kiwords

My latest best idea

I had a BRILLIANT idea today. I'm good at those. The ideas. I have one that's worth at least a million dollars, I swear I do. It's the doing anything about the ideas that I lack. 

Nonetheless. 

My idea starts here: have you ever gotten one of those magical boxes of Kellogg's Frosted Mini-Wheats (who doesn't love these? You are dismissed) that had a little extra frosting? So when you pour the milk and the shredded wheat part gets a little soft, the frosting still maintains a gentle crunch, making your cereal-eating experience well nigh perfect?

Well, here's my idea! Kellogg's should TOTALLY make Extra Frosted Mini-Wheats! I would buy them. And I think you would too. Come on, you would, wouldn't you? And on Facebook, we would all complain about it, "OH did you see this TRAVESTY of a breakfast cereal? Who needs MORE FROSTING in this world? What we need is EXTRA WHEAT Mini-Wheats!" 

And then they could make the extra wheat kind too, so when I pour myself a bowl of the extra frosting kind, I can take it and hide in my room to eat it. And when the kids bang on my door to ask if I'm eating the cereal with the extra frosting, I can bellow back, "NO! Go eat your EXTRA WHEAT MINI-WHEATS!"

Kellogg's is welcome to take my brilliant idea for free. That's how much of a giver I am.

And to answer your questions: Yes, I am feeling a bit less nauseated. What are you eating RIGHT NOW? Are you going to finish that? And no, I am not going insane, even though it is snowing and there is supposed to be something crazy like a foot of snow by morning and Tre's school is already cancelled. I'm fine. 

And FULL of good ideas.

And now you know...the REST OF THE STORY. Sort of.

I got an email today from a friend from inside the computer (Hi, Kary!), who mentioned that she was checking here regularly for updates about Max. And that shook me out of my stupor, because gah, what a jerk am I? Here I invite you all to follow me off a cliff of anxiety, and then I disappear without finishing the story. I'm sorry.

I guess the problem is that I don't know the end of the story yet. The good news is that Max's EEG came back normal. Normal! As in fine! 

See now, I feel like an ass, because I should be happier about this. But something IS going on with Max, and I don't have any answers, and I think we all know that moms have all the answers, always. Ha ha, I know *I* usually do! HA! Right? Just like the rest of you seem to? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I'm not malfunctioning or anything!

For now we're keeping a diary of "events" and hoping not to see anything. And then we'll wander away and pretend like none of this ever happened. Sound good to you?

Seriously, though, thank you for all your kind words and concern. The lot of you made me cry, more than once. Just because I'm pregnant and have been known to burst into tears over such touching moments as the end of the toilet paper roll does not undermine that fact ONE BIT. Love you all.

Just be okay.

This afternoon I drove across town to attend a mandatory parent's meeting for the honor band that Max is participating in. Honor band is sort of like a school band, minus the school. It's a pretty sweet deal, especially for a homeschooled kid. Music nerds, unite!

Most of the meeting went over various fundraising opportunities (as if anyone actually think of these as "opportunities." If we were to extend this use of the word, we would have to talk about root canal opportunities and tax bill opportunities too, people). Toward the end, the subject changed to the requirements needed to move up to the next level. This touched off an unprecedented level of parental sharing.

One mom piped up, "I'm CERTAIN that my daughter is ready for intermediate band. CERTAIN. Who do I talk to?"

"I KNOW," another mom broke in, "my daughter was ready in the middle of last semester. Seriously. I don't want her BORED, you know? We deal with that enough in school."

"My son auditioned for advanced band, and he was placed in SYMPHONIC band," a dad shared. "We were...well, not SURPRISED, but happy!"

And so it went for a while. 

I listened, but only with half attention. Max is in beginning band, and I don't really know if he's ready for intermediate. Don't really care. He and his teachers will work that out, I suppose. And eventually he'll move up, but from my position it sounds pretty much the same. Unaccompanied saxophone squawks do not really enchant at either beginning or intermediate levels. 

It may not sound like it, but I'm not actually judging these proud parents. The truth is, I'm lucky. I know it doesn't matter which band Max is in, because I know his achievement is not a measure of his worth. Tomorrow I take him to the Children's Hospital for an EEG to figure out if the...episodes of weirdness he's been experiencing are seizures. I've been studiously avoiding Dr. Google, for obvious reasons, and steadfastly refusing to think about it until we have some actual information. 

