I'm really trying. I'm drinking spinach smoothies. I'm walking. I'm snacking on fresh fruit. But recovery is long, the pain is lingering, and my will power dwindles.
So when my dear husband asked me what I wanted for dinner, I smiled guiltily and answered:
"Soft serve ice cream?"
But never fear, dear readers.
Four year old Spiderman immediately turned on me with a serious scowl. "You can't have ice cream. Ice cream," he informed me, "is not healthy. You need to eat healthy food."
Remind me to keep my mouth shut the next time he rolls his eyes at his green peas.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Sunday, July 7, 2013
A Quick Summary of Events Thus Far --
"How may I help you?" the uniformed concierge asked.
"I'm here for surgery!" I answered brightly. Nothing like the House M.D. episodes, where someone runs screeching down the hall, "SHE NEEDS SURGERY!" Just me and my dh and my father in law and my pastor standing in a well decorated lobby and asking for surgery like we do this sort of thing all the time. (We'd like a table for four - oh, and do you have room for an appendectomy?)
Anyway, the concierge misunderstood my initial request and made me say the word, "Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. HYSTERECTOMY!" three times in successive degrees of volume. And when he finally did understand me, he blushed. "Oh."
Off to a fun start.
Then I was scolded for my lack of veins by a nurse, for which I apologized profusely.
My support team came in to pray for me, which was greatly appreciated.
The dh gave me a kiss.
And all the prayers must have been heard, because I didn't feel the least bit nervous. Okay, at least I didn't think I was nervous about Surgery, but I wouldn't stop talking. The anesthesiologist eventually stopped answering my questions and just popped the big mask thing over my face. He didn't have much of a sense of humor, which is a real failing in a doctor, but I suppose the power to make someone shut up really goes to one's head after a while. Anyway....
The surgery went great. And the hospital stay was made completely worth it because I discovered that Blue Bell makes popsicles! Rejoice, oh civilizations! Lift up your heads, oh ye drugged patients! There are orange Blue Bell popsicles!
They sent me home after 24 hours - before I ate all the popsicles. I was awfully glad to see my own bed. And my son promptly diagnosed me: "Your tummy hurts!" he said in a sage and serious tone.
"Yes," I admitted, "but that's okay. It's going to help Mommy get better."
He disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with the Children's Robitussin that he had managed to get out of the bathroom cabinet. "It's for you!" he said sweetly. "To make you all better!"
"Oh, sweetheart, that is so kind of you!" I answered, adding, "Never, never, never, never get into the medicine cabinet, okay? Let's tell Daddy to get a lock on it right away..."
The amazing in-laws helped me up and down the stairs and wrangled the bebes so well that I was hardly missed and mostly ignored (which can be a good thing when one is so loopy that one forgets to use punctuation in a text message. It was a low point). My darling MIL bought pretzels for me, the real Snyder's quality pretzels, and my friend, Bear, brought Red Velvet Cake ice cream. (Let that sink in, friends. It exists. Red. Velvet. Cake. Ice cream. This world is a glorious place).
Of course, no one expected that my recovery would go smoothly.
The next morning, I woke with a headache. I have had headaches in the past, even migraines, and I'm not sure that this deserved the same term. I can't really find a better word for it, but it outranked the pain of my labors, my C-section, and my appendectomy. Whatever happened to my head, it took forty minutes for me to stop the tears and be able to take deep breaths again. Even now, I shudder to think it could happen again. And the nurse we called told me to go to the E.R. and get a C.T. scan.
So we went back to the hospital. E.R. doctor ordered scans and, unfortunately, said the words,
brain bleed'. At this point, the poor dh was looking a little pale and worried, so I begged him to go and get some lunch. He refused, in a very gallant fashion, to leave my side. The male nurse entered and heard us in the midst of our loving disagreement. He looked at my husband and said, "Go. Go get lunch. I'm taking her to get the scan."
"No, I should stay," dh said. "How long does the scan take?"
"An hour at least," the nurse said brusquely. "Go eat lunch."
"See?" I said, relieved. "Go, my love, and eat a burger. I'll see you soon."
Dh kissed my forehead. "All right," he said. "But I'll hurry back."
The nurse wheeled me away. "He seems like a great guy," he said.
