Who cares about all the reasons I can’t find time to write. Maybe we’ve been visiting family. Or possibly mailing the letter my 5 year-old wrote to Michael Bay politely demanding to know why Bay didn’t make Transformers 2 for kids. Maybe I was too busy asking Blythe for the mango that she was delightfully referring to as “her BIG penis.” Maybe I was clarifying for Burke who we obey after he had confidently answered ”Satan.” Maybe I was taking a moment to watch Olive roll over, squeal with delight, get her first haircut, or grow her first two teeth. Quite possibly I may have been on a long-overdue date with Mark in Houston watching Coldplay. Or having/going to/planning for a meeting of some sort involving people who love Jesus, home-school their kids, or like to eat food together. Maybe we were swimming. Maybe we were explaining to Liam why he couldn’t have my grandfather’s machete. Maybe we were commending Burke for standing up to people who might call him “coward” (as it happens in Call it Courage) or refraining from raucous laughter when he explained that he would do so by boldly saying “don’t call me Howard!” Maybe we were celebrating our now potty-trained Blythe. Or enjoying the way she replaces every “I” with “my” (e.g. “My like ice cream.” or the more recent favorite, “my-reka” instead of “Eureka”), or perhaps how she sometimes likes to discuss how “HUMAN it is outside.” Maybe we were reading. Maybe we were admiring Burke’s sculpted stegosaurus from clay or Liam’s pastel drawing of the polar ice caps or Blythe’s experiment in color with acrylics. Maybe we were sleeping. Not too much though. Anyway, here are some photos to document our busy existence.
Filed under: musings
Even today. A day that we find out that Blythe has a staph infection which requires excessive hot baths, ointments, and antibiotics (not to mention the glorious job of popping puss pockets on her butt cheeks), when dirty laundry seems never-ending, and our exhaustion seems resolute, yes, even today, Mark, I’m grateful to be yours (and theirs). I suppose “happy” is relative. But, I am –especially these 8 years with you. Even today. Happy anniversary, Love.
olive kay douglass
march 4, 2009 10:52 am
6 lbs 2 0z 18 1/2 in
Last summer we found out that you, Olive, would be in our family. Since then the five of us have loved you, waiting expectantly to see you, hold you, and know you. Liam, Burke, and Blythe would take turns rubbing my swelling belly or poking my protruding belly button, whispering sweet secrets to you in the womb or praying for your protection. Daddy and I would watch you roll around under my skin, shoving your tiny foot against my belly button, wondering what you look like and who you would be. On Wednesday, our wait was over as you came into our larger world through an intense but quick labor. As the doctor placed you on top of the belly you were inside of only moments before, I said “hello sweet olive,” and for the moment you stopped crying and looked in my direction as if to return my hello. And now, here you are — our little olive. We are all so delighted to have you in our family, sweet one. (thank you so much kristen & tim for the photos!)
Filed under: musings
Too good not to post. Poor guy. Here’s the full story with more pictures.
Sometimes parenting (or cleaning/organizing a house with) young children feels Sisyphean: that I, just like this mythological man, am striving to push this boulder up a hill, only to watch it crush my toes and roll to the bottom where I must start the process again. Disheartening, I know. But, think of it: the repetitious training involved without any immediate signal of reception, and just when you expect a breakthrough moment, the expected unexpected occurs returning you to the beginning (at least it certainly seems that way); it can leave any parent (and myself in particular) feeling, well — desperately futile. Mark often jokes that you all (blog readers) get the “cream” of our little life: the best parts, without the rubbish. For the most part, it’s true. However, the hope, the truth, the place where the metaphor to Sisyphus breaks down, is that I am not condemned to a life of futility and frustration, and this “cream,” these glimmers in the mundane, remind me to laugh and to thank the Lord for these little ones and what He’s doing in me through this seemingly ineffective process. On that note, here’s some more “cream”: happy 2009.
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Knowing the time is approaching, we’ve been asking Liam what instrument he’d be interested in learning to play, the violin or piano. Last year he determined to learn the violin, but recently when Mark posed him with the same question, Liam responded like this:
“I’d really like to learn to play the electric guitar, but most of all I want to play the GLOCKENSPIEL.”
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Burke (storming into my room, abrupt and annoyed): “Blythe told me ‘I’m sorry’ FOUR times, and I told her ‘I forgive you’ THREE TIMES! (humph.)”
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Burke (pointing to my protruding belly button): “Look! There’s Olive’s penis.”
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Blythe: “I so FUNny.”
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I’m brushing my teeth in my bedroom, trying to multitask in some way.
Liam (looking at me in all seriousness): “Now Mom, we’ve talked about this. Remember? You brush your teeth in the bathroom.”
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(It’s apparent after these two blurbs, I need to clarify relational titles for little Burke.) After meeting my brother Dave and his girlfriend for lunch the other day, Burke exclaims, “But I thought we were going to Dave’s HUSband’s house!”
