tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1193005555864591632024-02-07T17:34:15.561-07:00Sometimes I Write SentencesSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-69281382948600827332016-10-24T10:37:00.000-06:002016-10-24T10:37:25.020-06:00On a Wednesday Night a Few Months Ago<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My obsessive side
is happy. This well-used blue baby bathtub fits just-so in our new, elongated
bathroom sink. I use a towel to pad the inside, close the plug, and squeeze two
drops of lavender soap into the bottom. I turn on the faucet just past the red
dot. The water is warm. I turn up the pressure to make bubbles. When there’s
enough, I turn off the water and step over to the bed. This is where the baby
kicks at his blanket, gazing toward the window. His hands are moving, moving, moving and his chest goes up, down, up and down with rapid infant breaths.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I pull his white
onesie up over his head. Reflexes make his shaky arms reach out in a curve. I
put one hand steady on his chest so he knows he’s not falling. I take off his diaper,
cradle him, and move to the bathroom before he can potty-paint anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lower him into the half-filled little tub.
I keep my left hand on his chest, holding his hands, my wrist propping up his
head. My right hand gets the washcloth wet and washes his feet first. I am
multi-tasking. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He likes the bath.
His kicking slows, his breathing deepens, his cheek rests heavy against my
wrist. I wash his legs, his middle, his arms. I run the cloth into the tiny creases.
It’s important to get the creases clean. Last, I wash his hair. I’m
careful not to get drops in his eyes. I’m careful not to let him get cold—I
scoop warm water over him here and there the whole time. I breathe in the
lavender. I take in the sight of a pink, perfect newborn, dependent on me for
everything. I marvel that it has come back easily—the caring for a new baby. It
all came back. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I love this boy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
drape his towel along my left arm. I raise him up and out and into the towel
and wrap up his squirmy, slippery self before he gets upset. I put the hood
with the embroidered sheep over his hair and walk him back to the bed. I dry
every spot that just got wet. I diaper him, I lotion him, and snap on his
gray-dotted pajamas. We sit in the yellow gingham rocker, the one I’ve rocked three
other babies in, and I nurse him to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-92068566887551246552016-04-15T09:14:00.000-06:002016-04-15T14:58:58.671-06:00April SixteenHappy, happy birthday Lucy dear! Tomorrow you would be turning twelve years old. We have plans for making a ladybug cake, for ladybug balloons, and for going to that new favorite park. We hope for non-bipolar weather, of course. We hope for sunshine and general merriment.<br />
<br />
I imagine if you were here, you would be over the whole ladybug thing. You would have packed away all ladybug paraphernalia, retired your American Girl dolls, and moved on to something else. I have no idea what that might have been. You are a question mark.<br />
<br />
Not knowing you is hard. You are forever this mystery baby who had clever-looking eyes and not much patience for things like suctioning out your breathing tube, and needles pricking your heels. You had low muscle tone in your neck and back. You stared at your bug mobile. You had scars and bedhead and long feet that stretched and reached, toes curling around my fingers. You could pull a great sad face. You smiled. You were lovely.<br />
<br />
I miss you.<br />
<br />
S misses you. She knows she has a sister. She knows you aren't here to play tea party and Candy Land. L misses you. The other day he drew a picture of our family with you looking down at us from the top of a cloud. E misses you. He asks about why your lungs and heart didn't work by themselves. Sometimes all I can answer is, <i>I don't know, Buddy.</i><br />
<br />
Today, as we run errands and make decisions about which base boards to put in after the dry wall is sanded and painted, you will be in my mind. Today, as I feel this new baby, this last baby, kick about inside me, I will think back twelve years to when my first baby kicked inside me. Before you, and all of us, were put to The Test. You passed that test, and maybe I'll be strong enough to pass it, too. I'm still working on it.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-90179679892196962802016-03-29T12:41:00.002-06:002016-03-29T12:44:42.644-06:00High School LoveAs we got ready Friday after dinner, I pulled out my make up bag to re-curl my eyelashes and to add bronzer to my cheeks. Inside the bag was the small, golden-metal bottle of perfume Sam had brought me from Paris the month before. From Paris. It didn't have a name or brand because it was that new. He found it at a parfumarie. <i>In Paris.</i><br />
