The Ground is Lava

And the evening wore on….

“Mommy….mommy….mommy….Pretend Piplup and Sharpedo were in a battle with Chimchar and Skitty and they had 10 energy and Piplup got attacked by a poison and it took 10 energy and then all of my Pokemon got in the battle and it was the giantest battle of all time….”

“Mommy….mommy….mommy….Can we stay up until daddy gets home and watch 1 hour of our movie? Daddy said we could….daddy said….daddy said this morning because he watched an hour of a movie when we were doing something else….so daddy said we could watch some movie tonight before he got home”

“Mommy….mommy…mommy…Can I take a bath instead of a shower? You said I could take a bath, you said, you did say…please….please…please….?” Stomp, stomp, stomp. “Humph!”

“Mommy….mommy….mommy….can I have dessert? please can we go outside and make s’mores? Can I have a bowl of marshmallows? Can I have a yogurt? Will you make strawberry ice cream? Can we go to Oberweis? Can I have a bowl of cookies? Can I make hot chocolate in your Keurig?”

“Pa-chew…thththththththth…spsppspspspspspspspsp…pa-Choo…Pfbpfbpfbpfb…brbrbrbrroooowwwwmmmm!…Okay, pretend he blew up and fell into the river”

“Mommy…mommy…mommy….Don’t step there! THE GROUND IS LAVA!!!”

As I stepped gently down from the kitchen onto the sunken family room floor with my Riesling carefully balanced in my left hand, I felt the warm, oozy lava climb up my calves and ultimately engulf me in a nice, dull, silence. Remarkably it was painless and my wine stayed cool. With great effort I was able to make my way over to the floating, lava-proof L-shaped couch and planted myself there on the corner square. Before long I procured the company of a couple of Pokemon-playing, explosion-noise making, watermelon-eating, freshly showered boys; curled up in my arms.

I am so very happy that the ground is lava.

Ode to Joe

Watching my children mature is not something I enjoy. I loathe time passing; I dread the anticipation of the unexpected and I admittedly fear the unknown. I am well aware of these personality flaws and embrace them as an indelible part of my psyche. It is not that I am without hope and aspirations for my boys; quite the contrary; I envision them with happy, love filled and faithful lives and pray fervently for them. My deepest desire is that they become capable, grounded, independent men and experience the fullest joys of their hearts. But I have always had an overt awareness of the passing of time; even as a child I can remember having a consciousness of the evanescence of crucial moments and significant events. I have been all too clued-in to their growing bodies, emerging unique personalities and increased external influences, sometimes too much so for my liking.

As a full time working mom, I don’t get to spend every waking available hour with my kids and often the time spent is uneventful and unspectacular. Some days it seems I spend more time correcting, scolding and trying to catch up with daily chores rather than enjoying the years, months, days and hours left in their precious and ever fleeting childhoods. I imagine my experience in that respect is not very unique from most mothers and for that matter I imagine most mothers would capture time in a bottle so as to linger a little longer in the time when our children are still tethered to us on relatively short strings.

It is Joe that I will be required to release first into the world, my oldest child and thus always holding a special place of accountability and expectation; my sweet, affectionate, altruistic Joe. As I watch this boy who I no longer see as an extension of his father and myself but a completely separate and wonderfully created unique individual, grow and learn and morph; I am humbled and surprised at how little his responses and thoughts resemble those of his parents but are exclusively the result of his own constitution. It is a difficult and wonderful process to encounter. We will be sending Joe out on his first flight from home and am sure he will return from his two week adventure more grown and grounded and without mom’s influence.

So tonight I think on Joe and those intrinsic character attributes I admire and do not share and for which I am most grateful to see in my son. I think on his affectionate nature and demonstrative disposition. I think on his vast imagination and creative spirit. I think on his capacity for empathy and compassion lived out daily in how he cares for his younger brother. I think on his sweet, sweet consideration of others and how I have never heard a disparaging word about friend or foe come from his mouth.

So tonight I think on Joe…..and it makes me happy in this moment.