After telling Burke something he didn’t want to hear, he threatens, “if you don’t ____, I won’t be your mom ANYmore.” “But Burke, YOU’re not my mom.” “Oh, YES. I. AM. (as he stomps out of the room, arms crossed).”
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While the kids and I were Christmas shopping, we spoke briefly with this saleslady, who at some point mentioned that she doubted she would receive anything at all this Christmas. Later that night Liam approached me to say, rather tenderly, ”mom, you know, I think we need to give that lady a Christmas present, so she can have at least one this year.” (We couldn’t find her again, though.)
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Burke has been praying frequently and unsolicited for people to be healed.
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Blythe: “More amen.”
The last few weeks I’ve watched Blythe remove herself from varied activities to go sit down against a wall or in a random corner, only to declare, “I in time-out.” I’ve laughed to myself each time wondering what compels her to such an extreme (an extreme most toddlers loathe). However, when reconsidering her circumspect behavior, I realized there’s something for me to learn. I remember my mom at times locking herself in her bathroom “for privacy.” As children, we didn’t think much of it — only that it took grown-ups a lot longer to do their business – but they’re bigger, so somehow, it just made sense. Now I realize, she wasn’t going to the bathroom; she was having a self-imposed-time-out. It seems I have far underestimated this pregnancy in thinking I could maintain my “normal” lifestyle, the pace of it anyway. Apparently having that extra year of hiatus from being pregnant or nursing completely mislead me with my clear-thinking, energy, and orderly living. While other babies feed on placenta-provided nutrients, I’m convinced our little Olive eats mostly creativity and critical reasoning — the only ”excuse” for the loss of my own. I know it’s temporary. Oh, (in case you missed it) during the last month, while I temporarily departed from the blogging world, we decided to name our new daughter Olive. “Peace.” Mark and I love the imagery of the olive branch throughout Scripture. No middle name yet.
I had the epiphany yesterday that it was November — the middle of it. We have been busy with all sorts of random and ordinary things this last month, one of them being my 30th birthday. I’ll post pictures soon. I’ve also been reading several intriguing/insightful books, some of which I’ll be sure to “report on” when I’m finished. Meanwhile, the kids have been doing everything from learning to read to playing with friends to painting to fighting to wrestling to putting gum in their hair; here’s a typical day of dancing in the living room without their shirts
Mark had asked me recently, “Are you sad that this is your last pregnancy?” (Somehow hoping to solidify our agreement that this will be our grand finale.) “No.” I responded. “It’s not the actual pregnancy period that I’ll miss, but I know I’ll really grieve that this my last birth.” “What?!” Mark laughed, baffled by my momentary insanity. This is most certainly his least favorite part: almost hyperventilating while trying to breath with me; having to see me in pain and knowing his only solace is to stroke my hair, speak encouraging words, countdown contractions, and feed me ice chips; but most of all — seeing the blood. Mark and our son Liam have a remarkably low threshold for blood. The other day while Mark was telling us a story about his childhood friend that lost one of his digits, Liam giggled profusely, with intermittent exclamations, “I feel so weak. I feel so weak.” So, I know that while I’m telling Mark about the enjoyment of childbirth, it’s this part of childbirth upon which he’s fixated — the pain and blood. I agreed with him about the difficulty of the first part of labor, but reminded him, “it’s the actual birth — the culmination of all of that pain and blood — the new life that overshadows everything. Seeing this new person, who’s been living and growing inside of you, for the first time. . .”
This little exchange came back to me this past weekend. As I mentioned in the post before, I’m glad to say goodbye to August. For varying reasons, the month’s circumstances seemed to exasperate me, not to mention my erratic emotions (not a fantastic combination). By the time last weekend came, I felt done relationally and emotionally — confused, anxious, lacking peace. I couldn’t hold myself together any longer. But, then I started thinking back to this conversation, about the process of labor, and how the physical often respresents the metaphysical: in short, we all are in some form of spiritual labor, right? The Lord has a destiny for each of us in Him, which in turn means that as He reveals things in our lives that our not of Him, we have to release them; let them go. And sometimes these “revelations” can feel like contractions — hard and painful, even hopelessly impossible. I wish I could say that I always choose to work with these spiritual contractions, resting in the Father and believing that He really is near to me and loving me, but too often in those moments I respond in the natural rather than the eternal, focusing on my circumstances, wallowing in self-pity and doubt, angry and afraid, unable to hear the Father. And when I have relief, and the contraction ends, I hear the Lord again. And He, like Mark in the delivery room, whispers to me that He is near to me, that He is for me, and that with each contraction I am closer to something new, some One new, and my destiny in Him. Thank you God for new life.