<br />
I unscrewed the lid, held the bottle to my nose and breathed. I patted a drop at my neck and a drop on each wrist. I felt a pull inside me. I wanted him back. I was sorry for being stupid the whole week, for ignoring, for flirting with that tall boy at the concert, for alienating, for us not being able to control us. I resolved: Tonight I would ask him to dance, he would smell me, we would go back to normal, and figure out a way to make it work.<br />
<br />
I pulled my hair half-up. I put on some apple Lip-Smackers. We headed out the dorm to meet our friends at the dance.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-39089436008789079502016-01-25T09:37:00.002-07:002016-01-25T12:07:36.631-07:00Counteracting My Way Through JanuaryJanuary is not my favorite. I am not a snow-playing person--though a new, bright and blueish, cottony covering of snow does make me feel seven for a minute. After living in Phoenix, though, I realized I want distinct seasons and if I have to live through Utah Januaries in order to have Winter-Spring-Summer-Fall, well then I can do it. I just have low expectations, and feel proud of myself when I accomplish something like: <i>only have a 50-cent fine at the library!</i> or <i>remember to have the children bathe!</i><br />
<br />
This January of 2016, while keeping it simple, I've noticed contrasts in what I've been doing.<br />
<br />
So far, I:<br />
<br />
-Attended two funerals of people who died too young. But, also attended a wedding with twinkle lights and chocolate mousse, and made dinner for a couple who had their first baby, a cuddly gnome with peach-fuzz hair.<br />
<br />
-Had plenty of pajamas-past-noon days. But got myself looking fancy, too. Red lipstick and up-dos and nail polish!<br />
<br />
-Read <i>Dad Is Fat</i>, by Jim Gaffigan. Read <i>Ahab's Wife: Or, The Star-Gazer,</i> by Sena Jeter Nasland.<br />
<br />
-Ate fast food. Ate fancy food.<br />
<br />
-Taught Sally about crayon resisting her Crayola watercolors. Taught 2nd graders some basics from <i>The Starry Night</i>, and had them create their own versions using short strokes of oil pastel and a wash of blue watercolor over the page.<br />
<br />
-Watched a documentary about a drop-box for unwanted babies. Watched <i>Bob's Burgers</i>, and the last season of <i>Parks & Recreation</i>. I miss Andy and Ron already.<br />
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-Stomped through high snow. Climbed around red rocks in the sun.<br />
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<br />
Carry on, January. I've got you figured out. I know your secrets are simple, and I will take you down.<br />
<br />
<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-75507629099150154912016-01-12T13:46:00.002-07:002016-01-12T13:50:52.116-07:00Patience in the Art Department<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The can is red with white. It sits on my desk now, holding scissors, glues, and scotch tape. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scotch Buy, </i>it reads, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CHUNKY PEANUT BUTTER, the REAL flavor of peanuts, SAFEWAY—good quality, thrifty value, 6 lb. 14 oz. </i>The can was used to hold stubs and sections of crayons when I was a girl. I remember digging through the colored wax up to my forearm, searching for carnation pink, goldenrod, or brick red. I loved the smell of my hand after fishing through there. Crayola perfume.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I wasn’t gifted in art. I remember the desperate, erased pencil lines as I tried to sketch the face of Roald Dahl for a book report in 5<sup>th</sup> grade. I looked to his photograph, to my page, photograph, page, photograph, page. Why was it not working? His chin was melting, and I didn’t know what to do about his right nostril. I had thought drawing from a photograph would be simple, even fun. I thought including a sketch would get me a better grade. And I thought it would look something like Mr. Dahl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Much later, years later, my golfing boyfriend Sam decided he would run for Student Body Vice President. “I need a slogan, I need to make flyers,” he said to me as we sat on the flower couch in my living room. We knew a play on his last name was the direction he should go. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Don’t get stuck next year, vote for Plummer!”