A Good Word

Dear Joe,

I know you will do your best. Study well! +,-,x,÷. Sleep well. This will be your best test ever. Do your best!

Your Friend, Collin

I came home the other day and saw an illustrated note in the place of honor on the refrigerator door. The place where those in the house 4 feet and under like to pin up their brightest and best; right under the ice and water dispenser so that inevitably, whatever receives the privilege of the position ends up in a smudged and runny mess within a week from soaking up the drips and drops from frequent fridge faucet visits by thirsty boys. I didn’t read it at first; there is a lot of information on those double doors and most of it not for me. Eventually I did pause and made myself a cup of ice and as I stood there waiting for my tumbler to fill I had a moment to read this precious piece of prose and was inspired.

I inquired about the note and Joe lit up and explained that the second graders wrote notes to the third graders to encourage them during their two weeks of rigorous Illinois state testing. He continued to tell me that he didn’t know Collin but that he was in Mrs. S’s class who Joe had last year so he figured that Collin was a smart and lucky kid. So, Collin drew Joe’s name at random and wrote him a note. He told him to study hard and to sleep well and to do his best! This little second grade stranger made my boy’s day with an anonymous sentiment of encouragement. What we could all learn from that.

Imagine coming to the office and logging in every morning to a random greeting of affirmation:

Dear Monica, I know today will be productive and satisfying for you. You know exactly what to do and you do it well. Learn a new lesson, focus on the task at hand and have a wonderful day! Your Friend, A Stranger.

I think I will begin to send fortuitous expressions of good thoughts to my dear friends, my kind acquaintances and my greetings-over-coffee co-workers. I think if we all would write random words of motivation we would be gifted back twice over.

What a remarkable difference a good word can make .

Bright orange brand

Today I served as a juror in one of the world’s (yes, I said world’s) largest unified court systems. I, unlike some who find jury duty an honor and a privilege, find it an annoyance. I am not implying that it is not an unique and fair system of justice – I am just saying that I would rather not go spend a day feeling like livestock being herded and secured and branded with a bright orange “JUROR” badge right above my heart. I might also add that  I live practically in walking distance to one of the circuit courts and in all my years in Cook county, continue to be sent to courts far, far away  (this adds to my dismay) and anyone aware of the sheer size of Cook county, knows that the territory is indeed massive; add to that the volume of people and you can imagine the number of cases heard in the system in a day. I really have a lot of respect for those that make this happen on a daily basis – truly the task is enormous.

I was thinking about all of the things going on in that building today. Aside from the criminal and civil jury trials to be heard; there was also a slew of folk in for the dreaded traffic court; there were marriages taking place and divorces being finalized; there were adoptions of children for newly blended families and there were visible alcoves of parties participating in mediation hoping to avoid the judge altogether. I began to look at this circuit court in a much different light than the stone-cold box I had entered at 9:00 this morning. I began to focus on the new hope of the newlyweds; the new commitments of the blended families, the new paths of the freshly re-singled men and women and the new leaves turned over by those who narrowly “escaped” a more severe penalty. Whereas I had always thought of the courthouse as such a miserable place full of ne’er-do-wells and corruption I began to see it more as a hub of transition and redemption.

As the day went on, I became more consciously aware of the care that the Juror Assembly Room Clerk was taking to be sure everyone was informed and comfortable; I felt appreciated when one of the judges came in and spoke to all-hundreds of us thanking us for being there and apologizing for our long, arduous, boredom; I even felt relaxed enough to doze in the oversized arm chairs that we were all fortunate enough to enjoy. I thought as I sat there, playing Sudoku and people-watching about all of the “happys” going on that day and all of the second chances. I looked around the room and pondered all of our “second chances” that maybe did not require a judge and jury but loom over us none the less…

The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life,
May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two
Guiltier than him they try.
~William Shakespeare

My Romance

Walk through any grocery, drug or department store this week and you will be embraced if not overtaken by a sea of red and pink; bundles of roses, aisles of greeting cards, decadent chocolate assortments, scented candles and lotions, lacy underthings and you may even find a racy board game for two. Millions of consumers will purchase their wares and don them on their beloveds in hopes of creating some milieu of intimacy either out of young romantic idealism or settled expectation. Not only are we to woo our respective others but we are also lured into sending snippets of affection to our friends, neighbors, teachers, parents and children showering the entire U.S. in a 24-hour sea of good feelings from the deepest unspoken passion to the tritest verse.