But I can't help this: I look at him when he's not watching, and hope so hard that he's okay that I forget to breathe for a moment. And I don't care if he ever plays in intermediate or advanced or any band at all. I just want him to be Max. To be okay, and to be Max. He's the only one who can swing that, after all.

I think about a dear friend's child, as bright and accomplished and beautiful as any parent could hope for, who is basically fighting for her life tonight. I don't care what she ever accomplishes ever again. Be okay. Be your precious self.

I know I've been the other parent before, it's too easy. I've slid my children's talents and abilities on like they were my own to wear. I've turned, just so, to be sure others could see and admire (no one does, not really, you know). I've forgotten the truth underneath what they can do.

Move up to the next level or don't. Play your saxophone, play your flute, play whatever lights you up inside. Find your way and please. Oh please. Just be okay.

A stinky, disgusting, honor, but still.

Last night - no, wait, I guess that would be this morning - a little after 2, I heard a cough and a gasp from Sophia's room. A doomed chill ran down my spine. And sure enough, as I swung my feet to the floor, she gave an anguished cry of, "Will someone come clean off my foot?"

I found her, as I'd suspected, sitting up, barfing into the diamond formed by her legs. And so it began.

Clay and I swung into mess-containment mode (we'd had blueberries with dinner. Of COURSE we'd had blueberries), mopped off the pitiful little urchin, and tucked her in bed between us. 

For the rest of the night we slept in 20 minute chunks, to be then woken up by another round of vomit. I have a system for sick kids sleeping in my bed, and I'm pretty good at containing it. We did use up all the clean towels in the house, though. After throwing up, Sophia would pitifully request just a little water, and I'd give her a drink, then try to wrestle it away before she gulped enough to make her sick again. I swear to you, she growled at me once.

Today was spent mostly just sitting around, with a fever-limp girl draped across me, doling out sips of water and nibbles of inoffensive foods (and NO BLUEBERRIES). 

If you had told me twenty years ago that I would have days like today, when I am on sick kid duty despite two hours of sleep the night before, when I would nudge two other kids through (nearly) a full day of school work, when I would spend many moments wondering idly if the nausea I was feeling at that exact moment was standard pregnant sickness or something ominous, I would have thought you were just being mean.

And if you had told me I would consider it an honor, I would have thought you were insane. 

Shows you what I knew.

Because I know you want to know.

Joshilyn Jackson has a new book, and if you go here, you can participate in her virtual booksigning, which will not only net you a signed copy, but will probably make you prettier. She's just that good.

Gifted sister

Today Sophia has referred, several times, to herself as "the baby." We were in the bathroom at Target, and she wanted me to put her on the changing table. Then I brought home an infant car seat (passed along to me by a kind family, bringing the number of baby items we have on hand for this child up to...one. I am a moron.), and she spent the evening buckling herself into said car seat, demanding a blanket, and even babbling classic baby talk.

More than a few people have mentioned that this new baby will be...how do they put it?...challenging for Sophia. Or "a big change." I keep insisting that I believe she'll be fine, and I do. She is, after all, an intensely social little girl, and what is this baby except another person? Sophia LOVES people. She loves to talk to them and make them smile and take their stuff and bug them and talk to them some more. So yes, ultimately, I do believe she is going to adjust to this baby just fine.

That doesn't mean she won't suffer some adjustment period. After all, adding to your family is sort of like throwing all the cards up in the air. You don't know where everything's going to fall for a while. And while I think the concept is oversold, it is hard for the baby to move out of the baby spot.

However, I did not quite expect her to start dealing with her angst quite so soon. This little person (whom we call "Zyggy" for "zygote" even though s/he's technically a fetus now) is barely the size of a lime. Zyggy's not touching her stuff. And yet here we are, with a great big girl climbing up in my lap and petulantly announcing that SHE is the baby and ga ga goo goo.

You know what this means, right?

She's clearly gifted.

Don't read this if you are suffering from morning sickness or generally have a sensitive stomach. Really.

I almost threw up in Chipotle today.

