Category Archives: gratitude

The Story of Us (The Early Days), in Honor of Our 15th Anniversary

Posted on by
3

Fifteen years ago, I was trying to stave off senioritis long enough to get through the last month of college. Easter fell on April 12, 1998, but it wasn’t a long enough weekend for me to go home to see my family. Instead, I went to the movies with friends. We saw Primary Colors,  and today the only thing I remember about the film was that I recognized Oak Alley Plantation, which was familiar because my high school friend Penelope had taken me to see it when I’d visited her in Louisiana on my spring break the month before.

Penelope and I had known each other since kindergarten, but our friendship had not weathered adolescence well. We’d been best friends through middle school and the start of high school, but then things got rocky. I was unhappy at home and, seeking comfort and belonging, I started hanging out with boys my friends didn’t like and letting my hormones do too much of my thinking. Penelope did not approve. She’s always been smarter and more mature than me, but back then, she was just another judgmental killjoy trying to tell me what to do. We fought more and more often. We said unforgivable things, and then we stopped being friends.

It had been about four or five years since we’d hung out or even spoken to each other when Penelope e-mailed me in the Spring of 1996. She was about to graduate from college and invited me to her senior art show. I was carrying about a bazillion credits that semester and barely had time to shower, much less socialize, so I didn’t go, but I was glad to hear from her. That summer when we both got home from school, we had lunch together, then went for a walk along the Burlington waterfront. I was relieved to find our high school resentments had evaporated, and we were able to talk and joke as easily as we had before we’d parted ways. She had only a few weeks at home before she was due to go to Houston, TX for Teach for America’s teacher training program, and from there to a two-year commitment teaching Special Education in South Louisiana.

When she left, we exchanged letters. I sent her care packages with baked goods and goofy knickknacks I picked up at various shops in Burlington and Northampton. She sent me letters filled with black-ink sketches, snippets of poetry, funny anecdotes about her students, and lyrical descriptions of places she visited and things that she did. Very rarely, we’d be home in Vermont at the same time, and we’d get together for a few hours, but these letters and brief visits soon proved insufficient to nourish the friendship that was rapidly growing more intense than it had ever been in childhood. We started emailing and talking on the phone daily.

We joked about all we had in common. My senior year (her second year in Louisiana), we were both single, but both casually seeing guys who paid far too little attention to us except for the occasional booty call, and even these guys were freakishly similar: their names began with the same letter, they were both artists, they seemed to share many of the same annoying (to us) peccadilloes. (They were not actually the same person: we did not have that much in common!) As Penelope and I bitched together, hour after hour, about these inadequate non-boyfriends, I began to consider whether we wouldn’t be better off just kicking the guys to the curb and taking up with one another, but I didn’t say anything. Penelope had never expressed any interest in women. (As for me, I was at Smith. ‘Nuf said.)

Penelope invited me down to Louisiana to visit her on my spring break. I went, and we had a blast in New Orleans and stayed up late every night talking and snuggling, but though we were closer than ever, we didn’t cross that line. We didn’t even talk about crossing that line.

Back to Easter 1998: When I got back from the movie theater, I called Penelope to share my excitement at recognizing Oak Alley, but she didn’t answer. All weekend, she didn’t answer, and then Sunday night, she called… from Vermont. She’d gone home to visit her dad for Easter, and didn’t have to go back South until Tuesday, and could she drive down and visit me tomorrow? Of course, I agreed, and then I didn’t sleep all night. It felt like our relationship was coming to a tipping point: I thought we were very, very close to becoming lovers, and I’d gladly nudge us over that edge, if only I could be sure she’d be interested. I didn’t want to freak her out and wreck our friendship again. It was better to have her in my life as a friend than not at all.

Monday morning, someone knocked on the doorjamb of the glorified supply closet in the bowels of the art building where I spent nearly twenty hours a week at my work study job, selling art supplies to a parade of eye-popping misfits. (Many Smithies enjoy an eccentric personal aesthetic, but the art majors are a cut above.) I looked up and there was Penelope, having gotten directions from someone in my house. We hugged and laughed about the fact that our trend toward eerie similarity remained unbroken: without discussion, we were dressed exactly alike, in red t-shirts, dark-wash jeans, and black shoes.