The canonized patron saint of love, young people and happy marriages from the 3rd century obtained his permanent stature in history by secretly marrying young Christian couples. When caught and confronted Valentinus refused to renounce his Christian faith, thus being bludgeoned and ultimately beheaded but not before penning a note and passing it to a young woman outside his prison gates with the legendary signature “from your Valentine”. Whereas our sophisticated western world has left out the  martyrdom in the remembrance of our dear Saint we do still honor the romance of the young and old with our quaint and superficial celebrations.

I, like most, enjoy a good romance. Although not overtly demonstrative of any affection, I do savor those moments in art and life of perfect love, that free-falling yet comfortable sensation; or unrequited passion that longing and joyful pain in which those that feel deeply like to occasionally linger. I love to curl up on the couch with my favorite Merchant/Ivory film, or Jane Austin novel. I think it is lovely to be given a trinket of affection unexpectedly or to be spontaneously transported to a weekend getaway or to be served a rich, sinful handmade dessert……but truth be told as fine and fancy as romantic notions are my romance is found in the mundane.

I’ll take my romance coming home from work on a Friday night to be greeted at the door and escorted to a seat on the couch where I have no responsibilities for the night. I’ll take my romance on a Sunday morning when I am served pancakes or bacon and eggs because he knows I like hot breakfasts and I don’t get one any other day of the week. I’ll take my romance when I get a call in the middle of the day just to check up because even after 20 years of marriage, he still misses talking to me. I’ll take my romance snuggled on the couch where after years of the same scene, he will unconsciously rub my feet through an entire movie. I’ll take my romance laughing until we cry over the recollection of one of a million moments we have shared over the years.

Yes, this is my romance and I count myself fortunate to be so un-remarkably loved.

My Romance – Tuck & Patti

Saturday’s Child

I really need to be working. It is what I do best. I have always been a worker, a hard worker. I am not sure if it is the gratification of “a job well done”, the life long habit of getting up and going somewhere and doing something, or the simple self-fulfilled prophecy of a Saturday child; labeled at birth by a wives tale rhyme. Whatever the reason,  work comes a lot easier to me than rest. Resting is hard. I have to make a conscious effort to rest; I have to wrest away all of the work that lingers in my head to rest; I have to plan to rest and make a space to rest and I have to not work to rest. Not to imply that I work harder than others lest I receive a litany of “one-upping” emails from  fellow hard workers – I just know that I work well and it’s my blog so I get to cry the loudest here.

I am working hard at resting. Lately I have been working too much. My family life is suffering, my friends are strangers and my health is even at stake and so I have had to make a decision to relax. What have my efforts yielded? More work.

