Two Years



Brett, our almost-brother, and Brent


Can you just take a look at that grin? Does it take your breath away like it does mine? When I saw this picture earlier this week after Brett posted it to my Facebook wall, I was shocked to immediately burst into tears. It was the grin that stabbed me in the heart, that infectious grin that I haven't seen for two years. I sat at my kitchen table with saltwater pouring down my face. Sophie saw what was on the screen and put her arm around me. I caught my breath, dried the tears and closed the screen.

We miss him. We miss him dreadfully. It's terrible that he's missed two of his birthdays, two Christmases, two new babies (a niece and a nephew that he would have adored,) not to mention so much laughing, so many conversations, games of Big Boggle, boy movies with all the brothers, brothers-in-law and Josh, family dinners...oh, too too many things.

I've been thinking about the Jack Gilbert poem I posted a few weeks ago, especially these lines:

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.

So today I decided to delight, to accept my gladness and grab the joy there is all around me, to remember my little brother by living fully and happily. I ran and hiked on another gorgeous trail near our home, talking to him about how much we miss him, how much he would enjoy the kids right now. I bought wildflower seeds to scatter. We nixed the yard work and cleaning. David and I went to breakfast with friends, then took Josh to The Avengers. I took Sophie and a friend to City Creek and to my favorite gelato place. I ate blackberry cobbler. I took pictures of the sunset. We watched a family DVD with the kids. I read to Ben and snuggled Kate. And through it all, I remembered him.
 
One of the hardest lessons I've learned through the last two years is that there is no safe and easy path through life. The world can indeed be a ruthless furnace, but every day we accept that truth and love our time here anyway is a day to celebrate. And so today I celebrated Brent, his life, and the fact that I loved him so much that his loss has created this hole. Holes left in our hearts are the proof of loving recklessly, with abandon, despite the risk of pain. The hole of his life is huge in our family's collective hearts because we loved him hugely. I would rather love hugely and risk huge pain than live a quiet, safer, subdued life with a quiet, safer, subdued heart. I may not have felt that way earlier in this journey, but I now make this conscious choice every day: to love, to cherish, to risk.
 
Rest well, my sweet little brother. You are missed. You are loved.

Another poem

Yesterday morning, I read this post at Segullah. It knocked me over.

The whole post is beautiful, so read it, but the poem...oh, the poem...

So here it is. (And I promise that my next few posts will be less heavy. My life is full of light and fun and spring rebirth and music and teenagers rolling their eyes at me and so much laughing...it's not all philosophy and pain. Really, it's not.)

A Brief for the Defense

by Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

Natalia

Our Natalia.

There we were, a cute little married couple, living in our first house, expecting our first baby. What could be more perfect than adding a sweet puppy to the mix? 

Nothing, of course. We researched and researched and researched breeds. We wanted a dog that wouldn't bark much but would be a decent watchdog (our darling first house was in a less-than-safe area), that would be patient with children, loving with us, loyal, intelligent, not too small, but not overly big. We decided to take a look at Viszlas. The rest is history.

We found her on a spring afternoon. We had also researched (we did a lot of reading back then) how to choose the right temperament in a puppy, so we watched all the red puppies rolling around together and looked for just the right girl. And we fell in love with one: our Natalia, a Viszla puppy with a round belly, enormous ears, and a heart of gold.

We didn't know that she would be a house dog. We assumed she would live outside. But then we read books and more books and more books and trained her and trained her and trained her and by then we couldn't bear the idea of her being outside, away from us. We had Eric and Christina babysit when we had to be gone overnight. She was, I admit, quite spoiled.

Then of course you know what happened. Baby Josh arrived, and Natalia lost her privileged position. We (again) read and read and read about how to prepare her for the baby (sigh...I miss that surety that the answer to all my questions was somewhere in a book...I just had to read enough...) and she managed.

And she managed when Josh pulled her ears. And when he lay on her. And when he grabbed her face.

She managed when Sophie was born, too, and when Sophie pulled her ears, and when Sophie grabbed her face.

And, of course, she managed when Kate came along, and pulled her ears, and poked her eyes. She had learned by now that babies weren't so bad, especially when they'd feed you food from their highchairs. 