"Oh, he is the very best," I said. "Does the scan really last an hour?"
"Of course not," the nurse answered. "It's like three minutes. But he looked like he needed lunch."
"You are officially my favorite nurse ever," I informed him.
The dh did look so much better when he came back. The scans came back clear, the doctor was kindly and sympathetic and said that some people react badly to anesthesia and hopefully the headache wouldn't happen again. Home again.
All this to say - thanks to all who have prayed for me this week. I am healing quickly - I think; at the very least, I am able to climb stairs and use commas again. Pray mostly for the children, who are grieved that Mommy will not pick them up. And pray for the dh, who is temporarily nurse, valet, chauffeur, cook, diaper-changer, and morel support.
Much love to you all. I have a whole stack of books that ought to be read at once.
"I'm here for surgery!" I answered brightly. Nothing like the House M.D. episodes, where someone runs screeching down the hall, "SHE NEEDS SURGERY!" Just me and my dh and my father in law and my pastor standing in a well decorated lobby and asking for surgery like we do this sort of thing all the time. (We'd like a table for four - oh, and do you have room for an appendectomy?)
Anyway, the concierge misunderstood my initial request and made me say the word, "Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. HYSTERECTOMY!" three times in successive degrees of volume. And when he finally did understand me, he blushed. "Oh."
Off to a fun start.
Then I was scolded for my lack of veins by a nurse, for which I apologized profusely.
My support team came in to pray for me, which was greatly appreciated.
The dh gave me a kiss.
And all the prayers must have been heard, because I didn't feel the least bit nervous. Okay, at least I didn't think I was nervous about Surgery, but I wouldn't stop talking. The anesthesiologist eventually stopped answering my questions and just popped the big mask thing over my face. He didn't have much of a sense of humor, which is a real failing in a doctor, but I suppose the power to make someone shut up really goes to one's head after a while. Anyway....
The surgery went great. And the hospital stay was made completely worth it because I discovered that Blue Bell makes popsicles! Rejoice, oh civilizations! Lift up your heads, oh ye drugged patients! There are orange Blue Bell popsicles!
They sent me home after 24 hours - before I ate all the popsicles. I was awfully glad to see my own bed. And my son promptly diagnosed me: "Your tummy hurts!" he said in a sage and serious tone.
"Yes," I admitted, "but that's okay. It's going to help Mommy get better."
He disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with the Children's Robitussin that he had managed to get out of the bathroom cabinet. "It's for you!" he said sweetly. "To make you all better!"
"Oh, sweetheart, that is so kind of you!" I answered, adding, "Never, never, never, never get into the medicine cabinet, okay? Let's tell Daddy to get a lock on it right away..."
The amazing in-laws helped me up and down the stairs and wrangled the bebes so well that I was hardly missed and mostly ignored (which can be a good thing when one is so loopy that one forgets to use punctuation in a text message. It was a low point). My darling MIL bought pretzels for me, the real Snyder's quality pretzels, and my friend, Bear, brought Red Velvet Cake ice cream. (Let that sink in, friends. It exists. Red. Velvet. Cake. Ice cream. This world is a glorious place).
Of course, no one expected that my recovery would go smoothly.
The next morning, I woke with a headache. I have had headaches in the past, even migraines, and I'm not sure that this deserved the same term. I can't really find a better word for it, but it outranked the pain of my labors, my C-section, and my appendectomy. Whatever happened to my head, it took forty minutes for me to stop the tears and be able to take deep breaths again. Even now, I shudder to think it could happen again. And the nurse we called told me to go to the E.R. and get a C.T. scan.
So we went back to the hospital. E.R. doctor ordered scans and, unfortunately, said the words,
brain bleed'. At this point, the poor dh was looking a little pale and worried, so I begged him to go and get some lunch. He refused, in a very gallant fashion, to leave my side. The male nurse entered and heard us in the midst of our loving disagreement. He looked at my husband and said, "Go. Go get lunch. I'm taking her to get the scan."
"No, I should stay," dh said. "How long does the scan take?"
"An hour at least," the nurse said brusquely. "Go eat lunch."
"See?" I said, relieved. "Go, my love, and eat a burger. I'll see you soon."
Dh kissed my forehead. "All right," he said. "But I'll hurry back."