She had brought my Easter basket from home, stopping by my parents’ house and demanding it like a chocolate terrorist, waiting impatiently in the foyer until my mother turned it over, while our dog barked madly. (I hadn’t asked her to do that, but I must have mentioned that my mother had said she’d have a basket waiting for me when next I came home.)

We went to dinner with Penelope’s mom that night, driving up to Brattleboro to meet her. We came back to school and watched a movie until someone kicked us out of the living room because they’d reserved the TV. We went back to my room, and the whole time I was a crazy tangle of nerves and anticipation, wondering if I should say anything, wondering if the change in our relationship felt as imminent, as inevitable to her as it did to me, or if my years at Smith had twisted my perspective on feminine intimacy so that I could no longer appreciate female friendship without sex.

In the end, I don’t remember either of us making the first move. It just happened, organically, inevitably, as it was meant to. Fifteen years ago this very morning, we got out of bed feeling as if the magnetic poles of the earth had shifted and everything was suddenly different, suddenly put to right, and we didn’t have to worry. She flew back to Louisiana that afternoon. She had two more months to fulfill her teaching commitment, and I had one more month until I graduated. Neither of us knew what would happen next, but we knew we’d be together — we knew we had to be together.

Happy anniversary, my dearest love. Here’s to the next fifteen years, and the next after that, and the next after that….

-C.

Trevor & Kelly’s Wedding

Posted on by
1

It’s been much too long since I wrote a new post. I won’t bother with excuses, but here’s the catch up: I’m still pregnant, now safely into my second trimester, but not yet as relaxed and confident as I’d like; we’re all moved in but far from unpacked, and the needs-to-be-fixed-before-winter list keeps growing, but such is the joy of living in a 160+ year old home; and Hank is still the light of our world, though his adorableness is tempered right now by the fact that he’s got a nasty cold and is leaking disgusting fluids out of most of his orifices. But, this post is not about US: it’s about my little brother’s big, beautiful wedding on Saturday, and our adventures this weekend.

Hank was the ring bearer, which is a big job for someone who turned two the day before the wedding. Here he is all dressed up. The sweet yellow bow tie matched the ring pillow. He did a fantastic job, especially since unbeknown to us he was coming down with a raging flu bug and would be feverish, congested, and inconsolably miserable a mere six hours later.

The wedding party (including the dogs, who preceded Hank down the aisle). If you look closely, Hank is scrunching up his face like he swallowed a lemon. This is the face he makes if you hold up a camera and ask him to smile. I’m not sure the wedding photographers think this habit is quite as endearing as Penelope and I do.

Here comes the bride with her daddy.

This picture cracks me up, because it looks like Kelly’s introducing herself to Trevor. “Gosh, you look familiar. Have we met?”

Trevor reading his vows. If you knew my brother, you’d know how special it was for him to read aloud to his love in front of all of these people. First kiss as Mr. and Mrs.!

(Note the arch behind the bride and groom, above. My brother made that himself, and because every wedding needs a last-minute catastrophe, it got crushed in the truck during transport to the venue. Trevor was late to dress and meet the photographer because he had to rebuild it the morning of the wedding.)

Hank entertaining cousin Niecie, trying to keep her quiet during the ceremony. “It’s like church,” he tried to tell her (which is what we’d been telling him for weeks). She didn’t really understand.

Another of the wedding party. Hank is trying to make a break for it!

Everything about the wedding was beautiful, down to the smallest detail.

The guest book -

The cake (note the dog figurines beside the bride and groom) -

The desserts -

The flowers (all local, arranged by a friend of my sister). The bride and her mama spent ages collecting vases -

The music (Hank was enthralled by the bluegrass trio who played at the ceremony and during the cocktail hour. There was another band (rock) for the after dinner dancing, but Hank couldn’t stay up that late.) -

The entertainment (you know that awkward stretch at most weddings immediately before and after the ceremony, when the wedding party is busy with photos and set up, and the bar isn’t open yet? Trevor and Kelly’s solution = Lawn Games. Genius. Though what would you expect from the inventor of the Chasket? Hank liked the hula hoops and the jump rope best, though he didn’t know quite what to do with either. Yes, yes, he is singing into that jump rope. No, I didn’t tell him to: he came up with that all on his own.) -

The venue, and even the weather -

But the best part, of course, was seeing so many people we love. This is the first time that all of the first cousins on the groom’s side of the family had ever gotten together in one place, because we live all over the country. If only the grandparents (Hank’s great-grands) had been able to make the trip. They were sorely missed.