Wait, let me back up a little. I'm sick with this pregnancy - relentlessly, horrifically, crushingly sick. I have only thrown up once, but that is mainly because of my superhuman vomit containing skills. Mostly I just walk around, swallowing hard, trying not to smell anything, look at anything that might smell like anything, or think about cooked spinach.

Oh, ugh. *gag* Cooked spinach.

Where was I? Oh yes, so this has been my lot of late. I am queasy. And sleepy. And sort of dumb, but that's another post. If I remember, which I won't. But I am nearly 12 weeks along now (!), and just this week, I have started to ever so slightly edge around the corner into feeling better. So today when my mom offered to take me and my chiddlers out to lunch, I bravely said yes. (Yes, I called myself brave just now. I am EXACTLY like firefighters and soldiers and police officers who put themselves in harm's way for the sake of others, because I dared to face down a burrito. Totes.)

When we got there, I ordered myself a barbacoa burrito, and settled in with the crew to eat. Sitting at the table next to us was a young woman who seemed utterly FASCINATED by us. She openly stared as we sat down, and proceeded to eat her lunch like the entertainment she'd ordered had finally arrived. At first, given her youth, I assumed she was studying Tre, an uncomfortably common occurrence these days. But she was clearly transfixed by all of us.

I tucked into my burrito, and can I tell you? It was AMBROSIA. Just spicy enough, with all that cheesy, carby, calorific goodness. It tasted amazing, and I was thrilled. Just because you're queasy all the time doesn't mean you stop being hungry, see. My body is constantly, uncomfortably aware that I'm not eating enough, and it's an awful feeling. I try, I promise I am trying to eat, but blargh.

But then. Oh, then. I bit into a perfectly promising corner, and got a chunk of meat that was...texturally not okay. Texture is always important to me, even when I'm not pregnant. As a matter of fact, the last time Mir was here, she watched me picking over some barbacoa I'd made, carefully removing every shred of anything that could offend, texturally, and she suggested I have sensory issues. By which I assume she meant, "Oh, Kira, thank you for so meticulously saving me from those horrible icky bits, because they are so clearly bad and wrong."

But nobody with my food ethic works at Chipotle, apparently, because today my teeth sank into a portion of beef that was distinctly...fatty.

Oh, dear. *gag*

I plucked that bite out of my mouth with the sort of alacrity that has inspired the popular new phrase, "Drop it like you bit into an icky bit." Not as catchy as "drop it like it's hot," but more...HEARTFELT. But that didn't mean I wasn't immediately plunged into a battle to keep from losing my lunch right there, in front of God and that lady sitting next to us. I was sort of trapped in the interior of our table, and couldn't quickly and discretely reach a good puke receptacle, so I sat there and fought it. I took drinks of my soda, breathed deeply, and just fought it. I heaved, swallowed, heaved, swallowed. Mom watched me, holding her breath. Heave, swallow. Do you know what happens when you drink carbonated soda and heave? You belch. Loudly. Can you believe that none of my boys noticed that I was belching and trying not to throw up? I didn't get even one "Good one, Mom." What is this world coming to?

Finally I got the upper hand. I looked up, wiped my eyes, and apologized. Mom patted my back. I shoved my burrito away, feeling deep regret (it was SO GOOD, too!). And then I looked up to see the woman at the next table, quietly covering the rest of her lunch and pushing it away.

Is it pathological, you think, that I'm feeling guilty for ruining her meal?

Part 3: Family

When Jennie was here, I took her and the boys to the mall for black friday. It was a zoo, as you might expect. As we were making our way through the parking lot (after parking in the back 40, after driving around for one solid millennium), we passed a very pregnant woman. She was stepping off a curb, and reached out for the arm of the man accompanying her, because she clearly had no idea where her feet were.

Jennie and I watched her pass in silence, then I leaned over and murmured to her, "Aren't you glad you're not pregnant?" She nodded, and we walked on.

For the first time since I was...probably SEVEN, I genuinely was happy not to be pregnant. Not just because it's a drag to be so unacquainted with your feet, but because since Sophia was born, I have felt content. I could hold babies without feeling the slightest stirrings of "ooooohhh, but just ONE MORE baby?" It was such a relief, because I was convinced that I was going to end up 95 years old, in a nursing home, still pining for just. one. more. baby.

But with Sophia's arrival, I could look at my unruly gang of offspring, and feel...content. It was like waking up from a long mental illness, I swear.