</i> was born shortly after, and thus began what would become a long life of creating terrible—and sometimes good—ideas together. I told him I could draw up some possibilities for a flyer. “You can draw?” he looked at me like I was speaking Latin. I grabbed a pencil with no more eraser left, one of my mom’s 87 yellow notepads she kept around, and drew a cartoon person’s head and shoulders at the bottom of the page. Then I stuck a plunger on the head, and extended the handle off the top right corner. I drew surprised eyes, and an oval mouth. I drew on ears and a nose, hair coming our from under the plunger. I wrote the words of the slogan next to the plunger handle. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DON’T GET STUCK NEXT YEAR – VOTE FOR PLUMMER!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Sam smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I loved making him smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He didn’t win.</span></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-70789900636769257402016-01-06T11:23:00.001-07:002016-01-06T13:47:39.296-07:00Six-word Memoirs, Arizona Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div>
In Arizona, I was not myself.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But sometimes I miss that house.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Loneliness caused life to be simple.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Shopping Target was considered our fun.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Also, throwing rocks into Lake Pleasant.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Sam smashed scorpions with a mallet.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We went on walks with scooters.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The boys were little, Sally small.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Vacations were to Utah, my mom.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We forgot about cold tap water.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It felt weird to wear socks.</div>
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We rarely got sick, allergies gone.</div>
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Hot air balloons peppered the sky.</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-27442874841734835592015-12-29T17:30:00.000-07:002015-12-29T17:34:43.636-07:00Live On, Dear Star CatcherI like to sit sideways here on this stuffed suede chair, under the lamp in the corner of the living room. I sit like this so my slippered feet can be close to the fireplace. The sun is getting heavier in the sky. The frosty clouds hang low, and my plan is to not move from this spot for a while.<br />
<br />
I've got the computer propped in my lap as I type, and I realize I won't be able to sit this way next month. My middle is growing. A baby boy is kicking around in there, probably hopped up on the macadamia nut turtle chocolate thing I ate. A baby. A boy baby. We're having a healthy baby boy.<br />
<br />
Over the past 3 months Sally has prayed for blessings on the baby, "that she will be a good girl." She has leaned in close to me with a loud voice, calling the baby Star Catcher, and singing, "STAR CATCHER? CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT'S ME, SALLY. YOU CAN SHARE MY HIGH CHAIR..."<br />
<br />
When the ultrasound doctor moved the transducer probe over me and smiled, saying she saw "three little legs," I smiled, too. Then I thought of my Sally. How would she take this? She talks about her sister Lucy every day. She feels that loss, though she wasn't here for it. She asks to send photos from my phone to Lucy in heaven. She sets up a picnic on her blanket and brings Lucy's picture along. She wants her older sister. She wanted a baby sister.<br />
<br />
Since this baby is a brother, he cannot be named Star Catcher--such a girl name (which has been successfully transferred to the pink pony Sal got for Christmas). Instead Sally suggests Vegetable or Clifford or Pop-pop. She's taken the boy-news well, even offering to let him share her room and her crib. We shall see if those offers still stand come May. The boys want to name him Bob.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-4766895135000818722015-09-12T17:24:00.000-06:002015-09-12T17:27:50.413-06:00I Want to be More Like HerThis week I was making garlic chicken enchiladas and green rice for dinner. I put on an oven mitt to fetch a pan from the oven and noticed a smear of red sauce got on the thumb. The red sauce blended with the oil spot already on the mitt, with the drops of pink Something, and with the mark of brown from when I used cocoa powder instead of flour to help a birthday bundt cake not stick to the pan. There are other food stains on the fabric, too. And the thing is, it was my mom's oven mitt. And there in my hot kitchen this week I realized I'm not sure what all on there was from me, and which all was from her. Something about this made me smile.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-32660449019592667882015-09-07T23:01:00.002-06:002015-09-08T09:02:12.830-06:00On the First Day of Labor Day...Here is a list for you of the things this Labor Day weekend brought to me:<br />