By the time Ben came along, she was 11 years old. She was patient with Mr. Ben, as she was with all the others. She loved eating off the high chair. But her face was now gray, and her hip was weak.

Little by little, she lost the constant energy that had been one of her trademarks. As I learned to love running, she had to stop running. Well, she had to stop running with me...she never stopped running away.

For fifteen and a half years, she kept us company. She put her head on our knees when we cried. She let our toddlers play with her ears when we took road trips. She howled and howled when David played the trumpet. And even when she was nearly deaf, over this last year, when I'd practice she would come and lay under my piano to feel the vibrations.

But over the last couple of years, she lost most of her sight, most of her hearing. She made messes of many many kinds, some more horrifically disgusting than others. She started honking this terrible donkey sound (she who never barked). She fell down the stairs over and over and over again. Her hip kept giving out on her. She would stare blankly at the wall.

It's been a long, hard path. We traveled it with her as long as we could. And then we couldn't keep her here anymore.

I knew letting her go would be hard. I did. I struggled and struggled and struggled to know what to do for her.

And finally, I knew what she needed.

So we let her go.

And the world feels emptier. There is no more clinking collar or clicking of toenails. There is no honking bark or messes to clean up. There is no friend to sit with me while I practice. There is no warm head to rest on my knee while I cry about the loss of our sweet girl.

Sweet girl, I hope you are running again. I hope you can forgive us for being human and for not being as strong and loyal and loving as you always always were. Put your head on Brent's knee for me and let him know just how much we miss him, too.

It's Official. I'm a Davis County Girl.

I can't believe I just typed that. It's freaking me out.

(And yes, I know that at 37, I don't really fit into the "girl" category.)

We moved last Friday. I don't recommend moving a family of six less than a week after running a marathon. I do, however, recommend having friends and family like mine, because MAN, they have been REMARKABLE. I have dozens of thank you notes to write. Those of you who deserve one? Let me just remind you that while I'm full of good intentions, it takes me a really long time to act on them, so plan to see one in the next month or so. (Or it could mean you'll get one next year, or it could even mean that I'll find the heartfelt thank-you note I wrote you complete with stamp UNMAILED in another year after that. Yes. It's happened often.)

My friends painted my house, packed my junk, brought me dinners, watched my kids, listened to me cry, told me I could do it, packed up their cars with my stuff, cleaned my house, and loved me even as I prepared to leave them and our little corner of paradise. If I ever find friends half as wonderful in this neighborhood I'll count myself lucky. I wish I could write enough to do their acts justice. I can't. I can only say thank you. You are dear and kind and good.

I like the house. This is good news. I miss my old neighborhood. This is to be expected. I'm trying hard to reserve judgment on my NEW neighborhood until much more time has passed, because of course right now nothing will match up with what I've left.

There are many children on the street, and they've welcomed my kids with open arms. I had five neighborhood kids in the basement and backyard this afternoon. That's good. There will be more good, I'm sure. I'll wait to see what it is.

So anyway, I'm back-ish. And now, for more boxes. And laundry. And organizing.

Sigh.

My Sweet Old Dog

So we have this sweet old dog. I've mentioned her before: Here, here, and also here. We welcomed Natalia into our home more than thirteen years ago, when I was pregnant with Josh, and she's been a (smelly) part of our family ever since.

She wasn't always smelly, of course. At one point she was a wrinkly little red ball of fur, with enormous paws and an even bigger heart. And teeth that liked to rip every loose article of clothing I owned.

Viszlas are loyal, loving, and intelligent dogs. She has always been sensitive to our moods, has been gentle to our children, and has stolen roasts off our kitchen counter. She has been a source of great love and also great frustration. She has been a shredder of tissue, a giver of (too many) kisses, and our constant companion.

And now I'm not quite sure what to do.

Her health has been failing for many months now. She's nearly deaf, she has lots of really disgusting skin bumps, terrible breath, and her fur is more white than red. Her hip gives her trouble, and she can't always make it up the stairs. But yesterday morning, I saw that something terrible had happened to her overnight. I woke to find that she had thrown up and wet next to her blanket, that she could barely raise her head, and that she had lost control over her body. She couldn't stand, let alone walk, her head was tilted to one side, and her eye was twitching. I think she had a stroke.

We've cared for her gently since. We've carried her to the sunny spots on the lawn, have loved and rubbed her and watched her struggle to lift her head to drink water, and tried to coax her to eat anything. She's taken a couple of slices of torn-up bread, but refused dog food and chunks of chicken. She's been able to drink a little water. She doesn't seem to be in pain, and she greets us with a limp tail wag, but she's not much better than she was when she woke yesterday morning.

My sweet Tally. My sweet, loving, non-judgmental, kind-hearted, loyal friend.

Tomorrow we'll take her to our vet and see what he has to say. I'm terrified to hear what he has to say. I'm not ready to hear what he has to say.

So for one more night, I'll pretend that I'll wake up to find shredded tissues near all of our trash cans, that the noodles that fell to the ground during dinner will be gone from the floor, and that everything is going to be as it was last week, when I could still believe she'd be with us forever.

Bubble Wrapping Not Available

Let's face it, parenting has its moments of both sheer joy and utter despair. Tonight may not fall in the range of despair, but a lot of it has been just plain yucky.

Here's the backstory. Josh loves soccer. He played rec soccer for a few years with a wonderful team and a couple of great coaches. He wasn't a star on his team, but he played with a lot of heart. Two years ago, he made the second tier competition team for our club, and he loved it. LOVED it. The boys and parents were great, as was his coach. He learned so much, grew leaps and bounds as a player, and did I mention he LOVED it? By the end of the year, though, I could see that his skills were not quite matching those of the strongest players. He wasn't quite as aggressive as them, didn't have quite the skill level that they did. He was on the bench more and more frequently, and I just got a pit in my stomach when I thought about tryouts in May. I encouraged (kindly and supportively) Josh to practice frequently, to go on training runs, and to work hard to move forward in his ability, but when the second night of tryouts came around, it was totally obvious that Josh was being cut from his team.

That was a yucky night.

He handled his disappointment with grace. I kept a stiff upper lip, but I was devastated for him. He tried to shrug it off, and he felt like it was the right thing at that time, but it still stung, and we both knew it.

He decided to play with some other friends on a rec team this year. He's been able to really shine as a striker, has made lots of goals, and enjoyed seeing his buddies. But he wasn't really being trained, and his skills weren't really improving. He has just had a good time. (Really, in the long run, isn't that what sports are for?) It's been a very pleasant year for all of us. It's been cheaper, less stress, less travel, less car-pooling, and less time-commitment. All in all, it was a good year.

But he wanted to get back on his team.

So tonight was the last night of tryouts. He was scrappy, more aggressive than he had been last year. I had high hopes for him. And then they called numbers for the final scrimmage and it was clear who would be in the two comp teams.

Not my sweet boy.

Sometimes I want to bubble wrap my kids, to keep them safe from pain. I want to protect their bodies from being hurt, their hearts from being broken, their spirits from being crushed. But I can't. And I know it's not healthy to keep them from heartache and disappointment. Being disappointed is part of living. Pain is part of living. Without it, we never really grow. We never really improve or become better people.

I know that. And I know that it is better for my kids to learn to handle disappointment when I can still be there to help pick up the pieces, to model a good attitude, to take them out for ice cream and let them have a double scoop.

But it still stinks. And I still wish things were different.

AAARRRGGGHHH!!!

That's all.

Cast out of Eden

So it's been mentioned that I have some pretty strong feelings about my neighborhood in general and my street in particular. It is with strong feelings that I reveal that we might be leaving my little inch of paradise.

I know many of you already are privy to this news, thanks to many tear-filled phone calls, word of mouth (news travels fast through the third grade grapevine), and a late-night Facebook confession.

But here's the whole story, nonetheless. Warning...I'm afraid I can't tell this story without veering into the spiritual realm. If that's off-putting, feel free to click here for a more secular (and much funnier) story about househunting. Actually, click on it, anyway. It's super funny.

You're back? OK...here is the story:

David and I love our home. However, a few years ago we started thinking about the little things we'd really like in our house, like a two-car garage, a master bathroom, more space for entertaining our big families and for our eventual teenagers to hang out. We've met with an architect, we've drawn up countless plans, and we knew just what we wanted to do to make our current home our forever home. That's been the plan. That's what we wanted.