People have asked, occasionally, if we plan on having any more. Mostly they ask with a cringing sort of curiosity, like they're thinking, how crazy is this ride going to get? And I would laugh and assure them, No, we're good. Life is pretty full, after all.

La la la...can we see where this is going?

As it turns out, that day when I made that comment to Jennie, I already was pregnant. As in, I AM pregnant. Due - get this - in July, the week my firstborn turns 17! That never fails to crack me up. 17! And a newborn! This ride is getting VERY CRAZY, thanks!

I am sick as a dog, and three (count them, one, two, three) people have felt it necessary to remind me of Michelle Duggar's miscarriage (the thinking being, I suppose, something along the lines of "Oh, she is almost EXACTLY like Mrs. Duggar, old and with a ridiculous amount of children, so I am certain she will appreciate the heads up." So if I DO lose this baby, my first thought will be "OH THANK GOODNESS THEY WARNED ME!"). Everyone was GOING to have their own room in the new house, but now Sophia and the baby will share, and I keep having these moments where I realize I am going to have to navigate another task that I thought I was done with forever - like finding a diaper bag I don't hate. I am going to be 41 when this baby is born, God willing, and the whole thing is terribly messy and crazy.

And I am delighted. Clay is delighted. The boys are delighted - although hoping for either a boy or a girl with fewer words. Sophia is...puzzled.

Despite all the upending of our plans, and the sickness and my advanced maternal age, I find myself very happy and hopeful. I may not have yearned for this baby, but now that s/he's here, I'm grateful for every day we get together.

It turns out we did need just. one. more.

Part 2: Home

My house, my home. It's precious to me, and not just because you could fit it in a decent sized snow globe. It's my home, the home that Clay and I brought back to life and formed with our own hands (by which I mean Clay did all the actual work and decision making, while I watched him admiringly). (That's not ENTIRELY true, because I know I did wield a sawzall on our actual honeymoon, so I must have done something constructive at some point, but it's still....erm...85% true.)

When we moved in here, the three boys shared the only other room in the house, right across the hall from the "master" bedroom. All three of them, lined up like so many sardines, if sardines slept in sleeping bags and kept each other in hysterics with fart jokes. When Jennie came for the summer, Clay worked in overdrive to get one of the rooms in the basement done so she could have her own space. We all fit. It didn't even seem to be that tight of a fit, although that may partially be because we were so dazzled with us, being home, together.

But as Clay says, the house fits the kids just fine. It's the TEENAGERS we didn't bargain for. They are so large. And bouncy. And the come with many, many accessories. Plus we added a wee girl in there somewhere along the line. We are at full capacity. Maybe a bit beyond. But it's our HOUSE. Our HOME.

And besides, the housing market here? It's ugly. There have been so many foreclosures that the kids have gotten used to the sight of someone's belongings tossed on the front lawn. We would be lucky to sell this house for what we bought it for, never mind the 40K we put in it. *sigh* No way could we afford to move to a larger home. I might as well go ahead and adore my tiny precious home, because we are STUCK HERE.

A few months ago, we finally replaced the kitchen light fixture that has bothered Clay since the day he moved in. It was just a light/fan combo that didn't do all that great a job of lighting, and it was bad and wrong. After years of fussing about it, we finally went to the home improvement store and bought a new fixture. The one I wanted was on sale! And I loved it!

A few days later, Clay had it installed and the ceiling repaired (because nothing is simple). When I stood back to admire it, I thought, oh, it's perfect. Just perfect. And almost as if in response, I heard the thought in my head, we're going to move now.

Of course, that didn't make any sense, because housing market plus pay freeze at Clay's work plus my persistance in not making money plus not winning the lottery. No way.

There was one niggling thought, the idea we had tossed around with my parents about us buying a property together. But it would have to be just the right property, with separate housing for both our families. And affordable. And...*sigh*...apparently magic. Because there just isn't a property like that. We've looked.

And then, one day, Clay was driving along, and this may sound odd, but he was praying about the house. He's not one to complain, but I really think the crowded conditions here have started to wear on him. And basically he asked God if there was an answer, if there was a house for us. And he turned his head and saw a sign.

Not a shaft of light or a burning bush or anything, but a literal sign. A "For Sale" sign, to be exact. On a house newly in foreclosure. We dragged our Realtor out there, and I swear, when we crossed the threshold it felt like home.