<br />
-<i>The Wizard of Oz.</i><br />
<br />
-An hour drive north toward sugar-sweet corn on the cob, red popcorn kernels by the pound, spaghetti squash, softball-sized peaches, mini potatoes, cucumbers, eggplant, tomatillos, and pumpkins, oh my.<br />
<br />
-Sally watching <i>Curious George</i>, cuddling her pumpkin we bought at the market, sans pants.<br />
<br />
-Homemade ice cream.<br />
<br />
-Elliot having a loose tooth fall out while he slept. He couldn't find it in the morning.<br />
<br />
-Swiss Days mayhem, topped with a caramel apple.<br />
<br />
-The heater on in the morning, air conditioner in the afternoon.<br />
<br />
-Laughing with Louis as we bent his fingers as far back as they can go. That kid is the bendiest.<br />
<br />
-Last place at Parcheesi.<br />
<br />
-Spotting trees on the mountainside looking like sunflowers up there, their leaves letting go of green.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-37173250485387220152015-09-04T17:56:00.003-06:002015-09-04T19:06:56.689-06:00I Made a MistakeIt was a fine morning, breezy, some clouds, some sun. We were at the park. I was pushing her and her baby doll in the swing, answering every request for "Higher!" and "All the way up!" She giggled. She didn't seem to notice the hair flowing in front of her face every time the swing came back. Swinging is <i>her</i>.<br />
<br />
Then it felt like a scene. It felt like I was watching from somewhere in the back row. And amid the scene's perfection, I felt the familiar sinking. Grief spilled in, as it does, and then I couldn't feel.<br />
<br />
<i>No</i>, I told it. <i>No</i>.<i> Don't take this moment from me. Stop giving me pain when there's joy. I'm tired.</i><br />
<br />
I swallowed. I swallowed again. I forced the grief down somewhere, and blinked salt back from my eyes. "How's Baby?" I asked her. "How are you? Do you want to do something else yet?"<br />
<br />
"Not yet, no thanks," she said back, watching the two boys who were brothers who were dropping their cars down the slide. They reminded me of my own boys, back when we lived at the house with a park right next to our back yard. I wanted my small boys. I wanted the older sister pushing her little sister in a swing. Impossible things.<br />
<br />
I looked up at clouds through my sunglasses. I wanted to go home. Instead, we went for a walk around the playground, I made small talk with a grandmother, then we walked to the library. I ignored all the hard things in my head and checked out picture books and chapter books. I helped her with the coloring game on the computer. "I want pink next. Then brown, for the alien picture," she said.<br />
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It was all just fine. It was all fine until she got stubborn and wanted to eat lunch right there in the cafe. It was fine until she fretted and argued when I said we'd eat at home. She pulled away from me and fell down as we crossed the parking lot to go to the car. She kicked and she screamed as I held our borrowed books and pulled on her hand. I had to hold her down hard to get the carseat buckle on. We were a spectacle.<br />
<br />
And all that pushed-down grief became anger. Once again I was viewing some play of myself from the back row. I yelled back at her, a 3-year-old. It was a quick, loud drive home. I wanted all people and things to get out of my way. We got home. I put her in her bed, shut the door, and stewed while she screamed.<br />
<br />
I hated grief, I hated myself, and I hated that I just yelled at my little girl.<br />
<br />
<br />
Later, much later, I kneeled in my plaid pajamas and prayed for forgiveness. I said that grief is hard for me. I prayed for understanding.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-84115311530744076372015-09-01T12:00:00.001-06:002015-09-01T14:37:06.975-06:00Confessions of a 3-year-old"It's too loud," she said.<br />
<br />
So, I raced against the sun and mowed the lawn while she stayed inside. It feels like a long time when mowing the front yard, even though it takes about 10 minutes. When I finished I hurried back around to the back door and peeked my head in to check on her. Her feet were up on the flower pillow, and her head leaned onto the cushion. She had various animals and Lego pieces positioned around. She turned and looked at me square in the eyes. She had chocolate on her mouth.<br />