1. Relaxation strategy : To leave work at work. This is a great concept – I have about 10-11 hours a day to focus on work and then will leave it there and drive home and as I get further from work, my mind becomes more engaged in home and as my mind becomes more engaged in home then my work stresses melt away and I run to the bosom of my loving and needless family standing there with smiling faces and open arms ready to embrace their work-worn mommy, right? Yeah, right. I find even as I turn the corner into the cul-de-sac the ever pressing and even more difficult work is beating me over the head. The laundry, the cooking, the cleaning, the shopping, the organizing, the bill paying, the tax preparation, the kid toting, the school projects, the extracurricular activities, the litany of to do is unwieldy!
2. Relaxation strategy: Go to bed early. This one seems simple enough. Get in bed before midnight, fall asleep and aim for 6-7 hours of sleep. The extra sleep will give me more coping capabilities and increased productivity during the day. However, my brain is apparently that of a 6-year-old as the more I tell it to do something, like sleep, the less capable it is of performing the task. So I get in the bed at 10pm and count sheep in every language I can muster until my mind wanders off on a tangent of everything sleep related from the horse-head scene in The Godfather to the Poltergeist clown. Maybe I steal an hour or two of half-lucid rest before I am wide awake at 2 am tossing and turning and frenzied about how tired I am going to be the next day until finally I fall into the deepest sleep of my life around 5am for about a half an hour only to spend the rest of the day nauseous and with puffy eyes. Clearly the “…Early to bed” mode does nothing for Monica’s health, wealth or wisdom.
3. Relaxation strategy: Get rid of my ‘ANT’s. This one comes straight from someone in my office. My Automatic Negative Thoughts (ANTs) these need to go. Well, I have decided ANTS are part of my psyche. Monica is the master of ANTs. I am not a glass half-full kinda girl I am a glass half-empty and it’s cracked chick through and through. I have decided I am okay with this. I have never asked “why me?” I am always asking “when?”. This constant state of fight or flight keeps me on my toes and as long as I can still smell the roses through the opaque gray glasses, then I can’t spend too much time trying to rebuild 40 years of ‘worst case scenario’ personality development.

I am going to continue  my experiment in self-development by forcing rest and relaxation. I will try to get to bed a few minutes earlier and maybe count blessings instead of sheep. I am already working hard to take back my weekends by not bringing the office into the dining room. As for my ANTs?…well, I need to start slowly.

…their daily work

Time passes based on Christmas. One more year is ending, one new year is beginning. In my house it also means that my boys are one year older and that my days of mothering young children are numbered. This year the boys’ anticipation of gifts and Santa and celebrations peaked into a wild and crazy, overly zealous, uncontainable joy! …and it was good.

Let them have their fantastic joy, let them dream wild dreams, let them be so entangled in the desire to believe that when they are grown they will on occasion recall that elation as if it were as real as their daily work. As they sing the songs and listen to the stories and practice our family’s customs my greatest wish for them is that they are aware enough when they are 35 or 45 or 65 that those joys are still a part of them and that they can choose to resurrect and linger in that enthusiasm.

Some would argue that I am doing a disservice to my kids by perpetuating and encouraging the “lies”. I would argue that not allowing or even nurturing their fantasies would break their wills and expedite the seemingly inevitable cynicism that overwhelms so many of us. As God created our minds and hearts and creative souls to weave these tales and insert into them these larger than life characters that possess all of the qualities that we desire and see in ourselves: generosity, gratitude and unconditional love then surely nurturing a little belief is not in vain.

My mother once told me while recalling something from her own childhood – that when she was a kid she used to ‘feel sorry’ for people who weren’t her. Well, of course we had a laugh about that – the honesty of the expression of kids’ feelings; but oddly I can relate to that only not as a child but as an adult. I confess, I am at times convinced enough in the accuracy of my own perspective that on occasion I am sad for those that I self-righteously assume cannot relate to things in the way that I feel them. When I see a beautiful painting, or read a remarkable prose, or listen to a musical masterpiece I am moved, and I imagine, and I believe. I believe in what the artist, or author or composer felt; I experience their Sturm und Drang; I appreciate their God-ordained gift and personal strength in spirit to pursue their passion to fruition. I feel something out of the ordinary and for that I am most grateful. I have thanked God for allowing me to encounter these moments of great pathos and elation – through the eyes and ears and hands of others and it has greatly enhanced my life. The ultimate escape in my mind is actually delving deeper into ourselves and latching onto that inner fantasy and idyllic world that dwells within.

I am sad to see the year pass as I am not one that looks eagerly towards the future.  I like things in the now. I love that my boys were overwhelmed this year with excitement and completely caught up in the good and the hopeful and the anticipation. I know one day they will lose their innocence and naiveté and I only hope that they have built up a store-room in their hearts abounding with hopes and dreams and make-believe and that they realize it is as real and important as their daily work.