Granted, I haven't made an utter failure of motherhood.

But I have made a muddle of it, more or less, for about ten years now.


Among other transgressions was my particular need to control the look of the yearly Christmas tree. It had to be perfect, something out of a home decor magazine. My aunt, a former interior decorator in a wealthy area, taught me how to make a gorgeous tree, and I stuck closely to that standard. But this year I've reformed, you see. And in doing so, I think I've come a wee bit closer to what this holiday is about.

It started with my own childhood. I've written before about how precious a Christmas tree is to me, how much I love to have one decorated to perfection. Well, I took that a bit too far. It was easy, in the beginning, as it was just me decorating. Each year, I'd blow the budget on new lights, ornaments, tinsel. By a few years ago, I had what I thought was the perfect color scheme: jewel tones. Peacock feathers and little peacock ornaments, shimmering purple and green and rich orange. It was gorgeous. In 2004 it fell down, all 14 feet (yes! 14 feet!) of it, and I lost many of my ornaments. Thanks to some gifts from dear people, I re-amassed my collection, and last year it shone beautiful again, although now down to a moderate 6' tree :)

When my oldest was 3 or 4, she began bringing home little handmade ornaments from Sunday School. You know the type- crusty glitter lumped to one side, hardened glue halfway up the yarn hanger, mushy glue in small masses on the edge, those fuzzy pompons hanging limply from the middle, not a single color coordinating with another... most of us have made them and presented them to our own mothers (or other unsuspecting loved ones) with as much pride and Christmas goodwill as can be imagined.


I have always been kindly receptive to the actual finished piece- prolific in the "Oh, sweetie, how pretty!!" praise, as any decent mother will be. But it ended there. I had my tree, you know, and there was just not room for the lopsided, lumpy endeavors of my children. I had seen an idea somewhere, years ago, and I ran with it- a separate tree for the kids stuff. Let them throw two pounds of tinsel at it, let it have white lights mixed with multi-color (my own pet peeve!), let it have more ornaments on the bottom than the top, just let them at it. It was a good idea, and it kept my kids happy for a few years. They had their own crooked little mess of a tree in their bedroom, while I had the 'show' tree in the living room- perfect, balanced, color-matched.

But this year it will be different. I've begun to see my little ones through different eyes, somehow. I finally see them not as random interlopers, but as the vital ingredients of this family that they really are. And I was reminded of another parental relationship- my own to my God, my only Father, really. I bring Him my lumpy, mismanaged emotions... my misdirected rage and grief and my utterly inadequate creativity and allegiance. He takes the crooked cutout of my heart, sprinkled with tarnishing glitter and stuck together with my own tears, and He hangs it right there on another tree... and He is not ashamed to show His love for me.

So bring on the Elmer's and the glitter. Go ahead and put red yarn on a blue ornament. Glue your photo slightly sideways and make sure to leave a fingerprint on it, because those fingers won't be so tiny or clumsy forever.

Labels: Christmas, love, parenting

{although in the midst of travel posts, this has nothing to do with the trip}

It's 4am and I'm sitting here staring at a computer screen. My sleep schedule has been hellish both during and since my 'vacation'. I use the word loosely because I didn't find much rest on that trip- ferrying 3 girls into and out of bathrooms every half hour, making sure every one washed their hands and didn't lose their coats (we lost 2 anyhow) and didn't get snatched by strangers and didn't stand in anyone's way or make trouble of any kind. Finding gas stations and ATM machines and hotels and restaurants. Trying to eat healthy and keep the kids from killing each other in the car and still have them do their homework despite all of the grand mountains and trees to look out upon. Sitting in a car until my butt was numb from traveling, battling icy winds and snow and cold temperatures and wondering why I didn't just stay home or go to DisneyWorld.

I am home now and everyone asks me how I enjoyed it. I smile and say it was nice, but I actually am tired and disillusioned and broke. We spent too much money, we let the kids (and ourselves!) eat too much junk, we tried cramming too many stops and destinations into two weeks. My husband and I had zero privacy for 2 weeks, we barely talked about anything interesting, and now we barely make eye contact any more. I am in constant pain from this infected wisdom tooth (due to be cut out Friday, maybe all of my troubles will go away with the four sick teeth?), I cannot manage a single night of normal sleep, and I cannot get my father of my brain.

I hoped that I would write on this trip, that the thing that dried up inside of me would be watered or nourished or rediscovered. But it didn't happen. My stories sit unattended, my brain so fevered with the pain of old memories and the real physical pain of my throbbing jaw that I cannot speak in clear sentences.