Before the wedding (the weekend wasn’t long enough to catch up with everyone!) -

So, even though it was really too much for four day weekend, and we’re paying for it now with a sick toddler, we had a wonderful time. Thanks so much to the bride and groom for bringing us all together to share your day!

-C.

 

 

Good Doc / Bad Doc?

Posted on by
4

Remember at my first ultrasound they recommended I come back for another scan in ten days? Well, that was yesterday, and as promised, there was much more to see this time: not just a gestational sac and tiny circular yolk sac, but an actual, vaguely baby-shaped embryo whose flickering heartbeat was clearly visible. Yesterday’s fetal heart rate was a very respectable 152 bpm, and the embryo’s measurements were exactly where they should be for his/her gestational age (7 weeks, 1 day). All in all, the doctor was full of enthusiasm and sent us away feeling good, which in and of itself was kind of miraculous, given our rocky history with Dartmouth-Hitchcock’s reproductive endocrinology clinic.

Let me begin to explain that history by comparing and contrasting our experience yesterday with our previous experiences with early pregnancy sonograms at DHMC. First, yesterday’s doctor, Dr. Reindollar, was not our usual doctor. Usually, we see Dr. Porter. Or rather, I should say, usually we don’t see Dr. Porter, but nurses and other hospital staff let us know that she is keeping tabs on our case by telling us oh-so-encouraging things like, “Dr. Porter doesn’t mind if you switch from Clomid to Femara, but she doesn’t see the point.” (See my previous post on that subject, here.) Over the course of two years of fertility treatments and the conception of two babies, we’ve seen Dr. Porter in person three times: 1) She did a consult with us before Penelope began IVF; 2) She performed Penelope’s second IVF-transfer (she was on vacation during her first IVF cycle); and 3) She popped in to oversee my first ultrasound last month. On all three occasions, she spoke only to the patient, barely acknowledging the wife, and ducked in and out of the room as fast as she possibly could.

Penelope and I bitterly call Dr. Porter “Negative Nancy,” because she has a way of making even good news seem dire. She has a sort of pinched expression that comes across as judge-y, and a cagey, I-don’t-make-promises-I-can’t-keep style of studied noncommittal-ness — (I made up that word and don’t particularly like it: if you have a better suggestion, please leave a comment) — that means that even when she says something innocuous, like “Congratulations,” after my first ultrasound, what the patient hears is: “Yes, you’re pregnant now, but don’t get used to it: you’ll probably screw it up.”

By contrast, yesterday when Dr. Reindollar came into the ultrasound room, he walked right up to us, smiled in greeting (and the smile reached his eyes!), shook our hands and introduced himself to both of us, and said to me, “We spoke on the phone a few months ago,” — (about a genetic testing issue having to do with the donor sperm) — which I had totally forgotten. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life had a medical professional remember me when I did not remember him or her. How refreshing!