<br />
"How's it going in here, sis?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"I was just eating the cookies."Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-12059283099020655822015-08-28T09:32:00.001-06:002015-08-28T09:32:31.806-06:00In ChargeMy feet are cold so I'm sitting here under the covers. The boys are off to school, and the girl is not awake yet, so I can do <i>whatever I want.</i> And right now whatever I want is to sit here in quiet, except for the clock ticking, and the dogs breathing, and the neighbor driving to work. It's a busy day coming, so I'm glad for this snap of peace. I don't like being busy, but it seems unavoidable. I didn't really know what I signed up for those times I pushed out those babies. Homework, piano practice, childhood anxiety, tennis lessons, self-esteem struggles, food issues, social skills, birthday parties, forming, accommodating, and executing other people's schedules, energy, energy, energy.<br />
<br />
But joy, too. Joy at the oddest times.<br />
<br />
Someone is calling for her dad, as always, so I'd better fall out of bed for the second time this morning and be The Mom. She's wearing her pale blue pajamas with birds, my favorite. She smells so good in the morning.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-29094166565194614702015-08-19T23:58:00.001-06:002015-08-19T23:58:21.034-06:00Dear SarahI've been looking through old photos tonight because I sat down at the desk to print a family picture for the now-second-grader to take to school tomorrow. Forty-five minutes later I had not printed a picture. Instead I smiled, laughed, cried even. It had been a while since I'd cried.<br />
<br />
These are the things I wanted to tell myself (SCREAM to myself) two, three, four years ago:<br />
<br />
-You look great. Stop thinking you don't.<br />
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-Your house looks great. Stop thinking it doesn't.<br />
<br />
-You built yourselves a little life down there in Arizona. Even though you feel alone there, your family is adorable and getting stronger. Don't disregard that growth.<br />
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-Your mom is going to die soon. Call her. Call her every damn day.<br />
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-You are a fun mom.<br />
<br />
-You will be happy.<br />
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-You should get your hair done more often.<br />
<br />
-Good job telling Sam to grow a beard.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-57701390803970927652015-08-13T22:32:00.001-06:002015-08-13T22:37:04.041-06:00A Love-y Dove-y LetterDear Boy,<br />
<br />
Ten years ago we took that picture of me holding you and you had on that white knit hat, and your squared boy-fingers were wrapped around my ring finger. You had thick, dark hair, which never thinned.<br />
<br />
You weren't breathing well when you were born, so nurses hurried you out the door for some clearing of the lungs. <i>Take him, take him,</i> I said. I wasn't about to complain over not being able to hold you those first few minutes. <i>Get him breathing, get him crying, get him pink. </i>I had you, this healthy boy, because I had let go of your not-healthy sister one year before. All those normal things they do when babies come out were welcome. <i>You want to wipe him clean, suction him out, weigh him, measure him? Yes, please. Do it all. He's alive, he's healthy, and he's mine.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I held you.<br />
<br />
I felt like a mom again.<br />
<br />
Thank you for giving me that gift. Thank you for being the one to bring me out of some grief and self-pity. Over these years you've taught me patience (still working on that one--sorry), endurance, deeeeeeep love, the good kind of pride, worry (a new kind from what I'd felt before), and how to play chess (more than once).<br />
<br />
Thank you for bringing me back to life, my boy. Happy birthday! Oh how I love you. I'm glad I caught you smiling on camera today.<br />
<br />
<br />
MomSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-21816876976792736212015-08-06T23:42:00.001-06:002015-08-06T23:44:00.363-06:00August SevenIt's a new year around these parts. It's a new year because it is the anniversary of when Sam and I became real-life, go-through-awful-things grownups. Our Lucy baby died in my arms eleven years ago. The axis of my life changed that day, and every August seventh since then I'm not sure what to do.<br />
<br />