I am aging and out of shape and overweight and unhappy and lost. Lost. I couldn't take one more day of my job before I left, but being away hasn't changed that much- the constant questions and the needy customers and the silent days of waiting for an actual paying customer and the wondering if this month the books will all balance out. I walked away from this job once, a few years ago, because I couldn't handle my father's overbearing yet irresponsible ways. Once he was out of the picture, I began to enjoy my job again, but now all of the worries and conflicts are creeping in, in other forms. My mother wants out, wants to retire and quietly paint somewhere. She deserves it, but I don't know who can take it over from her. I can run the business in some respects- creative, personnel, customer service... but not in others- bills, budget, taxes. And who even wants jewelry in a recession? In an economy tanking hard and fast, is this not the craziest thing I can be doing?

I look at the emails that come trickling in for my husband- lucrative job offers, some with relocation packages to Portland or LA. Places that I have never seen, would like to see. When we moved back to this quiet backwater of a town he worked remotely over the internet and all was well. But as is the manner of contract work, it was spotty at best- feast and famine. Now I wonder if we did the right thing. I love being near my family, his family, a beautiful land around use with ever-changing seasonal scenery. In between his good-paying jobs, there are no prospects for him up here, barely any for the locals. But if we were to move again (a thought we all loathe) it would be for what- to be only lost once again, afloat without family? In Ohio, we had a church and a Bible study and good freindships. Here we have good family and lots of land to possibly buy one day, should we ever manage to save a scrap of money! We are forming friendships here as well, but I so often feel utterly alone, alienated from the women who mostly stay home to care for their offspring. Chasing the ever-changing tech job market would not be wise for him, and he has made so much progress here on our own business with technology and internet exposure.

So forgive the lack of faith in myself, the lack of interesting posts to read, the lack of emotional stability. I'm lost right now, at the age of 31, three days before my eleventh wedding anniversary, two weeks before my oldest child enters the double-digit age. I don't know where I'm coming from or where to go. I just need a hand to hold for a minute, just a minute. I need a kind voice to rekindle my writing, someone to care just a flicker for the work sitting in the vaults of my hard drive. I need to get up early (in just two hours!) and go for a run and burn some calories and then eat oatmeal instead of cupcakes and then spend some time doing something useful. I need to forget my father and his ways and focus on who I have left. I need to fold the laundry. I need to find a church with more than 30 people, so I can once again get lost in the woodwork and feel comfortably invisible doing good somewhere in a carpeted hallway. Or maybe that was my problem, what set the itch inside of me to move in the first place.

Somebody find me and throw me an anchor.

{EDIT} update:

Since i have written this, i've been covered in love and grace and gentle reminders, such as the one you see below, from my dear bro-in-law who always helps keep me grounded :)

Now that i've gotten a few good nights' sleep, some time in for reflection, and some snuggles from my husband, my mommy, my kids, i am reminded of God's providence, forgiveness, and love. It came about today that i had to explain to my middle daughter (the sensitive one) why it was not only good but necessary to forgive hurts and slights. as i spoke to her (in extreme pain because of my surgery today) i realized that if i did not live the words that were coming out of my mouth, that all was naught. i felt a gigantic tidal wave of forgiveness, then relief, wash over my shoulders and my very soul. i held her for a long time while she sobbed over some situation at school, and then we made tapioca pudding together- from scratch!

food, the Greeks say, heals all wounds. and peanut butter, Paul Blart says, fills the cracks of the soul. so much for conquering my food issues! one step at a time, i say...

Also, having this nasty infection and decaying teeth out of my mouth, some good painkillers & antibiotics in my system, and suddenly all seems right with the world again. i am still rather lost about my writing, but i feel like i can gently set it aside for now and come back to it when my life is simpler.

Another also, on this page of sermons, a wise and well thought out sermon (The Ultimate Reset) touched my heart tremendously yesterday! if anyone ever needs some great, upbeat yet intelligent Bible/life study, please listen to the sermons by Pastor Tom (pastor of the church i was bemoaning leaving behind) and you will probably enjoy them very much!

I'm leaving this post up because it has also appealed to some people in situations in their own lives. a creative temper often has low points, high points, and everything in between!

Labels: depression, despondency, life, love, writing

It was late- 2 am, to be exact- and I was so tired that eyes felt grainy. As usual, I was too stupid to just give in to the tired and close my eyes. So there I sat, playing a computer game on the bed and watching my husband sleep.

He sleeps like he lives- blissful, intense, peaceful. I picked up my journal and began writing letters to my kids, but my eyes drifted again and again to the slender man beside me. I leaned against him and wrote on his arm a line from Song of Songs,

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth..."