In the last few months, we've started praying for some guidance in other areas in our lives. I've been praying for Heavenly Father to make our life path crystal clear. This was not about a move, but about some work-related issues, or at least that's what I intended the prayers to be about. At the same time, we've been talking about plans to start the add-on process. We figured that with interest rates as low as they are, there couldn't be a better time to take the equity in our home and make it all happen. But as we moved forward with those plans, we started hitting a few roadblocks, and we decided we'd better look at what existing homes were in the price range we'd be at after pouring money into an addition.

So we eventually ended up looking at two homes: one in Harvard/Yale, and one in North Salt Lake. We love Harvard/Yale. We actually got engaged on Yale, and we always thought if we left this area, that would be where we'd end up. North Salt Lake has been completely off my radar. I think I've been in the city once in my whole life. Somehow, though, we felt drawn to this certain house, and since NSL is so close to downtown, we thought we'd consider it.

We walked into the house on Laird, and knew it wasn't right. We walked into the house in NSL and I felt like I'd been hit over the head with a baseball bat. Within five minutes, I knew we had to make an offer on the house. It wasn't because it was spectacular (although it is lovely), it was because something bigger was pushing us in that direction. I felt it over and over again as we walked through the house.

I felt peaceful about it as we left the house, but I was really disturbed. I'm not a big fan of big houses on big hills. I'm not a big fan of non-walkable, non-diverse communities. I'm not a big fan of anywhere that's not similar to MY neighborhood. (Sorry, NSL people. No offense meant. I'm sure you're lovely people, and I'm looking forward to meeting you.) I fasted about it on Sunday, and felt like it was time for me to be stretched, but I was throwing an inner fit.

Monday I was a mess, and Tuesday was worse. David said he thought we should walk through again to decide if we really felt like we should make an offer. We did, and as we walked into the house again, I felt a spirit of peace just wash over me. So I signed the papers, and the rest was history.

Except then we had to tell people. Like Eric and Christina. And John and Katy. And Liz and Jeff. And...well, you all know who you are. It was AWFUL. AWFUL, I tell you.

And the kids were devastated. And then we told them the story, and then they were OK.

And then we drove up on Thursday night to show the kids. And afterward I sobbed for an hour. I don't want to leave my house, or my street, or my ward, or my neighborhood, or our schools, and especially not my friends and family. But apparently, this is what we're being directed to do, so I somehow need to adjust my attitude.

So that's the story. How it will end, I don't know. If our house doesn't sell, I don't have to move. The bishop threatened to take the sign off my lawn tomorrow. I figure if the bishop does it, it's totally OK, right?

Not Again

I took Ben to nursery on Sunday.

He's sick today.

The end.

Seriously? Seriously.

So Josh has a fever for the 14th day in a row.

WHAT?

And David got it yesterday.

For real. The knock-you-down, throw-you-into-bed influenza. He suffered through work yesterday somehow, but last night he was so miserable that he didn't sleep more than half the night. And he has literally slept six or seven hours so far today.

Then Ben woke up at 6:30 with the hacking cough that means we're about to enjoy the croup! Huzzah! Does that explain the non-stop runny nose he's had since Monday? The kind that is like a slow faucet, never stopping, never releasing me from the insanity of nose slime? Oh well, at least it's not the flu...yet...but even if it's not the flu, it's making him cranky, needy, and clingy. All good things, right?

And all the dresses I ordered for my recital don't fit.

And I had to miss helping in kindergarten and couldn't find anyone to sub for me. I hate leaving the teacher in the lurch like that.

And I couldn't go to the viewing or funeral of a man in our ward, due to all the sickies at my house, and that made me sad. I wanted to be there to support his family. But my family came first, I decided, and tried not to feel guilty.

So I worked on making a cake for his funeral. I thought I'd do something a little nicer than normal and made a pumpkin cake. While it cooled, I went downstairs to work on the evite for my recital. Until I heard some suspicious noises from upstairs. (Will I NEVER LEARN?) And found Ben had pushed a chair over to the oven and gone to town on the cake with a spatula and his little snotty fingers.


Yeah. I was excited.

And then Ben colored on my piano keys with a pencil.