He asked about my pregnancy symptoms so far and narrated the ultrasound. Afterwards, he had us meet him in a consult room down the hall, where he told us that at this point, I have a better than 90% chance of carrying this baby to term (yay!), but also told me that he was a little bit concerned that my thyroid might be under-active, since my bloodwork in January 2010 and in March 2012 had both showed my TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone) levels to be on the very high edge of the normal range. (This was the first I’d heard of this, even though they’d had these results since January 2010!) He ordered another round of bloodwork to check my TSH levels again, and assured us that if there is a problem, it can easily be treated through medication, and I will probably get some relief for my fatigue and find it easier in future to manage my weight.
As we were waiting downstairs at the blood lab, Penelope and I marveled at what a difference bedside manner makes. Dr. Reindollar had told us about this potential medical issue in a way that gave us information, a plan for treatment, and which allayed our fears about how this thyroid condition (if it exists) will impact the pregnancy. We are sure that if Negative Nancy had been the doc on call for today’s ultrasound, she would have left us feeling like the sky was falling.
It is ironic that our very last appointment with DHMC’s Reproductive Endocrinology clinic — (because as of yesterday, I am cleared to pursue ordinary prenatal care with our family practitioner, and because, dollars-to-donuts, this will be our last baby) — was by far our most positive. Our trying-to-conceive journey there, for both babies, has been fraught with bad and worse interactions with the treatment providers: poor guidance about timing of ovulation that made us waste many, many IUI cycles; several medication mistakes; inability to schedule diagnostic tests which forced us to miss cycles; questions answered with misinformation or at least incomplete information; providing the wrong sized needles for Penelope’s IVF-medication injections, which led to weeks of unnecessary pain and bruising; a series of truly nightmarish early ultrasounds during Penelope’s pregnancy with Hank (I am still too emotional at the memory to be able to do that story justice in the telling, but I gave a thumbnail sketch of it here); inadequate information-sharing between DHMC and Penelope’s prenatal care doc that literally endangered Penelope’s and Hank’s lives during her pregnancy and delivery; and so many other, pettier headaches at almost every visit. I am jealous of friends and Sister-Wives in bigger cities who have their pick of RE clinics, because if it were not the only game in town, we would never have gone back to DHMC after our first few months of trying, and we would certainly never recommend it to friends trying to conceive. But it is the only game in town, and Dr. Reindollar, who is new there, might be its redemption.
-C.

Sucking That Crystal as Hard as I Can

Posted on by
Reply

I love yoga. I love the way it exercises the entire body. I love that it makes me feel simultaneously both more alert and more relaxed. I love that it helps with my insomnia, backaches, and migraines. I love that it makes me flexible and strong. I love what it does for my posture. I love that it is social, but introspective; challenging, but not competitive.

However, there is much about yoga that makes me roll my eyes and laugh: the crystal-sucking, sage-burning, flaky, New Age-y fluff that so often accompanies the actual exercises. In the abstract, I believe there is a great deal of value in practicing mindfulness, in learning to quiet the mental static and be in the moment. In reality, I am really, really not good at it, and honestly, I’m skeptical and even a little bit scornful of that side of yoga. I’ve never been able to meditate, to focus my inner eye, to set an intention, to visualize a result. Maybe I’m just undisciplined, or maybe my mind just doesn’t work that way. Maybe my mind doesn’t work that way because the second yoga instructors start getting New Age-y, my Inner Child shoves a finger down her throat and pretends to gag and choke.

Of course I know that yoga is not just a fitness fad, that it is also a spiritual and mental discipline rooted in ancient Hindu and Buddhist traditions. As my Auntie Anne pointed out to me, “What you see as all that new-age-y stuff might be sincere attempts to carry on that [non-Christian spiritual] tradition.” Of course she is absolutely right, but I have to confess — sincerity of spiritual practice does not make the sage-burning and fire breathing any less goofy to outside observers. Maybe that is part of the nature of any spiritual practice, at least for me. I am sincere in my Christian faith; I attend church services weekly, I believe in Christ’s redemptive love and in the kingdom of God, I try to live my life according to Christian values — but when I try to find quiet moments of contemplation and prayer, to actually speak to my Creator, it feels every bit as kooky and uncomfortable and superstitious as any of the New Age-y traditions that accompany yoga.

Skepticism aside, I’m trying to get pregnant, and in addition to the fertility drugs and ovulation predictor kits and countless doctor’s visits, I’m open to anything that might help. For the first time in my life (outside of church or situations of life-threatening fear or stress), I’ve been praying: intentionally, sincerely, frequently, fervently. For weeks, I’ve been drinking herbal tea full of stuff like chasteberry (to stimulate ovulation hormones), raspberry leaf (to promote fertility), and ladies mantle (to regulate the monthly cycle and tone the cervix). I’ve kept a journal charting my menstrual cycles and the cycles of the moon. I bring baby clothes to my insemination appointments as a talisman of good fortune and fertility.