He gurgled in his sleep and his arm twitched under the felt tip of the pen. I finished my letters to my kids, and turned back to his skin as canvas. Another line from the Song of Songs, a smiley face here, a heart there, and a little "I love you" on his forearm, and he squirmed more. Afraid of waking him, I switched off the light, put my pen away, and let myself sleep, one arm flung around his shoulders.


The next morning, cursing the scant amount of sleep I allowed myself, I groggily dragged myself out of bed and thrust my gritty eyes under the shower head. Michael had discovered his poetry and was grinning at the mirror, twisting his body in search of more. I raised my arm to adjust the water flow and spotted a familiar bit of art. The little ink heart from his arm had bled onto my own skin, forming a perfect mirror image.

I couldn't help but laugh, you see, for this is the perfect reflection of our lives together: our love rubs off on each other. He has taught me patience and forgiveness, I have helped curb his aggressive fighting instincts.

I think this is what we were wanting when we set off on this together, eleven years ago. I think this is what every couple should have a bit of...

Love, mirrored in each other, with plenty to copy.

Labels: couples, love, marriage, relationships, Song of Songs

So many untruths abound about this institution of marriage. I know that I, as one lone voice in the wilderness, am powerless to dispel anything, but I can try. Once again, this is a segmented series I am writing about marriage (and relationships in general, but mostly marriage). I offer no concrete answers, just postulations and thoughts, questions and theories. Please do not take anything offensively about your own situation, just listen and chime in as you'd like.

Part I of this discussion is here.

• Myth #1:

"Marriage will settle him/her down, make a better person of them. I have the power to change this person."

I would hope, honestly, that no one would be gullible enough to believe this anymore. Alas, this is not so. I do think that less people buy into this as time goes on, but I still hear people (especially women, unfortunately) phrase this in some way or other. Two issues immediately arise about this statement:

1. If they are not good enough for you now, what guarantee do you have that they ever will be?
2. Sure, marriage changes people. What if you don't like the change?

I changed when I got married, and I continue to change. My basic personality has not changed, however. My husband changed, but not his internal character. He gave up the skateboard tricks as his body became less agile, but he still loves punk and freewalking and other alternative sports. I spend more time in the kitchen and the laundry room than I ever planned on, but it's a result of having children and a desire to feed my family things that are healthy and make sure they wear clean clothes. Mike and I have to learn to argue less, as oldest children we are both leaders and can clash easily. We've had to stash parts of our natural personality in order to keep peace in the house. We do this voluntarily, neither of us forcing the other's hand, as that is action not taken in love.

When I married Michael, he was a jobless, car-less kid with a head full of dreams. But I knew that he was a hard worker, and that he'd find another job (which he did, several times since!), and that he would always take care of me.

I was an emotional basketcase, resentful of men in general but determined to love him. I was abused but rather spoiled, prone to fits of depression and mania, and extremely difficult to please. But Michael knew under all of that, there was a heart that was true and loving, and that I would always be there for him.

If I would have entered marriage with the goal of 'straightening him out', if he would have gone into this hoping my hissy fits and demanding personality would go away, well... we'd both be unhappy people right now! Instead we stood and committed ourselves, in front of 120 of our friends and family, to take each other the way we were and make it work.

And if you intend to 'change' your future spouse- how can you even be sure you will like the changes? One thing Michael does as a result of marriage is the 'Yes, dear...' when he is distracted/irritated. I hate this, as it makes him sound emasculated, which he is certainly not. But he does it because it's an automatic 'shut Sarah up' mode that he has learned. One thing I do that Michael hates is worry- about every bleeding thing! But I've learned to worry about tiny things because he forgets small details that make our life better- like remembering to pay the electric bill. So I fret, first thing when I wake up- 'Did you pay the electric bill? Do we have enough money for gas? Groceries? Did we get the lawn mowed this week?' Mike hates it, but it's my defense against things going awry. These habits of ours have both been learned through our relationship, and they are ones we are working (kind of) at eradicating.

Be sure that the one you choose to marry has a good character as their central core- if they are a liar, a cheater, an abuser- run. But if they have a decent moral build to begin with, then any small things (forgetting to put the toilet seat down will not cause your family financial problems or give you an STD) can be put up with. Just don't enter a covenant of marriage with the intention of fixing that person.

______


This leads me, by the way, to an addendum to this 'fix them' idea:

Emotional blackmail is never a basis for love, marriage, sex, or anything of the sort. If your spouse (or anyone in your family/friend circle) is not up to your standards, then crying, berating, belittling, or yelling is not going to change them for the better- it is going to slowly poison the relationship until both of you slowly lose your identity. Don't do it. Trust me on this, I watched it growing up, not only in my household but those of a couple of family members, and none of these people are ok now- not the victim or the abuser. That's right- if you use emotional blackmail you are an abuser. Stop.

