A long-winded story about a stick...and my mirage of other people’s perfection

Human creatures are such studies in contradiction. For example, me. When it comes to words, I’m pretty particular. I try very hard not to be a pedantic snob, mind you, but I do notice when people misspeak. And typos pop off the page at me, on everything from church bulletins to The Wall Street Journal (just spotted one yesterday in WSJ). However, when it comes to so many other little things in life, I’m scatterbrained and/or oblivious.

It’s 15 degrees outside. Do I wear mittens? No, because I’m in too much of a hurry to get to work (or wherever I’m going) and because I can’t find a suitable pair in my rush out the door.

Or…

It’s 75 degrees and super-sunny. I am driving Vi to camp, an hour and a half away on winding country roads, Old Sol blazing brightly the whole way there and back. Do I wear sunglasses? No, because I can’t remember where any are and if I stop to purchase a pair at the drug store I’ll be late getting my girl to her summer excursion. Plus, I’d probably promptly misplace them anyway—why waste the money? So, I squint.

Not all my flakiness is weather-related (perhaps if Will were awake while I write this, he could suggest some more examples…although he himself is over-the-top “adaptive” in so many practical matters), but my most recent example also has to do with the elements:

By way of background, you need to know that both of our vehicles, the(typically) Trusty Tercel and the Ford Windbag, have been dead in our driveway for approximately 2 months. Since my dad could not drive for the few weeks following his heart surgery, he insisted we borrow his truck, which we did. And it was working out just fine until recently when Dad could drive again and had appointments to attend.

Now, you also need to know that my father is generosity personified and would willingly carry on loaning us his truck for the foreseeable future. But, of course, we had to do something about our deadbeat automobiles. We had mostly postponed the pain because of tight funds and freezing temperatures. The other night, however, I decided to give the van a go. It’s a persnickety machine, and I thought it possible that, after sitting in stone-cold silence throughout the holiday season, it might just decide to start. I was right. At the first turn of the key, the engine fired up like nothing had been wrong all this time.

So, voila! I got the broom, brushed about four feet of snow off the mean red driving machine, and took it out for a short spin, taking care to back into the driveway so we could more easily jump the stinker if it wouldn’t start again. But, the next morning, it did. And the next, and the next. But yesterday, I got hit with a detail dilemma. I had brushed off the snow with our broom the first night, and the snow the next couple of days was the fluffy sort the wipers could slough off. But Friday’s windshield included a smidgen of ice, and I discovered the Windbag contained no scraper. As usual, I was rushing to get to work, so I made do with a stick that I found next to Ben’s booster seat—an inch-thick, foot-long stick that a boy like Ben can’t resist confiscating from the woods to use as a play weapon. In this case, it armed me against the ice.

The stick substituted as scraper just fine in the a.m., but by late afternoon when I was ready to head home after a tiring first week of the new year, the stick did not suffice. I tried to chip away at the coating on the windshield, but ultimately I had to sit for several minutes with the van’s defrost function on full blast and wait. While I waited, I wondered: How do other people do it? How do they tend to all these little details of life—the mittens, the sunglasses, the scrapers, the facial tissues, the laundry cleaned, sorted, and put away, the home-cooked meals on the table every night of the week? Is my perception of “perfect people” a mirage? Maybe. Probably. I hope so. I don’t know. I just know I’m not one of them. When the ice had half-melted, I hopped out of the van with my stick, poked at the windshield for a few more minutes, turned the windshield wipers on high, and drove home.

huge little blessings

Getting my teeth cleaned, checked for cavities, and cleared for another 6 months sans drilling-n-filling.

Watching my 4-year-old pixy Pearl get her teeth cleaned, sporting shades to block the hygienist’s light, and rinsing like a big girl.

Coming home moments before the Sears truck arrived to deliver our new clothes dryer. Hanging wet clothes in a dim basement for one week in the bleak midwinter was enough to inspire sincere appreciation even for this energy-inefficient appliance.