And starting today, with the arrival of a brand new yoga-for-fertility DVD, I’ve been practicing yoga. Not the yoga-for-strength-and-flexibility that I have been practicing for years: the kind of yoga that would ordinarily make me roll my eyes so hard it hurts. This DVD is divided into four different series, one for each phase of a woman’s cycle: menstrual, follicular, ovulation, and luteal. The narrator’s soothing voice notes that the follicular phase is a time of growth and hope, and gently urges me to set the intention of preparing my uterus to nurture a healthy baby. There are poses designed to massage and stimulate the ovaries and uterus. There is a lot of Breath of Fire (a breathing exercise I find particularly goofy). This DVD has a drum soundtrack, for Chrissake. Penelope had to leave the room while I was practicing, because she couldn’t stop laughing.

About halfway through my practice, Hank suddenly developed an intense interest in what I was doing. He patted my back during downward-facing dog, leaned heavily on my plank pose, crawled under my warriors and over my cat-and-cow, lay on top of my bow pose, and bounced on my belly throughout my savasena. I can’t say that I was able to quiet my inner static and concentrate much on inner peace, but he was a better, more present and inescapable reminder of the intention to nurture a child than any mindfulness exercise yet dreamed up, and I am so grateful for him.

-C.

Gratitude for the Sister-Wives

Posted on by
3

A few months ago, I wrote this post about discovering other families who have conceived using the same anonymous sperm donor we used to conceive Hank. At the time, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of Hank’s donor siblings (and there have been two new additions since then!) and a bit wary about whether and how deeply we wanted to get involved with this group of mamas. (Because, as I noted in my last post on the subject, we are all Mamas — either lesbian couples or single mothers by choice. This is true even of the two new families.)

I still have my worries about the number of kids/families, and part of me worries that perhaps it should have been Hank’s choice to seek out his donor siblings when the time came, and not mine, but now that the connection is made, I am finding myself growing more grateful for these women, this community, every day.

Our donor is Mormon–though not practicing, I presume, since I’m pretty sure the Mormon faith frowns on sperm donation–and Penelope and I jokingly call the other mamas our “sister-wives”, since, like the sister wives in a polygamous family, we all have babies by the same man. This is a surprisingly intimate connection, though we’ve never yet met in person. It is hard not to feel a sense of kinship with this group of women whose life paths and choices are so similar to our own, and who are raising children so similar to our own little guy. As a first-time parent, it is wonderfully reassuring to have a group of parents we can reach out to when Hank develops a new habit or enters a new developmental stage, to ask “Is this normal?” It is fascinating, as this cadre of half-siblings age out of infancy into toddlerhood and beyond, to spot new traits that must surely be inherited from the donor rather than the mamas, shared as they are between kids being raised in different states by different mothers in different circumstances. It is entertaining to share pictures and videos of our adorable offspring, as proud mamas are wont to do, and find such an appreciative audience. While I’m sure many of my Facebook friends from high school and college and the job I had for a year before law school must get dreadfully tired of the endless updates I share about Hank, the Sister-Wives respond with the enthusiasm of a score of proud aunties, because Hank’s adorableness reflects upon them and upon their adorable babies, too. Having a growing connection to these donor families helps to fill the void of all that we don’t know about the donor, about the other half of our son’s genetic history.

Lately, I am finding myself most grateful for this group of Sister-Wives because, like me, they have all been on the emotional roller coaster that is trying to conceive a child by artificial methods. There are tons of resources and communities online for families trying to conceive–millions of blogs, dozens of sites like Babycenter.com, sites with medical advice and information on various fertility treatments–but nothing connects as personally to my experience as the community I have found among the other donor mamas. Most people struggling with infertility are traditional heterosexual couples who are trying to get pregnant “the old fashioned way.” Maybe they need fertility drugs or treatment of various medical conditions, but mostly the medical interventions they need to conceive are nothing at all like the entirely clinical process by which my baby will be conceived. I don’t mean to minimize the struggles of these heterosexual couples in any way, because I’m sure they are just as significant as my own; I only mean that it is sometimes hard for me to relate to these people when our experiences are so different. -Not so with the Sister-Wives: they have stood in my shoes and fought the same battles. Several of them, like me, are trying to conceive a second baby, and so there is a sense that we are all in this together. They have advice and comfort and sympathy that resonates more deeply than the well-intentioned but occasionally-unhelpful support offered by even my dearest friends and closest relations.

In short, these women are wonderful, and I am so grateful to have found them.

-C.

Sickie

Posted on by
2

Grammy e-mailed me this afternoon to say Hank seemed a little under the weather. He hadn’t eaten much, was restless during his nap, was a little bit fussy, a little bit warm, and he once pointed to his belly and said, “tummy” in a way that might have been a complaint and might have been, you know, a mere statement of fact, as in, “Here’s my…”

The thing about Hank is that he’s such a good natured kid that even when he’s really feeling crummy, he’s still fairly chipper and active and raring to go outside and romp around. It’s only obvious he’s sick when he spikes a fever or when night falls and he’s too uncomfortable to sleep. Otherwise, we’re looking for more subtle cues, like being a little bit cranky, a little bit restless, not as hungry as usual, especially in combination. One of these things alone may be nothing, but a little bit ‘off’ in a few different ways generally means Hank is feeling quite a bit ‘off.’

So, in today’s recounting of blessings, I am so grateful for Grammy, who is able to watch Hank while we are at work and be attuned enough to these subtle signs in order to alert us. I’m sure most daycare placements would never be able to be so alert to such barely-perceptible hints of illness in an uncomplaining toddler. I am grateful that my job is flexible enough (unless I am in the middle of trial) that I can leave early to take care of Hank when he needs it (though he’s in great hands with Grammy when I can’t get away). I am grateful that Hank has such a sunny disposition that, even when he feels crummy, he remains cheerful and affectionate. Finally, I am grateful to infant’s acetaminophen, which will hopefully help him sleep well and wake tomorrow feeling all better.

-C.

My Gramps

Posted on by
2

Hank and his Great Gramps, August 2011. They’re a couple of handsome fellas, no?

My grandfather is turning 90 tomorrow. (Truth to tell, it might even be today: I’m not good with dates.) And as it is our practice to spend a few moments every night counting our blessings, this post is dedicated to Gramps.

I am grateful for the childhood summers I got to spend in Yosemite National Park, where Gramps served for 30+ years as the Park’s dentist. Vermont is already a pretty great and gorgeous place to grow up, and on top of that, I got to spend at least two weeks per year in one of the most spectacular wilderness areas on the planet.

I am grateful for the time Gramps spent with me during those summer visits, the walks and hikes and bike rides we shared, the raft rides down the Merced River, the sailing outings at Tenaya Lake, and the quieter at-home afternoons we’d spend in companionable silence on the patio, reading our separate books.

I am (selfishly) grateful that I am the oldest grandchild, and I had so many years of these special visits, when Gram and Gramps were still young and spry and active, and I didn’t have to compete for attention with siblings and cousins.

I am grateful that in all those years of riding around with Gramps on the Park’s narrow, twisty roads with only a guardrail wire or perhaps some scrubby pines separating our car from a precipitous drop to a near-certain death, I never got carsick.

I am also grateful that it took me until I reached my 30s to realize that Gramps’ devil-may-care approach to motoring, especially on those Sierra highways, is absolutely terrifying. I’m grateful we’re alive.

I am grateful that my grandparents, though they live on the other side of the country, made a point to never miss a single major milestone in my life: they attended all of my graduations from high school to law school, and they flew east with all my aunts and uncles for the wedding when I married Penelope, even though it was less than a month after September 11, 2001, and everyone was afraid to fly.

I understand that it has become too much for them to travel so far, these days, and from now on I must bring my milestones to them. I am grateful for the opportunity to introduce Hank to his Great Gramps (and Great Gram), and hope very much that my children-yet-to-be-born get the same chance.

Happiest of birthdays, dear, dear Gramps. You are so very loved.

-C.

Three Blessings

Posted on by
Reply

Three things happened this evening to make me so grateful and proud of my little family.

1. Hank loves kale more than cake. He was still plugging away at his kale and chorizo soup when Penelope and I moved on to dessert. Penelope tried to offer him a bite of cake, and he said, “No cake! Kale! Chickpea!” Wow. He does not get this from me.