And then I made another cake, realizing that the chances were slim of getting it to the church by the time the family was back from the cemetery, but I had volunteered a cake, and I was going to deliver that darned cake. And I did, but frosting a warm cake (even with my delicious chocolate frosting) is a disaster waiting to happen. And the cake wasn't pretty. And I had wanted it to be pretty. And I was feeling really sad about my sad cake and its sad frosting.

And then I delivered it and one of the older ladies in the ward said, "I told the others earlier that you always bring a hot cake and the frosting for us to put on later."

Seriously? Seriously. I mean, you say that? Honestly. I told myself that I didn't need to be offended (and if that has happened before with the DOZENS of cakes I've made for our funerals (we have an old ward), it has maybe been ONE TIME. Once. And Really? You'd bring that up?) So much for my whole "I never get offended" thing. I got sad. And maybe even cried a little on the way home, because it has just been one of those days.

And then I came home, and Liz called me from across the street, and I couldn't hide my stupid red eyes (because when I cry, it's not really something I can hide), and she was offering me SOUP. HOMEMADE CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP. Because she's just that awesome, that's why, and she didn't even know I was sad. That's what I call a friend, girl. Amazing. And she let me blubber, and I didn't name names (which is so Christlike of me). And she didn't ask for names (which is so Christlike of her.)

And then I went into the house and woke up David from his sick sleep and cried some more and said, "I just need to go on a run" and he said "Go for it" and I did it, and it wasn't feeling great, but I did it anyway, and when I came home, I felt much much better.

And then I realized it was April Fool's Day, so I decided to play a prank. I posted this picture:


(remember it from Halloween?) as my profile picture in Facebook, changed my religion to Fundamentalist and let the fun begin. One girl who doesn't know me well kind of believed it for a minute, I'm afraid. So that was a bright spot.

And now I'm feeling better almost all the way around.

Except (and I'm NOT lying) Kate just came downstairs telling me that Ben is coloring on my piano again.

Seriously.

Sick Kids

I'm not very nice to my sick kids.

I'm not MEAN to them, but I'm not the sympathetic nurse type. I TRY to be. I get soda for them and let them watch TV and take their temperatures, and read out loud to them, and give them medicine. But inwardly, I'm thinking, "Man. This is kind of a pain."

That's not very nice, is it?

Actually, it's kind of an inverse relationship. When they're REALLY sick, with super high fevers, achey bodies, and they're all-around really very miserable, I'm actually quite kind. The sicker they are, the nicer I am, and I'm not faking it. I really hate to see my kids in pain. But when it's the fifth day of the flu, and they're now just kind of under the weather, and the TV's been on for hours every day, and I'm thinking that I'm kind of done with the whole thing, well, I stop with all the niceties and start suggesting it might be time to practice, or do homework, or go back to school, or stop complaining, or just go to bed if they can't think of anything to do but watch TV.

And when I'm not really sure that they're sick at all? When they just MIGHT be crying wolf? Like when one child in particular complains Every Single Day about yet another different ailment?

I'm kind of a bear. A really snappy, unsympathetic bear who tells kids to suck it up and go to school already.

I guess I need to practice my nursing skills. And I get to! Lucky me! Josh is on his fourth day of the flu, and I'm a little worried that Kate is coming down with it, if her sniffles and sore throat and general grumpiness is any indication.

I have been pretty good this time around. Josh has been REALLY sick. His fever is high, his eyes look sunken (yes, I'm throwing liquids at him left and right) and he's worn out and weak, and I just wish I could help him feel all better. Poor guy. So with all this real suffering, I've been feeling very kind and loving. The inverse relationship, remember? We've started reading Lord of the Rings together and he's digging that. I've made him hot chocolate, smoothies, brought him root beer floats, taken him to the doctor, gone to the library for new books for him... That's all pretty good. But I'm kind of running out of ideas.

So what do all of you kind and sympathetic moms do when your kids are sick? What makes your kids feel loved and protected? Maybe I just need something new in my bag of tricks...