Home that needs a lot of work, but still.

It's big, with room for everyone, and there is a separate and spacious mother-in-law apartment that will work for Mom and Dad, and it's on nearly three acres and it's...well, it's home.

We're closing on it (God willing) the end of this month. Still not sure how we're going to deal with this house, but for the first time in a long time, we feel like we have options, and aren't just pawns of the economy. Just thinking about it makes it easier to breathe.

Kira Knows Best. Not.

You know what I'm just not going to do? Win the lottery. Yeah, I'm just not interested in having any more money. Not my thing. Also not interested in? Effortless weight loss. And perfect health for everyone in my family? Naw. Don't need it.

Why? Well, it may sound a little like I'm trying to manipulate the universe, but I think it's worth a try, because recently, in three rather profound ways, I've been handed an opportunity to eat my words. Yum. I thought I'd share these experiences here. And so, starting today, I present to you:

Kira Eats Her Words: A Drama in Three Parts.

Part 1 - Church

I've mentioned my church home here before. It's where I met Clay! A loving little Anglican community that wrapped itself around Clay and I and our kids, it was just simply home for the longest time.

Except then...it wasn't. I can't exactly describe it, but week after week I came away from church all tied up in knots about something that was said or done. Let me emphasize here that I have no animosity for the people there. But over the last five years, many of my dearest friends have converted to either the Orthodox or the Roman Catholic Church. And as I've listened to their new understanding of ancient knowledge, the answers that had sustained me all my life started to ring...hollow.

But there didn't seem to be any answer for us. The Orthodox church was too far a leap, culturally. And I was simply not going to be Catholic. I wasn't interested in having my first marriage annulled, and just the suggestion made be bristle a bit. Where do they get off, exactly, judging the trainwreck of my first marriage, anyhow? Did any of those priests in charge drag themselves from that wreckage? Besides, Clay grew up in the Catholic Church, and wasn't interested in returning.

Remember that part where I stated - emphatically - that I was not going to be Catholic.

So there we were. I was increasingly drawn to a more orthodox expression of the faith, but there didn't seem to be any place for us. We were very connected to the people at our church, and to cap it all off, Clay didn't see any need to go anywhere else. So picture this: week after week, we leave church. I am fussing about something that rubbed me wrong, or even worse, biting down hard not to say anything. Clay is gripping the steering wheel, wishing I would just let it go, already. The boys are squabbling, because that's what they do. It was lovely and sustaining, is what it was.

However many times we talked about it though, or fought about it, we always came back to the same conclusion: there was simply nowhere else to go. We were already Anglican, and weren't going to move further along the non-denominational end of the spectrum. There wasn't anywhere else to go.

I don't even want to think about how long this went on, but once I shared my frustration with a friend, who shook her head and said, "Oh, but that's divine dissatisfaction, and it's not going to let you go."

I wanted to believe that she was wrong, that I could some how discipline my will and just get over it, already. But I couldn't get over it, and I kept yearning for...I wasn't even sure what.

All along, the same dissatisfaction was building in Clay, although I didn't realize how much, because he is not a whiner (unlike my own whiny self). One day I prayed, all alone in my van, for God to show us where we were supposed to be. I gave up thinking I knew where that was (or at least where that wasn't), and just asked for an answer.

The next day Clay asked me to look into the Catholic Church. To speak to a priest and ask the questions I needed answers to, and to figure out once and for all if I could go there.

And so I did.

In September we started the process of joining the Catholic Church (or returning, for Clay). I think I've held off writing about it because I was waiting to find just the right words. Somehow I was going to tie it all up in a 600 word post that would perfectly explain our choice and fend off any more hurt feelings (we have not had universal acceptance amongst our Protestant friends, and that's just all I'm going to say about that). Whenever I try, though, I am immediately overwhelmed. How to explain a whole 2,000 year old church?

Once, during one of the RCIA classes I'm currently taking, a priest, Fr. Gregg, was telling us about the Mass. And every so often he would stop, grip the sides of his podium, and mutter, "It's just so big...and deep..."

It's hard to put into words.

I will just say this: The Catholic Church is bigger on the inside than the outside. And as it turns out, there was a place for us. Our family is home.