Baking the season’s last batch of anise-flavored sugar cookies…to test the fortitude of our strong teeth?

Meeting with my midwife for the first time in 4 years—and hearing the steady thumping of a tiny heart, 160 beats per minute. Momentous.

It is not days or years I seek from you,
not infinity and enormity,
but small things and moments of awareness,
awareness that you are in what I am
and in what I have been indifferent to.

It is not new time I seek,
but new eyes,
a new heart,
and you, always you.

O Patient God,
make something new in me,
in this year,
for you, for others,
for the abundance of this life lived in your presence.

—From A Prayer for the New Year: I Hold Up My Life to You Now

By Rev. Ted Loder (http://www.thetransformingcenter.org/)

Midnight Mass and Happy Epiphany

Now that the news is out, I feel like I can write again. Keeping secrets is something I can do, but not without angst. And angst squelches creativity for me—unless, of course, I can tackle the problem with my proverbial pen. But in this case, I felt compelled to keep quiet, so I found it difficult to say much of anything in this public venue.

Now, about Christmas…..

I failed to mention that our own Christmas Eve service at the Free Methodist Church where we are members was also very, very lovely. Kudos to A-Town reader Sherrie for her decorating excellence. I especially enjoyed the multitude of tea lights—dazzling.

Part of what makes Midnight Mass so marvelous and magical for me is the timing. My last-minute preparations of the holiday are accomplished. The children are nestled all snug in their beds. Santa has visited our house and eaten her his cookies. And Will’s best present to me every December 24^th (the years we are in A-Town) is going to bed, keeping the kids safe, freeing me to shuffle up the quiet street to the big old sandstone cathedral where the stained glass windows glow with the radiance of the season.

I slip through one of the church’s three front doors—usually the most westward one. I tiptoe down one of the side aisles and find a place to kneel and pray. The choir is singing. The place is filling up. Everyone is quiet, taking in the resonant, sincere song-offerings of the church musicians. I finish my prayer, I sit back in my pew, I sneak a peek around me (typically spying some fellow A-Town-ite I haven’t seen in ages)…

And I breathe. A long, deep calming aspiration of gratitude and gladness. A wave of relief sweeps over me, recalling the Aldersgate experience of my own church’s fervent founder John Wesley; my heart feels “strangely warmed.” It’s Christmas.

I would trade all the tinsel and toffee in the universe for that hour of hearty holiday worship. OK—not all the congregants are as enthusiastic as I am. Three or four Christmases ago, I sat next to a girl who was, I’m quite sure, stealthily texting throughout the service. But it didn’t matter. All that matters to me in that moment is belting out Adeste Fideles (I love that we get to sing in Latin) in earnest adoration of the King of Kings: “O Come, Let Us Adore Him: Christ the Lord!”

Lest anyone think this reflection past its prime, a reminder that this Wednesday marks Epiphany in the Christian calendar. May Christ’s Spirit of Love be made manifest in my life in 2010.

Image: Adoration of the Magi by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, 17th century (Toledo Museum of Art, Ohio.

Pregnant? Yes. Peppy? Not yet.

A week and a day ago this vacation stretched out before me like an open road of adventures in good housekeeping. I had grand plans for scrubbing the kitchen floor, folding baskets-full of unmatched socks, sorting and shredding paperwork dating back to 1996, stacked in banker’s boxes in the attic..... And what have I done?

Well, there was Christmas, of course – the frenzy of wrapping, packing, traveling, unwrapping, repacking, and traveling some more. (I am, as ever, thankful beyond words for the beauty of Midnight Mass at St. Joe’s Church up the block. My year would be incomplete without it.)

There were new DVDs to watch:
- Hannah Montana: The Movie,
- Little House on the Prairie: Season 5,
- Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel, and
- Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

There’s our new Wii, a gift from Grandma which elicited ear-piercing squeals of delight from our elder two children (and inner squeals from Will). Watching family members make happy fools of themselves playing Wii Sports and Lego Stars Wars has provided hours of passive amusement.

And then there’s the morning sickness. Yes, that’s right. There’s something about the first trimester of pregnancy that drains this mama of ambition, gumption, and feel-good get-up-n-go.

So, instead of doing all that organizing I’d envisioned, I’ve mostly sat around and loafed, nibbling on anything and everything that might assuage my nausea. All in all, a relaxing week, as Christmas vay-cay should be.

This is not a very peppy announcement, I realize. I guess I just don’t have the energy.

2010 and Baby #4, here we come!

Poptropidox

(I believe this has been my longest lapse since starting Life in A-Town. I guess it’s the holiday preparations that have consumed my usual post time. I don’t feel I have anything significant to say today, either. But I’ll blog. And possibly bore.)

I mentioned last post that Pearl has recently become a die-hard fan of Backyardigans. Her obsession persists. While Ben enjoys a good episode of backyard fun (oh-so-ironic, since the kids are actually glued to their chairs staring at the boob tube), his real passion these days is for an online video game called Poptropica. He is intent—intent!—on winning more islands. I am not sure what this means, but it concerns me, his level of determination to spend as much “quality time” as possible with a character named “Big Nate.”

About 3 weeks ago, we deemed it necessary to limit the kids’ computer time to 45 minutes per day. This restriction pains Ben, truly. It’s almost alarming (bordering on amusing) to see him writhe in protest when his Poptropica time is up.

“OK, Ben, it’s been 45 minutes. Time to get off the computer and play something else.” (This after a 10-minute warning and a 5-minute warning.)

“It hasn’t been 45 minutes!” snarls normally mild-mannered Ben. “It’s only been, like, 45 seconds!”

An ugly altercation ensues, ending with the computer off, Ben sent to his room, and parents shaking their heads at their son’s turn of character. Is ours the only 5-year-old showing signs of early gaming addiction?

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One other noteworthy obsurdity before I go wrap some more gifts:

Will and I took a rare trip to the McDonald’s drive-thru the other day. We were coming home from Ben’s “Gingerbread Man” kindergarten play, so maybe we were feeling a bit nostalgic for the fries of our youth. We decided to stop for some fish sandwiches (because ordering fish seems semi-respectable, even if the Fillet-o-Fish is anything but).

We pulled up to the walkie-talkie thingy, prepared with our selections, when the pleasant young female voice said, “Hello and welcome to McDonald’s. Would you like to try a Big Mac Snack Wrap today?” I practically guffawed in her electronic ear. A Big Mac Snack Wrap? It’s the most oxymoronic notion I’ve heard in a long, long time.

Then again, so is ordering quasi-healthy fish sandwiches with eggnog milkshakes to wash them down. Which we did. It’s a world gone mad.

Some Slices of Life

Pearl has become a Backyardigans junkie. It’s animated operetta…kind of “High School Musical” for the preschool set. I love my daughter, but her taste in music is getting on my last nerve. Is this how parents of the ’90s felt about Barney? (“Barney is far worse,” says Will from the other room.)

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Speaking of Will, his grocery-buying habits continue to amaze me. This is a guy who, as I have blogged on one or two occasions, personally spikes our nation’s sugar stats by purchasing cereals such as Reese’s Puffs and Cap’n Crunch, also routinely grabbing super-sweet yogurt products (YoCrunch, YoSnack—Yo, High-Fructose Corn Syrup), and rarely coming home without a jumbo package of Strawberry Twizzlers. And yet two days ago I opened the refrigerator to find a package of organic alfalfa sprouts. I LOL’d!

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Vi performed in her school’s “Winter Holiday Concert” last night. She sang a solo with the chorus in a song called, “Christmas Through the Eyes of a Child.” She also played with the band as part of a 2-girl trombone section that really rocked the house, especially in the upbeat opener, “Jingles on the Housetop.”

The vocal solo, in particular, was the cause of much anxiety in the days leading up to the performance. Yesterday morning, careful coaxing was required to deliver my dear daughter to the Middle School for rehearsal. Then, further coaxing was required to prevent said daughter from vomiting in the nurse’s office and retreating to the safety of our Home-Sweet-Home. To see my poised girl standing at the microphone, 10 hours later, singing sweetly of the season in front of approximately 800 people, was nothing short of a Christmas miracle. It was, in a way, a Susan Boyle moment—a moment when she faced the dragon of doubt and vanquished its fire with the beauty of music.

Thanks to my Moms group, especially, for praying Vi through the day and through the concert. (As one who has actually puked before many-a-big moment, I don’t take anxiety lightly.) And thanks to the music teachers for giving kids—and parents—these kinds of opportunities. Aside from Vi’s solo song, of course, my favorite piece in the concert was “Beautiful December” by Amy F. Bernon (link leads to a grownup rendition, not the A-Town 5^th grade chorus). Enjoy!

A-Charmed Friend

I got to show my friend Holly around A-Town last night, and I think she was thoroughly charmed. We picked this night to get our families together because, it so happened, there was an A-Town Christmas Festival going on the same evening. We’d have our supper and then take the kids to see Santa, sing carols, make Christmas crafts, and so on. That was the plan. And it worked! (Don’t you love it when plans work?)

The John and Holly family arrived a little late because I had failed to emphasize how truly “forever” it takes to get here from either of the major metropolitan areas to our east or west (at least that’s what first-time visitors often tell us: “I felt like I was driving forever!”). But that was OK. Kids eat fast (if they eat at all), and the grownups had about a half-hour to chat over Gypsy Stew before we hustled up the block to witness the Christmas tree lighting and join in the caroling. We were in view of the Courthouse lawn when the lights went on. We weren’t there, but we didn’t completely miss it, either. Good enough. (And, as it turned out, the lights malfunctioned a couple times during the caroling, so we got to see the tree “re-lit”…and relit again.)

“Fa-la-la-la-la!” Holly and I were enthusiastic carolers. Where we were standing, we felt like the only ones singing. Undeterred, we joined our voices and crooned with gusto. Holly is a really good singer who can harmonize without any written music in front of her. I was impressed.

As a bonus, Santa Claus showed up on an A-Town Fire Department ATV right where we caroled. The kids were duly duped and dazzled, and they earnestly offered their requests to the man in red. When I told Holly that the jolly old guy was the M-A-Y-O-R, she Awww’d with appropriate small-town sentimentality. (I was later corrected by Will, who knows everything-about-everything about local politics. Santa was a Village Trustee who had recently served as the interim M-A-Y-O-R—details, details…still sweet.)

The bonus of Santa coming to us was that we could head straight back to the house. “Baby, it was cold outside.” We sent Vi and pal to the Fire Hall with the pack of merry-makers and returned to the Waters residence for cake, cookies and coffee. Then, after about 45 minutes had passed, Holly and I went to retrieve the girls, which allowed me to show my friend a bit more of A-Town, sans little ones. We strolled by our church, the local pizza place, the Fire Hall (where Vi and friend had waited the full 45 minutes in line for balloon weiner dogs), and ended up at the Main Street coffee shop, one of my favorite spots on the globe. Along the way, we discovered my dad out walking. He joined us on the trek to the coffee shop, where a community band was playing a concert of holiday tunes. Enchanting.

We listened for a bit, then made our way back home, by way of the downtown craft co-op/variety store, where Holly found an oh-so-charming picture frame she simply had to have. And even though the proffered discount of the day was 15 percent and not the 50 that Holly’s optimistic ears had heard, she purchased it anyhow, because it really was delightful.

Back at the homestead, Holly announced to John that they were moving to A-Town. I second that Christmas wish!