To say that I love the ocean may be an understatement, but it will do. I never feel as liberated ( in all manners) as when I stand at/on/in the ocean. It’s as if the ocean’s counterpart lives within me, aching, with a force that might cause it to burst out of my skin, to return to its love: deep calling out to deep. Two enigmatic creations longing for their Creator, leaving me, the subsequent bystander, to deal with the paradoxical feelings of power/inferiority, eternity/finality, and familiarity/ignorance. In those moments, I feel as close to how I imagine Moses did when standing on the cleft waiting for God to show His face: small, but known, loved, and encountered.
So, while in Corpus last weekend, we stumbled upon a wind and water competition (wind and kite surfing). Watching these surfers float through the air and graciously contort/thrust their bodies on the water, as if extensions of it, I confess, made my sand-sunken self a little jealous. I can’t surf. And seeing that we don’t have an ocean in central Texas, I imagine I never will. But, thanks to the subjuntive, I can build a whole imaginative world in a statement like this: if I did live near a beach, I would definitely be a surfer. Liam must have glimpsed a little of this imaginative world too, for Mother’s Day, he drew the picture above –mom windsurfing.
Some of you will rejoice, while others will mourn – but, today, I’m sad to announce that I will no longer have any music on this blog. Apparently, the company had to shut down “due to the music industry” — also known as, the man. hmph. I’m not too surprised by my misfortunes actually. It seems to me that the technological world delivers far less than it actually promises to offer or benefit. Now, I realize that those of you who are savy in these types of ways consider me ridiculous; I’m simply suggesting that maintaining/updating these devices and techno-lives requires a lot of resources – namely time, knowledge, and money — all of which I have very little to spare or acquire for this purpose. So, when I purchase/download a new device or program, I want it to work, and work easily. I created this blog to give you all a glimpse into our fairly small world, at your leisure and distance. That’s convenient. Maybe you just want to keep up, but don’t really have the time to call or email, or simply don’t want to call or email. I get that. Believe me, I get that. You read and comment as you can or will. It’s easy. However, I received a handful of emails this last week from people who tried to comment and couldn’t because their computers shut down every time they tried. That’s not easy, for me or them. At times, I start to feel like a sucker, thinking, “oh, what a great idea! This ____ will help with ______.” Then it doesn’t. This is one of those times. I like music. I like the idea of living to a soundtrack. So, I’m a little disheartened with this news. Don’t worry, I’ll get over it and probably try another program [that promises to do something it too will ultimately fail to do]. Do I sound bitter? I’m really not.
This song keeps returning to me, and each time I hear it, I appreciate it’s poetic genius even more. This musician, Mark Mathis, personifies the ocean, describing his love affair with the moon, defending against wrongful accusations, mourning his loss of contained life, groaning for his creator — it’s beautiful. Listen to the actual song here, below are the lyrics. He also has another CD, WARSHIP, (cheesy, I know), but lyrically and musically, it’s very powerful and filled with the truth you want coarsing through your heart and prayers.
“I am the deep blue sea”
Sit down young children on my sandy shore — I am the deep blue sea
I have a story for every boy and girl — who will listen to me
You see, I was born in a thunderstorm and raindrop I felt so free
’til I was taken from the river I loved — she was like a mother to me
It’s true my waters are frought with danger — but I need you to believe
That I never hurt an honest sailer — or battered your home with my seas
That’s from the north wind, that’s from the south wind, that’s from the west and from the east
They trespass on me — they raise my fury — they make me foam and they make me boil
I have a friend
One that I love
Her name is the moon
She holds me close
When she get thirsty
I let her drink
When morning comes
I lay her back downto sleep
You may ask, child, how old I am — well, I’m as old as there is time
Anchors have scarred my deep blue heart and the whalemen robbed me bloind
End times are comin’ — I will give up all these souls that I have held
And in the firelight I will return to the place I did begin.
Filed under: musings
Isn’t it strange the way that our vehicles and homes have become extensions of ourselves? I suppose whether we like it or not our possessions say something about us. Every choice we make gives us the opportunity to further distinguish ourselves from everyone else. So, buying a home, a car, or even a shirt, isn’t simply about what I can afford or what best suits my needs, rather what does this ____ say about me? Am I simple and practical? Environmentally concerned? Tough? Big and loud? Parent? Bad-ass teenager? This idea only further extends with bumper stickers. Driving a hybrid simply doesn’t say enough, so I need to throw “Tree Hugger” onto the bumper so that people will really get the idea. Or maybe people might want to know that this mini-van carries two Christians (with a baby Christian, of course) or a Darwinist, or two cheerleaders and a baseball player. But, then sometimes it’s not enough to simply identify yourself using your bumper, you want to passive-aggressively accuse/lecture another person (whom you’ll probably never speak to otherwise). So, you stick something like “SUV:Super Unpatriotic Vehicle” or “my hummer can crush your prius” or “my shit-zhu is smarter than your honor student” or my recent favorite, “nuke the whales.” