Scatter Lolcats and Other Excellent Uses of My Time

How can I write when there are so many entertaining distractions at my house?  Why just this morning, when I could have been writing or reflecting deeply on the meaning of existence, I instead played "Scattercat," a game very enthusiastically invented by my two year old.  The game is initiated when she, while sitting in my bed, asks innocently, "Mom, will you be Scattercat?"  If the answer is yes, then I get to take on the persona of a bipolar cat.  She typically shoves me under the covers where I protest with growls and hisses.

Then she asks in a sweetly cooing voice, "Scattercat, are you okay?  Are you being nice?  Do you want to pat a ball?  Are you ticklish?"  Scattercat must, of course, respond to all of these queries using cat-language only, and the game will go on as long as I allow it.  I realize that this all may sound completely torturous, and perhaps it would be apart from the fact that the inventor of the game gets so excited and seems utterly convinced that I have actually transformed into a somewhat psychotic feline.  To be honest I think playing Scattercat provided more insight into the meaning of existence than quiet reflection would have anyway.

Keep in mind that the two year old inventor of Scattercat and other games, who sometimes brings me wrapped presents which are "NOT a dragon named Tyrone" because "that's too scary," is not the only source of distraction at my house.  I also  have some other kids.  The middle one likes to print recipes off the Internet and busy herself in the kitchen making things like apple pie salad or happy hedgehog potatoes.  While she is busy in the kitchen, she tends to turn on music and dance like no one's watching.  She is a girl after my own heart, and I cannot resist getting in on that action.  (Don't forget that I also have control issues when it comes to my kitchen, and on the rare occasions that I have allowed my kids to create in the kitchen while unsupervised, the results have been, in my opinion, completely disastrous.)

Then there is my oldest daughter who can distract me almost effortlessly.  She has learned to put off bedtime by asking irresistible questions like, "Were the Nazis stupid?" or "Do you know who Lucille Ball is?" (Do I ever!?) or "Do you have any ideas for my Harry Potter birthday party?"  I can talk to and listen to that girl all night, and she knows it.

Finally do not underestimate the distracting influence of that guy named George.  His Blake Shelton impression leaves me no choice.  I must put my book down and howl in laughter.  I manage to choke out the words, "Stop distracting me!  I am trying to read about how to live in the moment!!"  My husband is usually a welcome distraction, especially since 'living in the moment' with him often involves convulsing with laughter until I cannot catch my breath.  My daughter Emma witnessed this for the first time recently and noted incredulously, "Mom!  I've never seen you like this before!"

So while I have not been writing these last couple of weeks, I have been living.  I have sat at the computer and typed a few sentences at a time, but something always pulls me away, and...

I HAS WRITERZ BLOCK!

(I have also spent some time trying to get my own cat to pose for this photo without any success.  I think this was a valuable use of my free time, but in the end, our own Scattercat was not amused, so I borrowed the above image from http://www.bunnycute.com/page/20/ .)

Eleven Years

Eleven years isn't so very long, but I am now a different person than I was then.  Eleven years ago I was twenty four years old, and I had rainbows in my eyes.  The future that I pictured was a perfect continuation of the fairy tale that had begun to blossom in my imagination.  Perfect fairy tales, however, are rather boring, and we learn very little when everything is perfect.

Superficially I didn't have any wrinkles or stretch marks eleven years ago.  I had never spent a sleepless night taking care of someone else.  The girl in the picture above didn't know a whole lot about selfless giving.  For the record the girl sitting at the keyboard typing still has quite a bit to learn on that topic.

When I looked, mesmerized, into my brand new husband's face eleven years ago, I never imagined that I could gaze upon him and feel anything less than euphoria.  Eleven years ago I was well-rested, and his pranks were always adorable.  His raggedy Batman pillow case was charmingly cute; his naughty tendency to steal the corner brownie before it was ready to be cut was delightfully precocious; and his penchant for getting lost in computer games was quirky.

Eleven years later I do not always look at him with blind affection and adoration.  Eleven years later I will admit that there are brief moments when I do not even like that guy very much.  But it is also true that in every waking moment I love that man so much more deeply than the tiara-bedecked princess pictured above could even conceive of.  Today when I really look at my husband, I see a man who has held my hand when I was ugly and tired.  I see the man who still laughs with me in the dark until tears run down my face as we tell stories that only the two of us find funny.  We have survived three pregnancies as well as the frayed emotions and over-tiredness that go along with parenting new babies.  We have traveled (with children) throughout Europe, lived abroad for several years, and now made our home in the strange land called Michigan, but no matter where we are, as long as this man is beside me, I am at home.