The nurse wheeled me away. "He seems like a great guy," he said.
"Oh, he is the very best," I said. "Does the scan really last an hour?"
"Of course not," the nurse answered. "It's like three minutes. But he looked like he needed lunch."
"You are officially my favorite nurse ever," I informed him.
The dh did look so much better when he came back. The scans came back clear, the doctor was kindly and sympathetic and said that some people react badly to anesthesia and hopefully the headache wouldn't happen again. Home again.
All this to say - thanks to all who have prayed for me this week. I am healing quickly - I think; at the very least, I am able to climb stairs and use commas again. Pray mostly for the children, who are grieved that Mommy will not pick them up. And pray for the dh, who is temporarily nurse, valet, chauffeur, cook, diaper-changer, and morel support.
Much love to you all. I have a whole stack of books that ought to be read at once.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Idioms and Their Dangers
English is a difficult language, there's no denying. Who hasn't stumbled over a pronunciation of an 'ough' suffix (Through? Bough? Cough? Dough?)? And who hasn't blushed after hearing someone say, "For all intensive purposes -" ('Intents & Purposes', people) ?
And then there's my particular pet peeve: "I could care less". The correct usage is, "I couldn't care less", but no one remembers this. Obviously, one could care less, but how much less? And as opposed to what? What kind of power lies behind the suggestion that one might care a bit less?
*ahem*
All this to say....
English is a difficult language, even when you're being raised on it. My four-year-old son isn't the most amazing communicator at the best of times, so colloquialisms can be very difficult for him. Yesterday, while having lunch with our friends Auntie S--- and Baby E---, my phone rang.
"Hello, darling!" I answered.
"Hey," my husband said.
"How are you, oh delight of mine eyes?"
"I was just checking in on you," he replied, unfazed by my ardor.
"We are hanging out with S--- and E----," I said, adding, "Oh, king among men!"
"Are you feeling any better?"
"I'm having surgery in two days, beloved," I answered, "And I'll feel better then."
"Mommy!" Spiderman interrupted softly. "Mommy - please, may I talk to Daddy?"
I passed the phone over.
"Hi, Daddy!" Spiderman said brightly. He frowned, concentrating. "Yes," he said. Pause. "I'm eating lunch. We - uh..." he fought for the words, and his little nose crinkled. At last, he said, "Yeah. We are hanging Auntie S--- and baby E---!"
Auntie S--- nearly spit spinach omelette across the table. I managed to hold my guffaws long enough to whisper, "Hanging OUT, son. Hanging OUT with."
"Oh!" He nodded, too cool for embarrassment. "We hanging out, Daddy."
And then there's my particular pet peeve: "I could care less". The correct usage is, "I couldn't care less", but no one remembers this. Obviously, one could care less, but how much less? And as opposed to what? What kind of power lies behind the suggestion that one might care a bit less?
*ahem*
All this to say....
English is a difficult language, even when you're being raised on it. My four-year-old son isn't the most amazing communicator at the best of times, so colloquialisms can be very difficult for him. Yesterday, while having lunch with our friends Auntie S--- and Baby E---, my phone rang.
"Hello, darling!" I answered.
"Hey," my husband said.
"How are you, oh delight of mine eyes?"
"I was just checking in on you," he replied, unfazed by my ardor.
"We are hanging out with S--- and E----," I said, adding, "Oh, king among men!"
"Are you feeling any better?"
"I'm having surgery in two days, beloved," I answered, "And I'll feel better then."
"Mommy!" Spiderman interrupted softly. "Mommy - please, may I talk to Daddy?"
I passed the phone over.
"Hi, Daddy!" Spiderman said brightly. He frowned, concentrating. "Yes," he said. Pause. "I'm eating lunch. We - uh..." he fought for the words, and his little nose crinkled. At last, he said, "Yeah. We are hanging Auntie S--- and baby E---!"
Auntie S--- nearly spit spinach omelette across the table. I managed to hold my guffaws long enough to whisper, "Hanging OUT, son. Hanging OUT with."
"Oh!" He nodded, too cool for embarrassment. "We hanging out, Daddy."
Friday, June 21, 2013
Let Go
Last week, the Lord spoke to me in Barnes & Noble.
