Everyday Life

My Grandma lived in Bellevue, Nebraska–home of the gigantic Offutt Air Force base and suburb to Omaha. Omaha-Bellevue was the Big City.

We traveled there at least a half dozen times a year, for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas and for each cluster of birthdays (January, March, July, and October). A couple times a year we’d make the trip from Grandma’s house to Omaha’s famous Henry Dorley Zoo (or Henry Dorky, as we called it.)

The trip between Grandma’s and the Zoo (“Goin’ to the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo, Zoo, the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo, Zoo–beeps and bomps and squeaks and squanks” we’d sing) was fast, on one or the other of the interstate highways running through and across and around Omaha.

But every time we came to a certain juncture, where two or three of those massive interstates met, I’d stop my singing and wonder at the “bridges”.

There were dozens of them, it seemed to me, curving and crossing one another. It was a jumble of engineering, one concrete structure arcing above the next. It was strangely exhilarating–and scary, at the same time. Drivers on the bottom road could have not one but three or four different cars atop them. Drivers on the top could look down and see dozens or even hundreds of cars driving their different directions.

It was wonderful.

I thought of the bridges this morning, as I arced across multiple off ramps getting onto Kellogg from I-135 after taking Daniel to work for a 6 am conference call with France.

Will my children wonder at the “bridges” as I did?

Or will they be calloused city-dwellers, inured to the wonders of human engineering, the miracle of layering human upon human driving at inhuman speeds?

It seems I write in fits and bursts, just like I live the rest of my life.

I have a fit of kitchen zeal and my dishes get (almost) caught up, four dozen Runzas are packed away in the freezer, the load of cookie dough Daniel bought from a child is baked, and the fridge abounds with homemade yogurt. Above the fridge, an old Tupperware is full of homemade granola and two Pyrex with roasted chickpea snacks.

A fit of reading (on a trip, usually) has me writing reviews and book notes.

A fit of exercising means I walk to Braums for milk, to a friend’s house to drop off my husband for breakfast (yes, totally unnecessary, since he could have walked or driven himself–but still), to the library to drop off a book and get some more.

And then come the bursts.

I collapse on the couch after work, crying until my husband orders me into the bathtub to relax.

I burst into tears unprovoked and stare unseeingly at the wall, unable to contain my emotion.

I start the day crying and thank God that I have some time charting between clients because I need the moments for more fits of crying.

I just start to feel that things are getting better–that I’m making friends and finding my place. I just start to feel that I’m establishing routines and doing okay. I just start to feel that I’ve figured out how to be a wife and a woman at the same time.

And then the bubble bursts and I’m back in a fit.

I cry and cry.

I can’t see outside the moment, outside the days, the weeks of difficulty.

When does it get easy? I wonder. Will it ever?

When will I get out from under the cloud I’m living in? When will I gain perspective? When will I cease to be at the whim of these fits and bursts?

I despair.

I think I need help.

I tell myself that help is more trouble than it’s worth.

I don’t want to spend money for help. I want to pay down our debt so we can have a baby.

I want to help myself. I check out books from the library. Books on sleeping better, on overcoming depression, on managing the TMD related headaches. I don’t read them because the burst of energy to complete them never comes.

Daniel wants to help me, asks how he can help–but I don’t know how. I wish I did. I wish I knew what caused these fits, these crying jags, this persistent, lingering melancholy. We work our way through what we know, but we know so little.

What am I to do when the thunderstorm breaks and I find myself bawling in my office, unable to see any way out?

The Bubblicious bubble gum with its bright pink wrapper and bubble letters was too great a temptation.

I grabbed it from the supermarket checkout line, hid it in my pocket.

Mom discovered my theft before we made it to the car. She turned around, marched me back into the store where I was to return the item, apologize, and pay for it.

The shop lady was nice, trying to be kind.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“No, it is NOT okay,” my mother replied.

It was an offense, a punishable offense. Shoplifting, theft. Whatever you call it, it’s a crime. It’s not okay.

I think of my childhood shoplifting when a mortified child returns to my room with a plastic carrot in hand.

