Love is clumsy

I suffer from an overactive imagination.  I use the word "suffer" because while I love that about me, it can also be a curse.  I love how with little effort I can picture beautiful places in detail, entertain myself throughout the day with my own little stories I make up, and can get completely lost in a book or movie.  It's fun, I love that.  But it's a curse, because the world we live in now, is nothing like my imagination.

I know I'm not alone.  We all picture things a certain way, and then are so surprised when that picture wasn't even close to reality.  Will Smith sums it up perfectly in one line, in this scene from the movie Hitch.


Sometimes we imagine too much, don't we?  I do it almost everyday!!  Here's a common example maybe some of you know.  I prepare a picnic for the kids and I to eat at the park, and as I load up the stroller, imagine butterflies, happy giggles, and rainbows.  I can see it all!  My sweet children are so happy to be there, love me for taking them, are refreshed by the outdoors and healthy playtime, and I get to lay back on the picnic blanket, basking in the "motherhood is wonderful" sunshine.  Of course, as you can guess, I'm shocked when in real life, the kids don't want any of the food I prepared, get cranky and argue with each other, sunburn despite my careful, tedious sunscreen efforts before we left, find more ways to get dirty than I thought possible, each take turns crying on the way home, and when we still have a mile left to walk, are stuck in an unexpected downpour of rain.  Like Will Smith said, "I imagined that going differently in my mind."

Maybe it's because I not only have a vast imagination (I get that from my Dad) but I'm also easy to feel and express emotion (I get that from my mom).  So a beautiful scene from a book or movie, or even something I think or dream about, not only is wonderful, but tends to have an emotional effect on me too.  I love what I hear/see/feel, and I want it to be real!  I know you're probably thinking you're much too mature to get lost in such silliness- but think for a moment, my friends.  Remember that one movie, where you were grateful for the dark theater so no one could see you quickly swipe away a tear?  I realize I suffer from a worse case than most of the imagination-turned-emotional disorder, but don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.  I know you do.

My most recent guilty moment of getting too caught up in the world of daydreams, was when I heard Blake Shelton's song, Home, play on the radio.  Go on, listen to it.  Let yourself feel the love!



I felt the love a little too much when I heard this song.  Big crocodile tears rolled down my cheeks, I thought of deployments and sometimes how lonely I can feel, and pathetically said to myself, "I so badly want my husband to say those words to me!"

Then I took it a step further, and pictured what it'd be like if he did say those things to me. I even went so far as to imagine him secretly taking guitar lessons, learning the words to the song, and then serenading me after a quiet romantic dinner at home.  It was beautiful!

It was also ridiculous.  Life is not a music video.  How we feel about the people we love is so difficult to put into words, not to mention having them on hand at the exact moment when they need to be heard.  Some people spend their whole lives working on turning that very problem into an art.  Poets, authors, musicians, and artists of all kinds find ways to put emotion onto the page.  But it takes tedious hours, rewrites, drafts, patience, and practice.  Behind those dream worthy moments are mistakes, clumsiness, and great effort.

The more I thought about my silly daydream of my husband singing to me, the more I realized it wasn't really what I want.  I have what I want.  I have someone who does work tedious long hours for me.  He's patient with me, and we both patiently wait for those days when we can be together.  We forgive mistakes, we practice being thoughtful, considerate, and sympathetic to each other.  Those long days of effort and work are what make something beautiful, something sweet, even something dream worthy.

Will Smith also suavely says in Hitch that "Life is about the moments, that take your breath away".

It's a romantic thought, but I don't agree.  Life isn't about those short lived moments.  It's about the clumsy ones that got you there.  It's about saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.  It's about feeling bad because you forgot something important, or feeling embarrassed because you didn't handle a situation right.  Life is waiting when you don't want to, enduring when you're tired, listening even when you're feeling distracted.  It's about patience with misscommunication, and forgiveness of imperfection.  It's about sleepy, late nights, small acts of kindness that sometimes inevitably go unappreciated, and showing devotion even when you're feeling lonely.  It's about experiencing all those things, and loving anyway.  Perhaps those short moments of breathless excitement are fun, and memorable.  But they are empty without the clumsy ones that come before and afterwords.

If you added up all the thousands of tiny sighs where I felt special because of the things my husband has done for me, (and that's not even counting the little things I forgot to notice!) I'd be more than out of breath.  I'd probably even romantically swoon from all that sweet, wonderful, clumsy love.  But because this is real life, he'd probably be too surprised to catch me, and we'd smile and comment about how we'd laugh about it someday.  We'd say that confidently, knowing for sure, despite all those imperfect, awkward moments, that the someday will be there, and in that someday we'll still be together, still making dreams.    
  

the Patience

The cute but seemingly clueless Italian admirer of Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner gave her a surprising bit of wisdom that I found myself repeatedly quoting in my head tonight.  He said to her, "You need to learn the patience.  Sometimes love, is just love"

I'm not sure exactly what the "love is just love" part meant, but over and over I've been repeating in my head, "you need to learn the patience".