2. Hank has used the potty three days in a row. Granted, he hasn’t exclusively used the potty, but at least once a day for the past three days, he has peed on the potty like a big boy. We’re still a long way from fully toilet-trained, but since he’s only 19 months, I think we’re well ahead of the curve.

3. Penelope is a rock star at her work. Penelope is a middle school special education teacher. Back in September, 18 of her students were testing well below grade level. As of today, 14 of those 18 are reading at or above grade level. That kind of progress is huge. We’re not fans of standardized testing in this house, but when the tests give my sweetie this kind of tangible and immediate professional validation, that’s got to count for something.

Oh, and in other news: we put an offer on a new house tonight. I am tempering my excitement with the knowledge that there’s a lot that can go wrong with the home inspection and the financing, and yeah, we don’t even have an acceptance from the sellers yet… but for now, we’re just enjoying the thrilling potential for good things to come. Plus, buying a house is excellent distraction from the dreaded two week wait.

-C

20120515-213638.jpg

Clio’s Adventures in the Other Green Mountain State

Posted on by
Reply

Here are some of the highlights of my visit to meet three-month-old Niecie in Colorado. I taught her to swim:

Image

Me and Niecie. She totally trusts me.

She’s a natural. Here she is, practicing her backstroke with Mommy.

Image

Niecie's glamorous swimsuit courtesy of the ever stylish Soon-to-Be Aunt K.

She’s a very, very alert little girl. When she’s awake, she hardly blinks. At all. It’s a little bit spooky, to tell the truth. Here we are at my aunt and uncle’s house, about to share one of many yummy meals they provided.

Image

Alert Niecie and Sleepy Auntie

Aunt and Uncle have a free range moose in their neighborhood. Here he is, eating saplings in their front yard. I hoped to see him, but didn’t get a chance.

Image

Photo by Uncle R.W.

We left Niecie with her daddy, and Sis and I went to Steamboat Springs for an afternoon. We took a dip in the hot springs, and then went out for a late lunch of some of the best fish tacos I’ve ever had.

Image

Strawberry Park Hot Springs

We crossed the Continental Divide, twice.

Image

Loveland Pass

We went to the Red Rocks Amphitheatre, where we climbed many steps.

Image

Sis and Niecie, chillin' on the Red Rocks Stage.

(The view is totally worth it.)

Image

View from the top

We went disc golfing, until Niecie had a meltdown.

Image

Sis tees off.

We had a lovely dinner and overnight with Brother and Soon-to-Be Aunt K. (Not pictured.)

Image

Niecie, post-nap and recovered from meltdown.

I survived the last leg of the flight home, in a tiny 10-seat Cessna 402 in the rain, with zero visibility, bouncing all over the sky, and I did not cry or puke or even scream (though it was close). I might have whimpered a bit. I definitely prayed.

Image

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name...

And now I’m so glad to be home with my own little family. I missed them so much!

-C

Why we Bring Hank to Church

Posted on by
5

When I was growing up, my mother dressed us in crisp new outfits and bundled us off to church twice a year, on Easter Sunday and Christmas Eve. For a few years, my religious education was expanded to include an after school program at the Methodist church on Wednesday afternoons, but my motivation in attending was only that my best friend was going, and my mother’s motivation in sending me was that it meant she got an extra hour to herself every week. Despite this spotty upbringing, I knew that, when I had my own kids, I wanted our family to be part of a faith community, and here’s why.

1. Community: Penelope and I are newcomers to a small town where most of the locals grew up here and already know everyone. While we were attending grad school and settling in to our present careers, we moved seven times in ten years, and in the course of all of that transition, we learned that when you find yourself adrift in a new place, church is where you go to meet people and to get involved in community events. The best part is that church is familiar: so long as you stick within your chosen denomination (we’re Congregationalists), services are more or less the same all across the country. No matter how disorienting your relocation — perhaps the climate is not what you’re used to, perhaps everyone has an accent, perhaps you haven’t yet figured out where to buy your groceries or get your hair cut or check out library books — if you go to church, you will have at least one hour in which you will feel a sense of belonging, of welcome, of home.

2. Music: Music used to be an integral part of our culture. Before we all had televisions with hundreds of on demand channels, people made their own entertainment at community events where everyone would sing, and everyone knew the songs. If you ever have a chance, go to a Sacred Harp/Shape Note sing near you to get a sense of what those events were like: I promise, that music will knock your socks off. (See, for example: www.fasola.org .) Music played an integral part in the civil rights movement: Imagine the Montgomery Bus Boycott without “We Shall Overcome.” These days, though, the only place where people regularly gather together to sing is at church, and even there, we’re not as good at it as we used to be. Penelope and I want our kids to know the power of human voices raised in praise, not anger. Even if you don’t have a prodigious musical talent (and I certainly don’t), there is value to learning to sing with other people: you learn to listen to others, to make your voice blend with the group, you develop confidence to stand up straight, lift your head high, open your mouth and pour forth a joyful noise.

3. Behavior: Our 18-month-old son has been going to church since he was three weeks old, and already, he knows how to behave. Our church has a nursery where he can escape when he’s not able to sit still, but he doesn’t always need it. He knows that when the organist starts the prelude and the choir sweeps up the aisle, it’s time to settle down and sit quietly. He doesn’t always make it through the sermon, but he can generally be counted on to behave through the opening prayer and hymn, call to confession, and the children’s sermon. During the children’s sermon, he’s learning how to speak for himself in front of a crowd (a task that makes many adults quaver with fear), how to listen to a teacher or pastor, and how to respond appropriately (yes, socratic method works for toddlers, too, in very small doses!) — all years before he will be old enough for school. Then, he goes off to nursery, where he learns how to play with other children, how to respectfully enjoy books and toys that aren’t his, how to behave for caregivers other than his mamas or grandmothers, how to clean up the nursery when the service is over.

4. Respect for Differences: We attend church with all kinds of people: people who are much older than Hank’s grandparents, people who get around using walkers and wheelchairs, people with glasses and hearing aids, people of different colors, temperaments, shapes, and sizes. I grew up without much opportunity to interact with people other than my parents and their friends, and so to this day I harbor a private unease around the very old or very ill, but not Hank: he loves them all, and they all adore him.

5. Christianity is a Cultural Touchstone: We would like our children to be people of faith, but even if it doesn’t work out that way, even if Hank rejects Christianity, this teaching is not wasted. Even if you don’t believe that Christ was born the Son of God, that He lived and walked and taught among us, that He died for our sins and is risen, as we may be — even if you reject all that, it’s still a damn great story. This morning as I listened to our Pastor tell of the Passion according to Matthew, and I was seized anew by the drama of the tale. I can only imagine how Judas’s hands must have trembled under the table at that Passover Seder, as Jesus broke the bread and announced that one of the twelve then eating together would betray him. “Woe to that one by whom the Son of Man is betrayed! It would be better for him not to have been born!” Imagine Peter’s guilt when he realizes that Jesus’s prophesy has come true: that despite his professed loyalty, Peter did indeed betray Him three times before the cock crowed in the morning! That’s great stuff!

You may be the most rational, dyed-in-the-wool atheist around, but like it or not, Christianity and the Bible have shaped our culture, our history, even our language. If you don’t have a basic knowledge of religious parables, you won’t understand half of what’s going on when you try to read Milton, Shakespeare, Chaucer, or any of the other canons of English Literature. You won’t understand the poetry of Emily Dickinson or Gerard Manley Hopkins. You won’t understand hundreds of everyday idioms that come from scripture: a house divided against itself cannot stand, an eye for an eye, as old as Methuselah, beat swords into plowshares, by the skin of your teeth, give up the ghost, how the mighty are fallen, my cup runneth over, out of the mouths of babes… I could go on and on, but I won’t.

6. It’s Fun: Today, as I mentioned, is Palm Sunday. Our service began with the children of the congregation parading around the sanctuary, waving palm fronds and shouting loud hosannas. Hank was so excited, the smile on his face literally brought tears to my eyes. I took this photo on the drive home. You can tell he’s exhausted, more than ready for his morning nap, but the palms are still fascinating. He calls them “flowers,” and he will enjoy them (under close supervision) until he’s ripped them to shreds with his toddler-love. For me, a new favorite Easter tradition is born.

-C