“I’m sorry I took your carrot,” says the mouth hidden in her chest.

I resist the urge to tell her that it’s okay.

It isn’t okay.

I tell her I forgive her. I thank her for returning it.

I’m glad there are still mothers like mine, who agree that it’s not okay.

There is hope yet for this next generation–some kids are still learning not to steal, some kids are still learning to confess their wrongdoings.

And I will do my part. I will condemn the behavior and give grace to the child. I will offer forgiveness without sweeping sin under the rug.

Inasmuch as I can, I will help these children learn law AND grace.

The strange names just keep coming in my doors here at WIC–which means the naming exercises are continuing too.

A popular naming scheme is to name your child after something related to their conception. Just think of the 5 Ws and an H and get started.

When
Autumn (for a June baby)
Christmas
Dawn
Dusk
Eve
June (for a March baby)
Holiday
Independence
Millenium (Milly for short)
Sunday (Sunny for short)

Where
Austin
Boston
Chevy
Dodge
Houston
London
Mercedes
Paris
Texas

Who
(Yes, I know, this is a boring one that’s old as mud. Naming a child after his dad or granddad is nothing new. But it’s still a possibility. And it doesn’t have to just be a Junior. Consider naming your child after the person who introduced you to your baby’s daddy, or after the waitress at the restaurant where you had dinner before your baby was conceived. Did it happen during a football game? Commemorate the moment by naming your child after the MVP. Remember too, that last names make great first names–and you can always switch a letter or two to make it unique.)

How
Whoopi

I think you get the idea… :-)

Please note that all names are fictionalized. Any resemblance with actual WIC client names is entirely accidental. :-)

This last weekend was a busy one.

We had a friend over Friday night for dinner–and then I went out to clean the garage so Daniel and he could have guy time. When I was done, I was exhausted and covered with grime, but glad that the garage was not only walkable but could actually contain a car if we so desired.

Saturday, we were having an older couple over for dinner–actually, the wife was the Realtor who sold Daniel our house. So, of course, I was determined that the house must look as if someone has actually done something with it since she last saw it. I scraped the old medical stickers from the front door, cleaned both the screen door and the real door, took down the cobwebs from the front porch, swept the front porch… I tidied the dining room and living room, did a superficial dusting and a more complete sweeping and dust mopping… I scrubbed the bathroom–shower surround, tub, sink, commode, and floor. I finally got ALL the dishes washed and dried and put away. And then I made a roast chicken and roasted potatoes and sweet potatoes and a salad.

When they left, we rushed off to help a friend move. There were plenty of people there to help, so it wasn’t like it took forever–but it was more heavy lifting and stair climbing.

Sunday morning, I was coughing up loogies that looked like scrambled eggs from free-range chickens, only with streaks of blood throughout. The cold I’d been nursing since Friday was out in full force–and I did not at all feel rested.

At the last minute, we decided to skip church. Daniel really felt that I needed a day of rest–and that church would not be that day of rest*.

I took off my church shoes and climbed back into bed–where I slept until almost noon. I read a bit from Unbroken (which I’m reading for our new book club–it’s Ah-mazing!)

Daniel and I pulled some spaghetti sauce from the freezer and had lunch–then I piddled on the computer, virtually trying new exterior paint colors on our house (one of those projects that we’ve thought about but not too seriously yet.)

Daniel pulled me from the computer midway through the afternoon and brought me to the living room, where we sang a half an hour worth of hymns, spent some time in prayer, and then read and discussed several more pages from Martin Luther’s Bondage of the Will.

Then it was back to the computer, this time Daniel’s laptop, to play with colors more while half-watching The Adjustment Bureau (which turned out to be rather a chick-flick for all of it’s “action” aspects.)

It was wonderful.

A day of rest.

*Please note that we believe firmly in the importance of involvement in the local church. We do not make a practice of skipping church. This was a special case and an exception to our regular practice. Even when it is not particularly restful, we do not believe that one should forsake the “assembling of ourselves together, as is the habit of some” (Heb 10:25 NKJV).