Fantasy vs. Reality. And Some Gratitude

How my day was supposed to go:

1. Wake up early and go for a 7-8 miler
2. Go home and say goodbye to David as he leaves for skiing with Jeff
3. Put on loud and happy music and be Super-Positive-Mom who encourages her kids to get their work done with Happiness and No Complaining!
4. Practice for a couple of hours
5. Go shopping for a new oven and find one for a screaming deal (suffice it to say, my oven element exploded due to the awesomeness of my chocolate chip cookies. My oven is about 50 years old. It also lacks two burners. As much as I do not WANT to buy a new oven, I'm afraid I need one.)
6. Organize another corner of the house and make another trip to DI
7. Watch my family play happily and remark how much we all love to be together

How my day went:

1. Stay up half the night with a baby with the stomach flu
2. Cut my run in half when I realize sweet baby has passed on the stomach flu
3. Put on loud and happy music and be Super-Screaming-Mom who encourages her kids to get their work done with Fear and Trembling!
4. Gather myself, apologize to sweet children, and give up on getting ALL the work done
5. Be surprised that David and Jeff come home after 1 1/2 hours because when they got to the resort, it was raining.
6. Shake my head in amazement as one by one, each of us (except Kate) gives in to the stomach flu
7. Sit down to be a good mom and do a puzzle with Kate when I realize the strange sound I've been ignoring is rushing water from an overflowing toilet upstairs pouring into the laundry room. All over the three loads of wash I'd just finished. And everywhere else
8. Work on a talk for sacrament meeting I was asked to give Thursday night
8. Go hide in bed

But I wouldn't be Super-Optimistic-Mom if I couldn't find some silver linings. So here they are (weak as they may be)...

1. I'm grateful that Ben pooped all over ME twice rather than anyone or anywhere else (ha ha)
2. I'm grateful that all of our towels were clean, dry, and in their place so that I could mop up all the water from the overflowing toilet
3. I'm grateful that David was able to give Ben a blessing in the middle of the night and that Ben responded by sleeping for a few hours. (I'm so grateful for the priesthood.)
4. I'm grateful that David earned the Amazing Dad award by taking Sophie on a Daddy-Daughter Date, then taking Josh to Home Depot twice to make something for Josh's science project, even with the stomach flu
5. I'm grateful that the talk I have to give in sacrament meeting tomorrow is on commitment to the gospel and to the home as a wife and mother...Because after a day like today, I am reminded that the good, the bad, and the ugly are all part of this journey. And I guess I'm committed...for better or worse.

Just One of Those Days

Argh. I hate days like this. The kids are mostly great, the house is mostly organized, life is mostly lovely, and I want to throw things around and yell a lot. It all makes so much sense.

No wonder some men (never David, of course) complain that women are a tad hard to understand. I don't even get it myself. Thank goodness for good friends who can say, "Make grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner and don't expect your kids to get everything done. That way you won't yell as much." Brilliant, I say. Sheer brilliance.

So I'm off to make tomato soup and grilled cheese. And not yell so much. Wish us all luck.

Coming Down from the Mountain

My guess is this happens to you, too. You have some phenomenal experience. You're one with something bigger than yourself (music, the spirit, a conversation with someone dear, whatever). You feel expanded, enlightened, enraptured, maybe.

And then a kid pinches her sister. Or the dog throws up.

And rather than taking a leisurely walk down the mountain, preparing yourself to enter the real world again, you've just leapt off a high cliff face and landed in a patch of thorns.

No matter what, it's always hard to leave the mountain (like Moses, leaving the burning bush and finding his people getting all nasty around a golden calf.) But it's even harder to be shoved into the bumps and bruises of everyday life without any warning. I overreact. I snap a little. Then I catch my breath and try to relax.

As much as I'm enjoying myself at the piano day after day, I will admit that I'm getting chucked off the mountain way too often. Someone needs a diaper change. The phone rings. The kids are screaming at each other. Maybe THIS is why it's been so hard to get back in the groove...not that I didn't have the interest, but that it takes much effort to leave the mountain and then run right back up.

But it's worth it. It's so so worth it. I'm feeling alive, feeling my old self returning, finding my voice again.

So I trudge back up the mountain. Again and again. As many times as it takes.

Yeah, Whatever.

I so tested Fate with that last post. That very night, when we said our "Bests and Worsts" of the day, Josh said his worst was school. All of it. And tonight he threw a fit about being the Only One In The School (except for maybe four others, he conceded) Without A Cell Phone. Royal. Fit. Screaming. Throwing Things.

Very unlike my relaxed Josh.

Oh yes, the demons of junior high have begun their evil work...