Labels: change, husband, love, marriage, relationships, spouse, wife

I've read statistics of marriage, singleness, divorce, infidelity, and marital happiness. Advice columnists warn young infatuated people to not marry young, movies inform us that there is 'that one' somewhere out there, and that special music will play when we meet them, and our embittered single friends proclaim that all relationships are doomed and it's all a game.

What of this is true?

What of this is relative?

How many young people out there are passing on happy marriages because they listen to others, how many married people are cheating because they feel more alive, how many single people are gaming the game because they refuse to be taken by the game? And how many people are still passing up happiness because they are waiting for that fairytale experience?


How many more people dive into the wrong marriage because they want that fairytale experience at any expense?

I would like to address these questions, and more, in a segmented series on this blog. I don't have much research or knowledge, but I have personal experience, and I see and hear a lot of stigma associated with different aspects of marriage that I just feel like commenting on.

Today's marriage topic: Age. How young, exactly, is too young? When Michael and I got engaged, at the tender and foolish age of nineteen, we were warned by a few that we were far too young to know what love was, and that maybe we should just stay engaged for a few years, mature a little, and have a wedding when we were well established in our jobs and personalities. We smiled, nodded, thanked them, and then did exactly as we pleased. We may have been young, but we were older than our age, both of us having been on our own a bit earlier than most of our peers. We knew that we loved each other intensely, knew that we fit each others' jagged edges like two halves of a broken plate, and we knew that we could make it work.

And we have... for nearly eleven years now, we have braved the waves of life side by side. Oh sure, I could blither on about how it 'hasn't been easy' and 'marriage takes hard work', but I might nauseate myself. Nothing in life is easy, but sharing a bed and a home with my best friend has been one of the finer points in my life! Sure, we fight sometimes. When you rub elbows with one person for hours on end you're bound to fight, especially if that person has to share responsibilities and bills and whining children and dirty dishes and ingrown toenails... all in all, however, it's been good, and I have every intention of having it remain good for another eleven years, and then thirty or so after that.

So how have we trumped the statistic of young marrieds? Sheer force of will? Dumb luck? Are we some of those very few that have their destinies written in the stars and actually found it? A combination of all three?

Well, let me state here that I do not believe there is only one person for every other person. That would be like the baggage claim from hell: you pick up the green suitcase and carry it away, sure your name is emblazoned on the tag. You carry it home and unpack it, only to find mismatched socks, underwear with skid marks, and a half-eaten sandwich instead of your own pressed and folded shirts. What you don't know (yet) is that the next person in line picked up the black suitcase that should have gone to you, which means that the person after them may or may not get their suitcase, and it's all gong to be one disaster.

While Michael is 'the one' for me, it is because I took a vow to keep it that way, not because stars fell over our heads on our first date (actually, salt did, but that's another story). No violin concerto played, the only music I heard was his fumbling lute picking beside me in the golden Ohio afternoon. While he was immediately convinced that he would spend the rest of his life with me, I was still flitting around the Renaissance flirting with other guys, it took me a whole month longer to figure it out!

On the matter of a couple being too young to have solid identities, I ask why one has to have a solid, single identity? I thrill in the fact that we as a couple have discovered our favorite movies together, yet still have completely different tastes in music. I adore that we entered this union as immature, starstruck people in love, and we're going to go out of this world only slightly more mature, but still happy and in love. Rather than being concretely established in a career, I am proud to have learned and grown in my career while Mike has done the same in his own field, and I am excited when our careers merge! We are two people who have become so enmeshed in each other and each others' lives that we are one flesh, one mind, one heart. Yet somehow we are individuals.

Age has very little to do with it. I've seen people marry young and divorce months later, I have customers who married at 16 and are still in love at 75. I've seen mature, confident, established people marry at 28 and fall out of love a year later because they just couldn't mesh their lives, and I've seen people change everything about themselves in order to woo a person who really makes them miserable in the long run.

Age has so little to do with it, taking into consideration the person was an adult in the first place.

I think some of the factors necessary for a marriage, at any age, to work are:

• Maturity
• Selflessness
• Determination
• Humility
• Sensuality + Commitment (these must go hand in hand)
  
• Humor

But guess what? I didn't have most of those qualities when I married, and I am not much closer to them a decade later. The cool thing about love, to wrap all that up, is that it can be so forgiving. However, if a person is missing all of these qualities, there is a high chance they will never be happy at all, let alone within a relationship.

I didn't start this post to lay out answers for you, only questions. If you are a young person considering marriage, I have a question for you: will you still love this person when they embarass you at parties, vote differently than you, and refuse to take out the garbage?

If you are a married person considering divorce or a fling, I have one question for you: will this fix what is lacking inside of you?

Part II of this series is here.

Labels: age, commitment, divorce, first love, love, marriage

There's a rather odd addiction in my family.

It's not anything lewd or rude or even, quite possibly, interesting.

They're addicted to snuggling. Yes, I said they. It's not me, although they're converting me slowly! I grew up in a home where there were hugs goodnight, but not all the time, kisses goodbye, but not absolutely required, and occasional affectionate ruffling of the hair. There was also violence (but only from my dad), which makes a child afraid of touch after a while. So, while I enjoyed the occasional hair ruffle or hug, I also built up a protective barrier of being okay with not being touched.

I married a man (a boy at the time, really) who couldn't keep his hands off me. At the time, I figured I was just pretty hot to trot, and kind of always assumed, without over-thinking it, that he would simmer down eventually and just have the occasional hug or kiss goodnight. I fantasized, however, about a man who would kiss me many, many times, who would always touch me in a positive and loving way.

Well, that fantasy came true. He can never get enough hugs, kisses, snuggles, or positive touch. And soon, along came three bouncing, shrieking offspring just like him! These kids need a hug and kiss when they first wake up, then usually one (each!) around breakfast time, then one before they leave for school, one when they come home from school, one or two or three or four in the evening, just for some sort of confirmation, then of course lots of snuggles before bed. The youngest is, as many are, the most intense with this. She has actually bruised my arm from hugging it with all of her little three-year-old might. Since she is not in school yet, we get random hugs all day from her, no occasion of sending off or welcoming home, just breaks in playtime.

I must admit I haven't reciprocated as well as I should have. Part of it is because of that barrier built long ago. There's an affection limit inside of me, but it is being stretched! My husband whimpers at night if I leave his side, we sleep curled into each other- it's the only way we sleep well. He, having never touched me in any way other than kindly, has succeeded, more than anyone else, in breaking down that wall of self-preservation. Sometimes I get frustrated by the constant hovering hug monsters. My oldest seems to need affection as a way of assuring herself that all is right with the world. The middle one seems happy to go about life usually, but every now and then just states her need for 'some lovin'. Then she wraps her arms around my neck (or whoever else is within reach) and just hangs on, feeding off the strange energy that love gives.

I am not sure exactly when this started, but my kids sleep together. Every night. Oh sure, we put them to bed in separate beds- all three tucked in with prayers, love and threats, you parents know what I mean...
Within 5 minutes, there's at least two of them together, and by morning all three bottoms poke out from one single blanket. Fitting a nine year old, a seven year old, and a three year old all on one twin bed is a logistics challenge, but they're quite flexible and usually seem comfortable.

I used to think this was weird. Something inside of me- tradition? The fact that I didn't grow up like this, therefore it could not be right? Something said- no, this is not healthy, not right, not beneficial. So I would fight them- hauling one out to her own bed, trying to convince the oldest to shut her bedroom door to keep the other two out. Michael would turn to me and just ask why. Why, if they love so much that physical contact, why would I pull them apart? Then I would feel mean, and try to defend something that I did not myself even understand.

I stopped fighting the kids. Heck, I sleep better with my best friend curled up near me at night, why not them? I know, it's different, I'm married... I gave myself all of these arguments as well. The nights that they get their snuggles in are the nights they sleep the best. That's all there is to it. They take after daddy, who takes after his mom, who takes after her dad... a legacy of love and affection and ultimate trust. Who am I to dare to try to break this? Sometimes they fight in bed- one kid's foot winds up in another's eye socket, blankets never cover enough limbs. We've considered trading in the three twin beds and two bedrooms and just putting one big queen bed up for them all, but that would just confirm the weirdness, right? I don't know.

What I do know is that I have been thrust into this family of snugglers for a reason. Although I sometimes squirm in the constant embraces and pointy-chin (or prickly-chin) kisses and short arms wrapped around my neck, they're beginning to win me over. My mother-in-law is coming up tomorrow, and I already know I'll have to brace myself for long hugs, short hugs, side hugs, and all other sorts of hugs. And kisses. And more hugs...

I suppose its an addiction I can live with. Addiction to physical contact with another human being- a loved one. They thrive off this contact, and I am learning to. Maybe someday affection will be my addiction, too...

Labels: affection, cuddles, cuddling, hugs, kisses, love, motherhood, snuggles, snuggling

We wanted to get married right away.

Nearly eleven years ago, I was proposed to in a not-so-conventional way and I, of course, said yes. That was Labor Day weekend, or thereabouts, and our joy the next day was somewhat circumvented by the tragic news of Princess Diana's death.

We were young, we were hormonal, we were invincible, and we wanted to get married very soon. I knew that we couldn't afford a decent wedding, and I never thought my parents would pay for one, so we planned to elope on Sweetest Day of 1997.

Fast forward to November of 1997, and we were still not married. Our humble elopement plans had been cut short by my dad, and a 'real' wedding was being planned. My dad had astounded me by offering to pay for the event, and I actually thought that I would have some say in what went on for it. Ha.

Since the wedding was intended for family to see us off, see us married in a proper manner, we figured that it would be nice to wait until June or July, get married outside under a canopy. Rent a dance floor, have a barbeque, light some candles- oh, never mind. Dad suddenly got the idea in his head that Michael and I should get married very soon and run down to Florida for a 'working honeymoon'. There was a little startup Renaissance Faire, you see, just north of Miami, and we could operate it on the weekends and honeymoon during the week. In a tent. That was just so utterly brilliant.

I really don't know why I fell for his plans so often, but I did, once again. Michael is the most laid-back guy I've ever known, and he went along with it. My church, the one that I had served at in various capacities for several years, refused to marry us. Somehow we wound up having the nuptials and the reception in the ultra-classy Wexford County Civic Center. Some dear soul pinned a backdrop up on the bleachers so that we could have nice photos. My almost-mother-in-law cooked, sewed, decorated, and planned frantically to meet the late January deadline. Trying to make the best of the situation, as always, I asked my photographer if he would take a photo of me, in my white dress, outisde in the white snow. He said sure but never did.

So we got married in the dead of winter. On a multi-use basketball court. In the same room where I had ogled first-place ribbons on 'Agriculture Entries' for the better part of my childhood. We got married in a place that my daughter recognized as the 'Circus Place(!)' from our wedding photos. Because of my dad's business 'need'. The Ren Faire turned out to be a flop, we earned a fraction of what we were promised, and we returned to Cadillac jaded, resentful, and in debt. Somewhere along the line, I picked up pneumonia again, as well. It may have had something to do with sleeping in a tent during tornado season, I'm not sure.

We've stuck it out for over ten years. Our beginnings- if anything,- strengthened us, unified us. Every year, when our anniversary rolls around in an ugly and frigid month, and I'm too poor to holiday on a beach somewhere far away, I resent the forced winter date just a tiny bit. But then I look up at the sky and I see pure white crystals falling softly and gently to the earth- ever so quiet. They sparkle like the beads on my dress, like my eyes did when I marched so resolutely down that aisle. There is a cleanliness and purity about the snow in that dead of winter that somehow relates now to that beginning- two innocent kids so sure of themselves and so in love.

Its bridal season now, and we've been busy at work making wedding bands and sizing rings bought elsewhere. All of these fresh faces will have their summer wedding to revel in, their anniversary always in pleasant weather (unless they move to New Zealand) their fresh flowers actually in season. I no longer envy them. My wedding was as oddball and out-of-place as Michael and I are, and it really was perfect.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Labels: anniversary, love, wedding, winter

"Waiting for marriage!" People snort derisively, "Wouldn't buy a car without test driving it first, would ya?!?"

I have heard this often over the years, and never really had an answer ready. I would merely shrug, happy in my own choices and standards.

I waited until marriage, and so did my husband, Michael. We are the blessed in the fact that we have a wonderful marriage, love life, and ongoing relationship. We didn't have a 'test drive' first in the sense of sleeping together- a few kisses were enough to let us know that we were passionately compatible!

And this morning, after ten and one half glorious years of marriage, the answer came to me in the shadows of pre-dawn- we didn't even need a test drive.

Sure, if you're going to the car lot to buy a used Saturn station wagon you may want to find out what you are getting. But if you have a Father, a really cool dad for whom money is not an object, you may have a different situation.

Imagine waking up one morning and looking out your bedroom window. Sitting in the driveway is a neon blue Ferrari Tessarosa. With your name on it. All yours, free and clear.

Are you going to whine about a test drive?? No! You're going to run out the door, barely remembering to thank your Dad, grab the keys, and start that baby up! It's been lovingly custom made, months of work and engineering and painting and tiny details, all for you. It's been handpicked by Someone who knows you the best, and although it will require maintenance, it is free. And yours. Forever.

When I bought my first car, I saved and worked and saved and worked. I walked into Weidner Motors one cloudy afternoon and plunked down $3,500 of my own sweat-stained money for a Ford Taurus station wagon. It was a great car, but within a few years I had outgrown my need for it. I sold it to a lovely Mexican lady in Tucson, and moments later had to chase her through the mall parking lot when I remembered my U2 tape was still in the deck! I have a few photos of that car, and some fond memories, but it was just a phase in my life.

When Michael entered my life, it was like finding that perfect match. His ragged edges fit my ragged edges and we completed each other. We didn't need to experiment to know that we were right for each other- we knew that we had been hand-picked by Someone who loved and knew us more than we ourselves knew us!

Our marriage has required maintenance- regular fill-ups of encouragement, costly date nights, inexpensive date nights, teary 'discussions' about everything from finances to why he can't seem to remember that I hate yellow roses, and the occasional spontaneous burst of love in a letter or song.

Unlike that Taurus wagon, I haven't outgrown my need for Michael. I still curl to his back at night, until my body heat spikes and the comforter becomes a raging inferno (anybody else have this problem? I need an ice-pack nightgown). Somehow, in the early morning gloaming, when the house is cooler and the blankets have made their way almost to the bathroom, our hands find each others and, mid-sleep, we once again snuggle together as tightly as we can fit. I have my heavenly Father to thank for the perfect match, the ultimate, custom-made mate that I will never need to upgrade or replace.

And I don't think he'll depreciate, either.

Labels: career, celibacy, experiment, love, marriage, sex, test-drive, virginity, waiting

The dress I married in rests in a cedar chest at the foot of our bed. It is there as a reminder of our beginnings, but we seldom think about it as go about our daily lives.

Ten years ago. Well, ten years and a few months now, as I meant to do this post sooner.

We were young, so very young. People told us we had no idea what we were getting into- and really, we didn't. But we knew that we loved each other, and we knew that we could make it work.

And we always have.

Of course there have been bumps in the road- I would be dishonest to say it's all been delightful! But constant smooth sailing would be boring now, wouldn't it?

Three children, a dozen moves, and a mountain of debt later and here we are, still in love, and still fairly young! By the time we are 40, we will have 20 years of marriage under our belts and our kids will be able to fend for themselves. We can take that trip to Scotland that we always dreamed of, travel and explore and have some more adventures.

I don't know when we'll ever get to build our dream house together, the off-the-grid straw bale house with gardens on the roof that we've dreamed of for years. But somehow I feel that because we both hold the dream so dear that it will happen- even if its not until we're older. And then we'll have the garden and the observatory and the pair of mastiffs to walk with and the cat curled up in the window seat and an endless supply of tea and beer.

But until then we have daily adventures. I cook and he puts the leftovers away. I do laundry and he takes out the trash. I do all the grocery shopping and he deals with anything stinky or eight-legged. I pay bills and he structures a budget. I fall asleep early from sheer exhaustion and he tucks the children in and reads another chapter of Narnia to them.

We have a working relationship, we have a loving relationship, and we have a passionate relationship. He is the first one that I turn to in any trial or triumph. He is my rock, my stabilizer, my inspiration. He protects me from myself and the world, and I defend him to the death.

In our children I see us, mirrored yet made more perfect- my eyes, his eyelashes. My sharp cheekbones, his full lips. My funky feet, his unruly hair. They are so beautiful, a blend of all of our good features and none of the bad. Would to God that their personalities will follow suit.

He sleeps beside me now as I write this, peaceful as long as he is in contact with me. If I get up, moving away from him, and sit in my green chair by the window, he becomes restless and whimpers in his sleep. It is a vulnerable side of him that people do not often see.
He needs me.
I need him.
He has me.
I have him.
For another decade, for a lifetime.

Thanks for one great decade, Michael, and here's to another five.
I love you.

Labels: anniversary, decade, love, marriage, ten years

I put my foot through my bottom sheet the other day. I wasn't even doing anything really physical, just stretching! There was this soft scritchy sound and I realized my rough heels were snagging the pillowtop.
Peeling the covers away (I needed to get up anyhow~!) I saw that there were several completely threadbare spots on my sheet. It wasn't even that long ago that I purchased them- 400 thread count queen size sheets from T.J. Maxx. You see, I was pushing Kid #2 in her baby seat... oh. Kid #2 will be seven in a few days. I guess that was a while ago...

Just now, I dried my face off on a towel and my finger went through it. Most of the towel is still pretty fluffy, but there are holes here and there, and ominous dangly strings. I sighed, remembering when I bought those. That awful shade of lavender was my favorite back then- eight years ago. I'm almost glad they're wearing out!

We drove our car off the lot- gleaming, purring, and brand spanking new. After two round trips to New York, several more to Columbus, and infinite running-around, it is starting to show its age. Things creak and groan when we drive, and there is an infernal rattle somewhere near, but not in, the glove compartment.

Things that I own are wearing out.

It happens.

When I look in the mirror, even at the tender young age of thirty, I see lines, pockmarks, puffy eyes. For the first time in my life, the skin under my chin does not spring back when I push on it. It just kind of- droops. My teeth are a mess, mostly from grinding them at night for the past twenty-five years. After three lengthy and weighty pregnancies and one car mishap, my right hip is in constant pain and my carpal tunnel is acting up again.

I am wearing out.

It happens.

Years of wear made my sheets threadbare- washing, bleaching, tossing & turning, kids jumping, wrapping around paintings while moving too often... they've seen snuggles and throw-up and passion and arguments and two children being nursed in the few moments of sleep available to a young mother. They've served their ignoble purpose, and soon they will be commissioned to my ragbag, to be replaced by something fresher and newer and probably scratchier and hopefully better fitting on my mattress (remember: T.J. Maxx)

Years of wear is making me just a little threadbare. I've also seen snuggles and throw-up and passion and arguments and nursed three children in between the few moments of sleep available to a young mother. This body has carried me across the United States a good few times, through more Renaissance Festivals than I care to remember, up a white-decked aisle, around in thousands of circles on the skating rink floor, across the Atlantic and back again, into three different maternity wards, and past countless other bodies on the face of this earth. Like my sheets, it is a bit bigger than I actually wanted, but nicer than I really thought at first. Unlike my sheets, however, it isn't going to wind up in the ragbag anytime soon. I need it for another thirty or forty years.

I went to a funeral a couple of weeks ago. It was for a dear friend of many years- Carl Vincent. He was the man that you see always in the front of church: hugging, singing, loving, comforting, teaching, encouraging. He and his dear wife operated a girl's home for nearly two decades where they served as surrogate parents to many troubled young women. When they came to the Cadillac area in the nineties, my sisters and I were confused and vulnerable young girls just beginning to enter adolescence. Carl took hold of us and adopted us as his own grandchildren. We'd only had one grandpa growing up, and his broken English and alcoholism made it hard to get to know him, much less love him.
Carl became the grandpa that we had only known in stories. He and his wife lavished affection and encouragement on us, and patiently bore our teenage phases without judgment of any kind. Plenty of other kids in and around our area were their surrogate grandchildren as well, but there was always enough love to go around.
One of my sharpest memories is of him and Bertha (his wife) telling people, over and over, "We pray for you every day." I heard that so often for myself, and many others, that it almost lost meaning. Surely no one can pray for that many people, every day! People just say that, a platitude almost: "I'm praying for you."
But then one day I was invited to their humble apartment for lunch. Bertha kindly fixed a meal according to the odd dietary requirements I had at the time, and we sat and munched and chatted amiably. They took me on a tour of the apartment- tiny as it was- and I saw something that I will never forget,
"Here's our prayer list, Sarah," Carl said, pointing at a mess on the wall near their bed, "we kneel here every morning and pray over this list." I stepped closer and saw pieces of paper taped to the wall, piece on top of piece on top of piece, all taped down with that shiny clear cellophane that yellows over time. I could see the age of some of the papers from the yellow in the tape, while others were obviously newer.
Name after name was written in crabbed handwriting on those papers. I recognized many names of people that we went to church with, but many, many more were unknown to me.
"There you are!" Bertha pointed to one of the papers, her face creasing with a smile. "So now you know it's real, we really do pray for you every day!"

Carl loved unconditionally. When he sang in church, his voice cracking with genuine emotion, everyone sat up a little straighter and listened a little harder. He would hug you without abandon, in a church of otherwise rather stiff menfolk. He could speak of his love for Jesus and allow people to see the tears in his eyes, and he could hear of some stupid thing you'd done and not like you any less for it.
When he finally died this month, at age 79, he was worn out. He was eagerly awaiting his meeting with Jesus, and not afraid of death at all. Had he been given a few more years on this earth, I am positive that he would have found extra love for more stray children.
Carl gave everything that he had. While people, including me, were snug and warm in their beds every morning, he and Bertha would crawl out- dark still permeating the landscape- and bend their aging knees and pray over dozens of names. When the list grew longer, well, they just got up earlier!

That's the kind of worn out that I want to be.

Threadbare from love.

Labels: age, Carl Vincent, children, give, Jesus, love, model, new, old, pray, prayer, sheets, stray, threadbare, tired, towel, used, worn out

Mike and I celebrated our tenth anniversary this past week. I was thinking back on all of the attributes that attracted us to each other, and how some of this personality traits now tend to be ever so grating.

For those of you who are in the process of falling in love, or may someday be, here's a handy conversion chart:
[remember, its tongue-in-cheek, a good relationship only gets better with age :)]

Guess I might have been called honest and sincere and one point...

Labels: cynical, dating, love, marriage, romance, translation