George, you are not a mystery to me.  I know what makes you tick.  I do not imagine that you are perfect or that you will fulfill every childhood fantasy this starry-eyed girl ever dreamed up.  I know you, and I love you all the more.  I know you, and I do not wish to be anywhere else.  You are still my favorite person to do nothing with.  I like your sweet face.  Your hands are wonderfully familiar.  Your arms bring comfort when I feel lost.  You are a wise and loving father, and you challenge me to be a better mother.  You know me better than anyone, and you still love me too.  Growing and learning are the results of actually living.  We are not always pretty, but we always love each other,

and that's better than any fairy tale.

Happy Anniversary!

WE GOT MARRIED!!

Meditation for Mamas, Part 2

About a year ago, I wrote this post in which I lamented the lack of "alone time" that we mother's face.  I was fearful that the constant stimulation of raising several children was leaving me spiritually illiterate.  I shared this post with a writer friend, and she liked it very much.  She also politely asked, "What's the 'take-away'?  What have you learned?"  This was a good and helpful question.  I thought about it, and I found myself, a year later, writing somewhat effortlessly about what I have learned...

I love my “job,” but it isn’t what I pictured when others used to ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” In fact there isn’t much being involved in mothering.  There is, however, plenty of doing.  I do laundry.  I cook, clean, drive, read stories, herd belligerent little people in the direction of the bathtub, and participate in sticky craft activities that cause me to break out in imaginary hives.  I also listen, dry tears, offer hugs, and clean up bodily fluids.  Mostly all of this is wonderful and satisfying, but at the end of the day I am tired and introspective.  I sometimes wonder where God is in all of this.  I wonder what my purpose is.  I wonder what that fuzzy green stuff growing at the bottom of my daughter's lunch box is.  I get distracted.  What were we talking about?  Oh, yes,  I remember.

Books, yogis, and gurus tell me about finding God through quiet meditation.  I sigh in defeat.  Quiet time for reflection and a calm, meditative mind, one that isn't thinking about someone's lunch box or the cat's incessant meowing, are two things this mama rarely has.  It would seem that motherhood and monastic, desert spirituality are completely incompatible.  Achieving enlightenment or finding God through hours of quiet meditation is not practical for most of us even if it is WJWD.  Is there any hope for us?

Of course there is.  In fact, I have learned that many of the benefits of meditation can be gleaned in the midst of the noisy times. Is there a better time and place to practice “being in the moment” than while immersed in a bubble bath with a giddy toddler?  Is there a better time to practice forgiveness than in the very moment you walk into the kitchen and find that some little, elfin cutie has lovingly drawn hearts and flowers all over the table with permanent magic markers?  Want to deepen your capacity for love?  Try staying up all night caring for a snotty, moaning child, holding a helpless newborn in your arms, or listening to the gut-wrenching sobs of a big kid who's being bullied by the mean girls at school.  Stooping to help a toddler who has gone to pieces over a broken carrot stick might just help you keep your own woes in perspective especially if you join her in deep breaths and affirmative mantras like, "Everything is going to be okay." God does not only appear in the calm, quiet, contemplative moments.  God is there in every moment.

Certainly we mothers (and fathers) must find time to pause and have solitude.  It is essential that we take time to re-charge our batteries and re-connect with our adult selves, but silent prayer and meditation are not the only ways to connect with a higher power.  Sometimes sacred ground is littered with crushed Cheerios, and we can see the face of God in our own children (underneath the chocolate syrup and glitter).  Often the only difference between the sacred and the ordinary is in our perception.  Taking a deep breath and acknowledging that God is there in the ordinary, chaotic, everyday moments has saved my sanity over and over again, which brings me to one of my favorite quotes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

"Earth's crammed with heaven, and every common bush aflame with God,  

but only he who sees takes off his shoes; the rest sit round it and pluck blackberries."

This Little Peanut

This little peanut, who came into the world calmly and peacefully on a Tuesday afternoon,
is now a girl of eight!
 She has blossomed into a charming and clever little person who entertains us with witty anecdotes, astute impersonations, and lively dance moves.
Her baby sister, who refers to her as, 'my friend Sophie' finds her enchanting and yearns for her return anytime she is out.
To her older sister, she is often best friend and playmate (except when she is 'worst enemy' and 'the meanest girl in the world').  Let's keep it real here.

Sophia, we love watching you become more and more YOU everyday.
You have a magnetic personality, and you seem to find friends everywhere you go.
We like being around you because you love us just the way we are;
We like the way you make us feel about ourselves, and THAT is some gift!
You bring your own sunshine, your own creative and energetic solutions to problems,
and your own sensible approach to life's dramas.

You've come a long way, Little Peanut.

In fact it seems you are well on your way to being a full-grown, crazy coconut.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl!