I had a sleep disorder alright: I didn't sleep. Not sure what they'll learn from this.

But I'm once again reminded that every experience can be different, depending on your perspective. I'm also reminded, yet again, that it is more important to be gracious than it is to be popular. And probably some hackneyed rot about making one's words sweet or something like that.

"I need applause to Live!"

Mother

Yes, it's once again been two weeks since I've posted.

There was a part of me that wanted to post something on Mother's Day. But I struggled to figure out what to say. That I survived it? That really, I had hoped with all of my heart and soul that I wouldn't? That I got the most beautiful, heartfelt letter from Daisy Mae that both lifted my heart up and shattered it to pieces? Because all of those things were true.

I will never, ever again be "Mama". The extent to which that rends my very soul is indescribable.

But I am still a mother.

Case in point: this weekend.

Friday was Daisy Mae's 8th Grade Banquet. The days before were a flurry of dresses, jackets, hairdos and shoes. I let her borrow my good black Coach bag. She squealed and proclaimed her love for me. We jumped up and down in place to test our undergarments. We reviewed the use of proper silverware. We took pictures. We looked at pictures. We got awards. We smiled.

The rest of the weekend was spent helping Daisy with her final project for History. And I mean the entire weekend. Because, as teenagers are wont to do, she decided to expend the entire 25 hours necessary to complete the project in the last 48 hours before it was due. At 1:14 this morning, as I was gluing her reference sheet to the back of her poster, having sent her to bed -- no, you may not shower tonight; wait until morning. Just go to bed -- a half hour earlier, I thought of my own mother. Finishing the painting on Jupiter for the scale model of the solar system I had made out of papier mache'. Finishing the popsicle-stick model of a geodesic dome I had started at 2 pm the day before it was due. Sitting beside me, with the Funk and Wagnall's encyclopedia and three cookbooks, helping me figure out why a Passion Fruit was named thus and trying to find a recipe that would tell me what to do with one, for my Home Ec. class. Proofing my term papers.

These events, invariably, take place between midnight and 3 am on Monday mornings. They are what takes the place of putting SpongeBob bandages on skinned knees, pushing swings at the
playground, and re-sewing the seams on over-loved stuffed animals. These late nights, the rescuing of school projects, the borrowing of purses, the ever-present knowledge that Mom Won't Let You Fall Too Far -- these things re-define how our children depend on us, as they stop being "kids" and start being "teens".

It's been a tough jump into the deep end of this particular swimming pool. It still hurts. I still sometimes feel like I'm not a Mom anymore, but not as often as I did. More weekends like this have the potential to make next Mother's Day feel more real.

And on an unrelated note: My garden is fully planted. Glad I didn't do it last weekend, as we had a hard freeze last Sunday night. Anybody need extra tomato plants?

Antici-

Yeah, so I can't wait to get my garden in. In the last two weeks, my tomatoes have gotten tomato-like

The cucumbers are positively bursting at the seams to get outside


And the peppers are...well, the peppers have sprouted. You can't put them outside until the soil warms up anyway...


Mr. Bean, a/k/a "King of the Roto-Tiller" has prepared the garden bed


And we've recruited 120,000 busy little assistants.


Can't wait to play in the dirt. I think the lettuce and spinach, and the bean seeds, will go in this weekend. :)