Through the years we've done lots, and we've done not much to commemorate. We've gotten together with family and friends. We've released balloons into the blue. We've written notes to her, looked at pictures, told her story. One year we didn't say a word about it until after the day had passed. The years we were in Arizona were hard because of the whole being-hundreds-of-miles-away problem. I love to be at her spot in the cemetery, listening to the magpies and watching our other kids play.<br />
<br />
But this year we ran away. We will ride roller coasters and boat rides and some bumper cars. I will push my bare feet into sand. I'll watch waves as they reach and crash, reach and crash. I'll make a sand ladybug because I'm good at ladybugs, and I will wish with everything that she could just be here. I'll wish she could've been in the car with us while Sally gave her stuffed bear a squeaky voice. I'll wish she could jump with the boys from bed to bed <i>every time</i> we come back to the hotel room. I'll wish I could catch her eye and quietly laugh about Sam and his nerdy ways.<br />
<br />
But my wishes won't come true, so I'll go back to having the hope which drives me forward into each new year. I will hold her again.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'll bring you a bucket of sunflowers when we get home, my girl.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-69246408510772325082015-08-03T13:24:00.001-06:002015-08-03T17:22:08.252-06:00Making Out with SamI feel good about that title.<br />
<br />
At sixth grade graduation I was given the: "A Place for Everything and Everything in Its Place" award from my teacher Lynn Hooper, who sounded like a mouse when she sneezed. It impressed me that my teacher could see in me what I hadn't recognized. I like things neat and put away.<br />
<br />
But you know, a decade later I became a mom. Another decade has brought Legos, piles of mail, dust, dishes, dirty clothes, Legos, crumbs, two dogs, and Legos. And (a true surprise!) I don't even mind that things can't be all tidy and whatnot most days. But lately I've been bothered by the boxes of random, well, crap that have accumulated over our moves: apartment-apartment-house-house-house. Too much. So I'm going through them. Paper by paper, old cell phone by old cell phone, college binder by college binder.<br />
<br />
The other day I was finding places for things and cleaning the bedroom at the same time. I found film from Sam's photography class, negatives of me playing basketball in shiny shorts. I looked through yearbooks and saw what Sam and I wrote each other. I compared what we said when we were together vs. when we were not (ouch). I found notes on lined paper we had written and folded all creative-like ("To open, pull here."). I found a paper box he folded for me, with a teeny tiny note, with these words in red pen:<br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">How was 3rd and 4th? English was or is cool right now because the freshmen take those tests during class and we (sophs) get free time! The only stupid class I'll have today is math. I love being in a good mood! Do you like relish?? -Sam</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></i>
Pure joy.<br />
<br />
I dusted the desk. I picked up bottles of perfume and cologne from a brass tray so I could dust underneath and around. I opened his classic, almost vintage at this point, bottle of Polo Sport. I breathed in. I was taken back to the front seat of his tan Geo Prism. I was taken back to hugging him on the porch. I was taken back to the first time we made out. I opened the bottle of perfume he brought back for me from Europe. I felt sixteen.<br />
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I fell in love with High School Sam while in high school, and I fell in love with High School Sam while cleaning there in our bedroom, with items from our life together scattered all over. I fell (again) for the man he has become, for the father he is, for my best friend. Plus he loves me even though I don't squeeze the toothpaste from the end of the tube. And he's still really good at kissing.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-10131489138145957802015-07-23T15:24:00.002-06:002015-07-23T15:24:41.467-06:00ReadingI've been reading, not writing, lately. I've been summer-lazy, like I want to live off of Pace's popsicles and icy lemonade, and sit in this stuffed chair with my feet on the ottoman and read read read. <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i> is happening right now. I want it fresh in my mind for when I start<i> Go Set a Watchman</i>. Calpurnia just called Scout, Jem, and Dill in for their summertime ritual of midmorning lemonade. I want to do this. Am I too late? Is this summer too far gone already to start something new? I'm afraid I'll blink and it will be Halloween. We must make the lemonade!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-29352161954143685812015-07-16T16:26:00.003-06:002015-07-16T16:26:23.231-06:00HomeThe wood has a darker stain than when I was younger, so the worn corners are not as noticeable. Maybe visitors, people who don't have history with us, wouldn't even notice them. But I look at those nicked corners of the coffee table every time I walk into the blue and white house. Sometimes I move my fingers along its sides and remember.<br />
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The solid maple table was bought by my parents out of an underground war bunker, two street levels beneath a storefront in Frankfurt, Germany. I picture their eyes running along the patterns in the wood on top. I imagine them pulling in and out the small drawer, examining the thick, squared legs. They paid two hundred marks for it. It was 1973.<br />
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My dad, being a United States Army man, had been stationed in Germany several years before I was born. The upper management of our family had a life there. Two brothers were born there. I wish we had more photos.<br />
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The table was about four feet high, used for conferences or in a lab. My parents had length taken off the legs so it could be used in front of their couch to hold books, cups, and newspapers. In Germany, then back here across the ocean, their six, seven, eight, nine, ten children found about eighty-seven more uses for the sturdy, now-coffee, table. It was a stool. It was a fort. It was a skating rink. It was a dance floor. It was the center of our world.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-29756592830093531892015-07-11T15:22:00.002-06:002015-07-11T15:22:18.410-06:00The Two FinchesThe two yellowy finches were there, right outside our big window. They grasped onto the tiptop of a flowering mint branch and pecked in and out of the blossoms. They were deliberate in their pecking. They were happy, so I was happy. I was carried away in this magic when from downstairs a certain little girl started screaming, "I HATE YOU!" And also, "STUPID!" And then her brother came up, telling me all the wrong things she had done in the last 2 minutes. I glanced at my finches, willed them to stay a few, and went downstairs to rescue the brothers from their little sister. I came back upstairs and the birds were gone. I went back to making dinner.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-34286200875374602582015-07-06T15:22:00.002-06:002015-07-06T15:22:47.229-06:00Now Hiring for Bodyguard Position, Compensation Will Be Given in the Form of Red VinesMy life was threatened yesterday by a eight-going-on-nine-year-old girl who has a crush on my son.<br />
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"You and I are the only ones who know. If you tell ANYONE...!"Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-75135560491008834432015-07-01T10:23:00.003-06:002015-07-01T10:29:35.057-06:00AnxietyBecause the world is too big, life is too heavy, and my kids keep talking freely about dying and how and heaven, I sat and pet the dog. I cleaned the bathrooms. I postponed the outing to the planetarium. I listened to sprinklers spraying and breathed deeply. I gave myself permission to feel.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-11729144525242233572015-06-29T14:42:00.000-06:002015-06-29T16:04:04.474-06:00Being Protective, Letting GoI remember when Elliot was small and I would have lunch once a week with my sisters and my mom (Why didn't I revere those days as golden?). I was probably hovering, fussing, helicoptering over that little boy all over the place. I remember my mom smirking at me and saying, "You should have another baby."<br />
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My reaction was to try to be offended. I didn't, still don't, like being given unsolicited advice. I grew up with two parents and a truckload of siblings and they often told me what I should or should not be doing. It was not easy. But I knew that day at lunch she was being subtle, letting me know I needed to relax, and that another baby would force me to do that.<br />
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The thing is, when you have a baby, and that baby is your first baby, and then that baby dies, you learn how much of life is out of your control. You, if you're me, become a freak for control. I had sat powerless for so many hours, holding my baby girl's hand while she endured pain because I couldn't do anything else for her. I could not stop any of it. It was awful. Controlling every possible circumstance after that was a way of showing the universe that <i>Ha! You didn't get the best of me this time.</i><br />