There was no still, small voice. No fiery foliage. No rending of upholstery. My eye was merely drawn inexorably to a particular set of words. They were so appropriate that I laughed out loud.
All right, I'll admit it: I think God spoke to me through a rainbow-colored refrigerator magnet.
*sigh* This is embarrassing. I would much rather receive divine inspiration from one of the gorgeous leather journals. But I was trapped in a never-ending line, contemplating the logic of owning seven cash registers while only using one, when my attention was arrested by the following pithy proverb:
First, I really wished there was a comma.
Second, I hate almost all pithy proverbs. Life is complicated, and I think true communication suffers a lack of potency when it's watered down into something that fits on a T-shirt.
Third, I shivered at the awful simplicity of the mental image.
Let Go, I heard the Almighty say, or be dragged.
The last two weeks have been one smashing revelation after another, each one proving to myself (and any human being unfortunate enough to live with me), that I have a teensy-weensy control problem. My subconscious believes it inhabits an omnipotent being, and plans Life accordingly. Stressful events? No problem! Emotional upheaval? Be proactive! My conscious body hadn't had a solid night's sleep in over a week because my brain fought every attempt at sleep with a violent passion.
I was still in control! I cleaned under the kitchen sink at four a.m. because even desperate sleeplessness couldn't make me unproductive. I stumbled through VBS, ignoring the nausea of sleep deprivation. I looked past the bright flashes in my vision which begged "MAYDAY... please... let us... go to bed..."
I was going to be fine if it killed me!
Today, it occurred to me that if I insist on a battle of wills with 'death' as my only parameter, against a God who knows the hairs on my head, I could very well lose. Sheer obstinacy is not a virtue. Self-control is, but not My-Self-Controlling-All-Things. I must either learn to live as a broken human, with limitations, with needs, or I will destroy myself in a folly of delusion.
The Holy Scriptures do not tell of a God who is mediocre in His work of sanctification.
.... so it appears that I had better learn to let go. I had better release all the things I cling to that are not God, because it will hurt if He has to pry my fingers open. And He will pry my fingers open, because His love for me is greater than my tantrums.
The good news is that my dear husband took me to Barnes & Noble and bought three new books to keep me company while I'm in the hospital. I'm almost looking forward to my upcoming surgery... !
There was no still, small voice. No fiery foliage. No rending of upholstery. My eye was merely drawn inexorably to a particular set of words. They were so appropriate that I laughed out loud.
All right, I'll admit it: I think God spoke to me through a rainbow-colored refrigerator magnet.
*sigh* This is embarrassing. I would much rather receive divine inspiration from one of the gorgeous leather journals. But I was trapped in a never-ending line, contemplating the logic of owning seven cash registers while only using one, when my attention was arrested by the following pithy proverb:
LET GO OR BE DRAGGED.
First, I really wished there was a comma.
Second, I hate almost all pithy proverbs. Life is complicated, and I think true communication suffers a lack of potency when it's watered down into something that fits on a T-shirt.
Third, I shivered at the awful simplicity of the mental image.
Let Go, I heard the Almighty say, or be dragged.
The last two weeks have been one smashing revelation after another, each one proving to myself (and any human being unfortunate enough to live with me), that I have a teensy-weensy control problem. My subconscious believes it inhabits an omnipotent being, and plans Life accordingly. Stressful events? No problem! Emotional upheaval? Be proactive! My conscious body hadn't had a solid night's sleep in over a week because my brain fought every attempt at sleep with a violent passion.
I was still in control! I cleaned under the kitchen sink at four a.m. because even desperate sleeplessness couldn't make me unproductive. I stumbled through VBS, ignoring the nausea of sleep deprivation. I looked past the bright flashes in my vision which begged "MAYDAY... please... let us... go to bed..."
I was going to be fine if it killed me!
Today, it occurred to me that if I insist on a battle of wills with 'death' as my only parameter, against a God who knows the hairs on my head, I could very well lose. Sheer obstinacy is not a virtue. Self-control is, but not My-Self-Controlling-All-Things. I must either learn to live as a broken human, with limitations, with needs, or I will destroy myself in a folly of delusion.
The Holy Scriptures do not tell of a God who is mediocre in His work of sanctification.
.... so it appears that I had better learn to let go. I had better release all the things I cling to that are not God, because it will hurt if He has to pry my fingers open. And He will pry my fingers open, because His love for me is greater than my tantrums.
The good news is that my dear husband took me to Barnes & Noble and bought three new books to keep me company while I'm in the hospital. I'm almost looking forward to my upcoming surgery... !
Monday, June 17, 2013
Homonyms
Spiderman was demanding my attention. "Mommy! Mommy!" he whispered, "Mommy! Mommy? Are you on the phone? Can I talk to Daddy? Mommy!"
"Husband," I said into the phone. "I have to go and discuss proper etiquette and respect with our son."
"Fair thee well," he answered - or something like that.
I hung up the phone and turned on the eldest offspring.
"You were very rude, demanding, and interrupting," I said. "Dear, there are conse-"
"No!" he shouted. "I'm not!"
"Do not interrupt-"
"I'M NOT AN ANIMAL"
I blinked. "I'm.... sorry?"
"I'm not a deer!" He frowned. "Don't call me that! I'm not an animal."
It took my several seconds to get it. Then I fell over laughing.
He's a clever one. I never did finish my speech.
"Husband," I said into the phone. "I have to go and discuss proper etiquette and respect with our son."
"Fair thee well," he answered - or something like that.
I hung up the phone and turned on the eldest offspring.
"You were very rude, demanding, and interrupting," I said. "Dear, there are conse-"
"No!" he shouted. "I'm not!"
"Do not interrupt-"
"I'M NOT AN ANIMAL"
I blinked. "I'm.... sorry?"
"I'm not a deer!" He frowned. "Don't call me that! I'm not an animal."
It took my several seconds to get it. Then I fell over laughing.
He's a clever one. I never did finish my speech.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Princess: 1, Potty-Training:0
It was Saturday, the kind of day when the husband mows the lawn while the children watch Thomas and the Mommy plots adventures. Today, we were Potty Training.
The Princess is 2 + a bit, so there's no reason to continue sinking cash into bulk shipments of Luvs. She is interested in "potty", especially when anyone using one wants privacy. And this week, we purchased a brand new baby doll, who lives on the shelf behind the toilet and awaits the Big Girl who can Use the Potty. So this morning, Mommy prepared.
We had the apple juice. "When you drink the juice, you will need to potty," I said. "When we need to go, where do we go?"
"Da-Poddy!" Princess declared.
"That's right!" I encouraged her brightly. I put her on the potty. Nothing happened. "Uh, wanna get down?" I asked. "We'll try again soon."
"Yes!" She stepped back into her diaper, walked into the living room. Commence Accident One.
"Okay," I said, undaunted. I put her in a fresh diaper. "Let's review. Drink Juice. Need potty? Use potty."
"Poddy!" She grinned.
"Diaper stays dry."
"Dry!" she giggled.
"All right. In ten minutes, we'll use the potty, okay?"
Ten minutes later, the diaper was wet again.
"Let's go outside," I said, changing tactics. "We'll wear big girl underwear, okay?"
"Okay."
"Mommy!" Spiderman cried. "She's not wearing pants!"
"That's okay," I said. "We're going to play outside and use the little red potty."
"Poddy!" Princess ran around in her pink straw hat and underwear. I prayed the neighbors wouldn't peek into our backyard and call Social Services.
"Ready to go on the potty?" I called five minutes later.
"Yesh!" She proudly sat down.
"Wait! Stand up!" I took off the underwear. It was wet.
She sat on the potty. "Poddy!"
"Yeah..." I heaved a sigh. "Look, kid, there's one more strategy I've read about, and we could try it...." I scanned the yard. "You can run naked for a few minutes, all right?"
"Juice!"
"Yes, you drink the juice. You go on the potty."
She sat on the potty. Nothing happened. I gave her a cookie anyway. "Good try, I said. "We'll try again in a few minutes, all right?"
"Okay." She stood next to me and drank her juice while I read Agatha Christie.
My attention was called away from M. Poirot by the Princess saying, "Is-DIRTY!"
I looked down.
"Well.... thank heaven you missed my foot," I said. "We really shouldn't poo wherever we're standing, my darling. Where do we poo?"
"Is dirty in POTTY!" she declared.
"Yes." I wiped her down and cleaned up the *ahem*.
My dear husband opened the door. "Hey..." he said sheepishly. "You know those cookies you bought for the potty training?"
"Yes." This can't be good.
"Guess who just accidentally knocked all of them onto the floor?" He gulped. "It was me."
"Oh."
Silence.
"I think we should potty train another day," I said.
"I concur."
I'm putting the kids down for Nap and going back to the Orient Express.
The Princess is 2 + a bit, so there's no reason to continue sinking cash into bulk shipments of Luvs. She is interested in "potty", especially when anyone using one wants privacy. And this week, we purchased a brand new baby doll, who lives on the shelf behind the toilet and awaits the Big Girl who can Use the Potty. So this morning, Mommy prepared.
We had the apple juice. "When you drink the juice, you will need to potty," I said. "When we need to go, where do we go?"
"Da-Poddy!" Princess declared.
"That's right!" I encouraged her brightly. I put her on the potty. Nothing happened. "Uh, wanna get down?" I asked. "We'll try again soon."
"Yes!" She stepped back into her diaper, walked into the living room. Commence Accident One.
"Okay," I said, undaunted. I put her in a fresh diaper. "Let's review. Drink Juice. Need potty? Use potty."
"Poddy!" She grinned.
"Diaper stays dry."
"Dry!" she giggled.
"All right. In ten minutes, we'll use the potty, okay?"
Ten minutes later, the diaper was wet again.
"Let's go outside," I said, changing tactics. "We'll wear big girl underwear, okay?"
"Okay."
"Mommy!" Spiderman cried. "She's not wearing pants!"
"That's okay," I said. "We're going to play outside and use the little red potty."
"Poddy!" Princess ran around in her pink straw hat and underwear. I prayed the neighbors wouldn't peek into our backyard and call Social Services.
"Ready to go on the potty?" I called five minutes later.
"Yesh!" She proudly sat down.
"Wait! Stand up!" I took off the underwear. It was wet.
She sat on the potty. "Poddy!"
"Yeah..." I heaved a sigh. "Look, kid, there's one more strategy I've read about, and we could try it...." I scanned the yard. "You can run naked for a few minutes, all right?"
"Juice!"
"Yes, you drink the juice. You go on the potty."
She sat on the potty. Nothing happened. I gave her a cookie anyway. "Good try, I said. "We'll try again in a few minutes, all right?"
"Okay." She stood next to me and drank her juice while I read Agatha Christie.
My attention was called away from M. Poirot by the Princess saying, "Is-DIRTY!"
I looked down.
"Well.... thank heaven you missed my foot," I said. "We really shouldn't poo wherever we're standing, my darling. Where do we poo?"
"Is dirty in POTTY!" she declared.
"Yes." I wiped her down and cleaned up the *ahem*.
My dear husband opened the door. "Hey..." he said sheepishly. "You know those cookies you bought for the potty training?"
"Yes." This can't be good.
"Guess who just accidentally knocked all of them onto the floor?" He gulped. "It was me."
"Oh."
Silence.
"I think we should potty train another day," I said.
"I concur."
I'm putting the kids down for Nap and going back to the Orient Express.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
I Can't Do Nothing!
"You have several options," my doctor said kindly.
"But the best option," I said, "is to move. This is the plan. I have already started packing. I can move all our belongings to a new home in the next three weeks, have the surgery I need, recuperate for a few days, unpack, settle, and get my son started at his new school by August 13th."
"You... could do that," he said.
"You don't think I can?"
"I don't doubt your ability," he said. "But you need to realize there is more than one option."
"Very well." I scribbled 'Scenario #1' in my notebook. "What other option do you see?"
"You could do nothing."
"Come again?"
"Nothing," he said kindly. "You could not move. You could rest, in your home, for the summer while recuperating from - let me remind you - major surgery."
"I don't understand."
"You could do nothing," he went on, "and find another school option for your son."
I stared at the blank page. "What is this... 'do nothing' of which you speak?"
Of the Seven Deadly Sins, I have never feared Sloth. I have feared Murder often, as when something gets in the way of my plans. And speaking of plans....
I was going to move to Mooresville this summer. I was going to take Life by the throat drag it along after me while I gathered new piano students, sold a house, unpacked the china, chased the children, and prepped for my son's first year of school. *sniff!*
I was going to do a lot of things.
The only way that I learn, apparently, is for the Lord God to smack me with a 2x4. This week, I am picking the metaphorical splinters out of my teeth.
On Wednesday, I took my children to church, and met with the babysitter who kept them busy while I decorated a room for VBS (with wall decals that I created myself). I met with my co-teacher, divided up the work for next week, cleaned up the debris, gathered the children, made a quick stop to deliver cookies to a friend, and grabbed Wendy's on the way home. Then I put my daughter down for her nap, left Spiderman to play chess with the babysitter, scrubbed the kitchen, tidied the downstairs, vacuumed, and showered in the twelve minutes remaining. Then I woke the daughter, loaded everyone back in the car, dropped the babysitter off with many grateful thanks, took the children to play at a friend's house, came home, and finished preparing for my piano lessons. Then I taught the piano lessons (and not like a brainless maniac). And while I ate leftovers, I cleaned the upstairs bathrooms and picked up the kids' rooms because the realtor arrived to look over our house at seven. Then I looked over the paperwork, put the children to bed for the night, talked over our options, baked cookies, fed and thanked the realtor, waved goodbye when he left at nine, poured myself a glass of wine --
-- and burst into tears.
My dear husband had the good sense to stay on the far side of the kitchen.
"Would you like a hug?" he asked.
"NO!" I shouted. "I - am not - sad! I am angry!" I remembered that I needed protein and grabbed a knife and the cheddar.
"Um..." he gently took it from me. "Let me slice the cheese all right?"
"Ok-ay," I sobbed.
"Why are you angry?"
"Because!" I started to wave angrily and realized I ought to put the wine down first. "I can't do it all! I can't do everything in the next three weeks!"
"I see," he said.
"We are going to have to stay here another year!"
"That does seem to be the wisest option."
"I was okay with this stupid surgery!" I bawled (for new readers, let me explain that I am not a pretty crier. If you have ever seen a tomato sweating, it's about the same thing). "It was taking away my options, but NOW!" I hiccuped. "Now, it's messing with my - SCHEDULE!"
"I see," he said, offering the cheese. "Let's go sit down."
"I'm not sad yet," I fumed. "I'm still angry. My son won't get to go to the private school, and it's all my fault because I needed a surgery!"
"I will point out, for the record, that your hysterectomy will in no way be your fault," the dear man said. "Spiderman will be just fine. He's not even five yet. We can home school for a year and reevaluate next year."
"And you'll still waste two hours every day stuck in traffic! We were supposed to move so you wouldn't have the same awful commute for another year!"
"I don't mind."
"Well, what am I supposed to do?" I asked the universe in general. "What am I supposed to do... just... do... NOTHING?!"
I really hate losing control. I hate crying, raising my voice, and spilling wine on the linoleum. What I want to be is that woman whose godly spirit shines through even in the worst of trials. Instead, I find that all it takes to bring the sin of Anger out of me is for circumstances to mess with my carefully laid plans.
I write this, not to beg for your sympathy, but to beg you to whack me with a 2x4 when I start to slip into hubris again. Because the sin the Lord hates first, according to Proverbs, is Pride. I cannot seem to learn what it is to let go of my pride and ask only for faith for each new day, but I am very certain that my God will not stop teaching it to me.
So pray with me, and for me, that I will learn whatever lesson I must (because I'm really, really tired of having surgery. The hospital apparently does not have a 'Buy Three surgeries, Get One Free!' policy).
I won't really be doing 'Nothing'. I have a a son to read to, a little girl whose hair is in constant need of braiding, two cats who demand constant affection, a husband who appreciates my attempts at cooking, piano students who need to be scolded for their technique - the list goes on.
Tomorrow, I shall not go "to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business "... because I will be busy teaching VBS. More than that, I do not know what will happen tomorrow. I only know that, if the Lord wills, I will survive VBS.
And then I will survive the laundry and the coordinating of babysitters for a six-week recovery. And, Lord willing, I will survive the surgery and the long days of being stuck in bed. Lord willing, another year will teach me to bloom where I'm planted and will bring a host of blessings to our home.
Don't whip out the address books, friends, because the Hodge B&B will still be here. At least, it is here for today. Lord willing.
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