The phrase "parenthood requires patience" is sort of a burned out phrase.  We all hear it, and think, "well yes, of course it does."

However I always imagined that meant being patient when your toddler wakes up with nightmares, being patient when milk is spilled on the floor, patiently teaching your kids to clean up their toys, or not argue.  Those occasions do require patience, it's true, and yet they don't even begin to describe the word.

There are many "Patience is . . . . stories we all can tell about our kids.  Here's mine for tonight.

Patience is when your daughter is Reading Hop on Pop, and on every 8 word page, she pauses to analyze the picture for 30 seconds, reads the words, comments on the picture,"Look!  They're hopping on his tummy!!!  That's so silly!"
and then asks a question about it, with the expectation of a fully drawn out answer.

Anny:"Why are they hopping on their Dad?"
Me:"I don't know, to be silly I guess"
Anny: "Don't they know it can hurt?"
Me: "Maybe they didn't think about that"
Anny: "Why wouldn't they think about that?"
Me: "I'm not sure.  Maybe they're naughty kids"
Anny: "Why are they naughty kids?"
Me: "I don't know Anny, it's just a story"
Anny: "Don't they love their Daddy?  Jumping on him is not nice..."

At this point I have turned the page, looking at the remaining 30 or so pages left, and thinking over and over, "the patience, the patience, you need to learn the patience...."

I didn't start the book with this attitude.  I opened it with anticipation, thinking "I'm pretty sure she can read this, I love my daughter, she's so smart, this is going to be so fun hearing her read the bedtime story all by herself!"

On the first page as she scans the picture I think, "Look at her analyzing the scene, that's a sign of great reading comprehension, and something I should encourage!"

However by page 32, we've gone through a similar routine 32 times, varied occasionally by her fixing her hair for a minute, and then pausing to scratch her foot.  Then she'll begin again to analyze the picture, read the words, and have an in depth conversation about it.  If Merrylee interrupts her we sometimes get to go through the routine twice per page, because she gets distracted and feels she must begin again.  No need to remind her she's already scanned this picture, after all- this is a sign of great reading comprehension, and something I should encourage, right??? 

There are 64 pages in that book.

I love Dr. Seuss, but what was he thinking?!!!  Obviously he never had kids.  Ten pages would have been generous.

I could create an entire new blog dedicated to Patience is ... parenting moments.  Perhaps I could do one about how a short blog entry takes two hours to write because every five minutes my baby starts fussing and wants to be held, and typing with one hand is hard.

Sometimes being a mother is delightful, and blissfully sweet.

Sometimes blissfully sweet takes too long, it's an hour past bedtime, and Mom's exhausted.

Someday I will learn "the patience".  Maybe.

Belly Button out of Joint

I noticed today that my belly button is a little off.  I'm not talking about the usual protruding-through-her-tee- shirt look all pregnant women get eventually (or in my case, about two months along this pregnancy).  I mean it's off-center.  For most people, male or female, pregnant or not, their belly buttons point in the same direction as their noses.  Mine now points slightly to the right.  For whatever reason, I'm off balance, a little uneven, helter-skelter, disheveled, off-sided, unsymmetrical, disproportionate, lopsided . . . I've got more! 

Perhaps the muscles on one side of my belly are more elastic than the other.  Maybe it's the way Benjamin is positioned.  Is it possible my navel has always been that way, but it takes a third pregnancy for me to notice?  The world may never know, and is most likely to never care.  I only mention it at all, because it seems to be a pretty accurate parallel to how I'm feeling.  The "of course" last-straw element that explains my mood.  We all have those little things.  The bad day you knew was coming, and naturally begins with you dropping your bowl of cereal onto your lap.  It happens, we sigh, look towards the heavens, and call the little event a "sign".  Then we move on with whatever trial we knowingly had scheduled.

I knew it'd be hard being so pregnant with my husband deployed.  Nothing has come as a surprise.  My evening heartburn kicks in about the same time my four-almost-five-year-old has a break down and starts screaming, and my two-year-old tells me she's had a potty training accident, again.  The exhaustion, the achey muscles, the too-frequent doctor's appointments, which mean babysitters, and driving, and waiting, all for a 5 minute examination and a "see ya in a few weeks" diagnosis, were to be expected.  It's funny how the knowledge that this is exactly how it'd be doesn't really make it easier. 

I know what you're thinking.

"But you're almost done!"
"Your husband will come home soon!"
"You're almost full term!"
"You're so close, aren't you happy it's almost over?"

No.  Because it's not over.  "Almost" brings no relief.  Why is it that?  Why is the last lap the hardest?  Theoretically it shouldn't be.  After so much effort, the last little bit should seem like nothing.  Yet we know from experience it's nothing like "nothing".  Think of something physically challenging you've done, and think about how you felt when you were almost done.  Did you suddenly have an extra burst of energy, and found it was over quickly, leaving you with a glorious feeling of accomplishment?  If you did, you have a special talent for glamorizing the past.

I remember climbing a mountain while my husband and I were still dating.  I saw the first of our group reach the top, and I sighed, thinking of my aching, trembling knees.  The advanced hikers were only about 20 minutes ahead of us, and yet those 20 minutes dragged on like the slow drip of a leaky faucet.  I kept myself going by imagining the incredible view we'd have at the top.  By the time I reached it however, I was so tired, I hardly looked around.  It was pretty, breathtaking even, if my breath hadn't already been taken by the extreme effort it took to get there.  Usually when we finish something difficult, the strongest emotion is relief rather than triumph.  Triumph comes later, after we've recovered somewhat, and suppressed the memory of the pain.

I think I've done this deployment routine too many times.  Perhaps so much that I've trained myself to expect the last few weeks to feel like they're the longest.  For so many obvious reasons, I'm tired, I'm off balanced, not straight, ready to fall over.  The future brings nothing but relief and good things, and all I can think about is how I'm not there yet.

So what is the answer to this part-of-life dilemma?  It's as obvious as my off-centered protruding navel in my those-don't-fit-anymore-because-I'm-in-my-last-month maternity tops. 

Keep pluggin' away.

I'm the old man with the ladder from the children's story Tikki Tikki Tembo. "Step over step, step over step, step over step"

I'm Dori from Disney's Finding Nemo. "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming"    

I'm the blue engine from The Little Engine that Could. "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!"

One day finished is one day closer to the end.  Yesterday I cleaned the house after a week of being sick.  Well, except for the bathrooms, which are still gross, and the laundry that still needs to be put away and the last load folded.  I did finish the vacuuming though. 

Today is my parents' 29th anniversary!  They are living proof that love survives hardship.  Proud parents of five, and even happier grandparents of almost four, they have much to celebrate.  This whole "never giving up even when it's hard" thing works.  I know it does.  I'm not giving up.  I'm just complaining a little.  Beneath my verbose complaints does lie a true attempt at optimism.  My hormones are in overdrive (shocking, huh?) and I've felt overdue for a date.  What better day than today?  29 years ago today my parents made a sacred commitment to each other, and although still watching from above, to me.  I couldn't go on a real date, obvoiusly.  So I did what I could think of as "the next best thing".  I put on makeup, and since we missed church last Sunday due to yucky colds, that was a first in over a week and half.  I dressed as nicely as possible considering the watermelon tummy.  I put on the necklace my mom gave me for Christmas, and the earrings my husband gave me before he deployed for the holidays.  I even brushed and styled Anny's hair, for which she was not grateful even though it did look cute.  We had a delicious lunch at Wendys.  The service was pathetic, we waited for our "fast food" for 15 minutes, and I had to go back to the counter 4 times for items they forgot to give us.  However they have a new berry salad, it's very good.  I purchased tickets to that great romantic comedy Kung Fu Panda II.  The movie was silly . . . ok, stupid, but we still had a good time.  Evening is now approaching, which will bring on the bedtime routine, and one more day to tick off. 

I wonder if the little blue engine would have made it if she were expecting, and carrying a few cute little blue cars of her own?  Perhaps the broken down circus train wouldn't have asked her for help.  Nah- who am I kidding?  Of course they would have asked!  They would have taken one look at her, observed her overflowing coal car and little blue cabooses in tow, seen she was a train with hidden strength, unafraid of a challenge, and known she'd say "yes".     



Did you note the airplane in the background?  He's also symbollic to my life, and definitely belongs in the picture.  I think ya'll can figure out how without my addition of another paragraph or three to this post.   



 



    

You're Never Alone

Usually I don't post more often than every week or so. I want to give my friends a chance to read my notes or messages before I've put up something new. This couldn't wait though. This little youtube video filled me to the brim with encouragement, and reminded me yet one more time that I'm not doing this alone. As soon as I watched it, I knew I had to pass it on.



I couldn't help but relate to how Sister Dalton talks about how she feels towards those on the sidelines cheering her on. She thinks, "they don't understand. I still have so much farther to go . . ."

I've had similar thoughts these past few weeks. However this video helped me realize while my friends and family may not understand, they still love me, and are on my side. They want me to succeed and be happy, and are cheering me on. Of course the one person who knows exactly what is in my heart and precisely what I'm going through, has been with me every single step of the way, and will be there until the very end. My gratitude goes to our Savior, Jesus Christ. I can feel him pushing me forward, even on days when I'm sure my strength has run out.