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So I had taken this big leap already in having another baby. The baby was Elliot, he was here, he was healthy. I was terrified of that being taken away. I was terrified of him being hurt, or sad, or whatever. And I knew my mom was right. I needed, I wanted to have another baby.<br />
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Fast forward to last week, a conversation about protective parenting and how there's too much. I feel for children who get no free time because they are rushed to too many practices and lessons. I feel for kids who don't get to think for themselves, whose parents are one step behind every stride they try to make. I want my kids to feel confident, to be brave, to make their own sandwiches, beds, and decisions. I want them all to ride down hills on their bikes, jump freely into water and swim, and walk to a friend's house or home from school.<br />
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Of course, to gain confidence they will get hurt. A lot of somethings will happen. I will hold their hands, feel their hurt, and be powerless to take it away. But they will be better for it, and so will I.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-31962821028448876752015-06-26T13:29:00.000-06:002015-06-26T13:29:37.715-06:00Where Are They Now?Today I'm thinking of people who became dear friends during our Lucy's little-big life at Primary Children's Hospital eleven years ago. I wonder about them now. I wonder if they still work there, if they're still changing lives, like they did mine. I wonder if they remember her, and us, if they know they made imprints on me. This is one reason I really should probably go get on that Facebook.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-40519840549403086192015-06-23T17:49:00.001-06:002015-06-23T17:49:40.142-06:00I Found HappinessIt was in my living room! It was under the fort we made out of blankets. It was right there with two little kids, still wearing pajamas in the middle of the day, holding mini flashlights and telling spooky stories about old houses with spiders, snakes, creepers, and a puppy named Frederick.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119300555586459163.post-12564732040249088742015-06-22T10:10:00.000-06:002015-06-22T10:10:30.141-06:00SO Much Has Happened Since I Wrote Last TimeA year was added to my age. I'll give you a hint--I used to be 33...<div>
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I got my first rejection letter for a personal essay! Go, me!</div>
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I spent the rest of the birthday doing things I like, like yard work, going out to lunch, shopping, and throwing rocks into the water up the canyon. We made s'mores and ate cupcakes with friends. Sam made a candle out of a stick. We came home, washed the campfire and creek water off of children, and Sara came and picked me up in her Dad's car and we drove around looking for some place to go. Just like the olden times! We ended up getting a drink at 7-Eleven and driving back to my house and talking for hours. Just like olden times again! I still remember meeting her in 7th grade and thinking<i> This girl is funny.</i></div>
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Then Sam left me for 2 days to be a grown up in charge of teenagers. I like seeing him do stuff like that. I am the mother, so I did things like take the kids to the park. I pushed the girl in a swing for an hour. We watched Frozen in the daytime while the boys played Minecraft. I began to clean/organize the shed. I killed spiders. I ate cereal and watched stupid shows after the kids were in bed. I avoided folding any laundry.</div>
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Sam returned, we grabbed a bucket of chicken, and met some of my family at The Park with the Fat Seagulls for Father's Day Eve. Seagulls like grapes, and grape tomatoes. They do not like carrots. There was bubble-blowing, frisbie-throwing, European Freeze Tag, and general summertime merriment.</div>
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We had some of Sam's family for dinner Sunday. They brought glass bottled root beer, ice cream, and creamy potato salad. I tried a new recipe for peach cobbler. Sam grilled broccoli in balsamic vinegar, and a bunch of chicken. There were inappropriate jokes, of course. There was laughing, of course.</div>
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There. We are now caught up and I feel good about this.</div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10165279939874277036noreply@blogger.com4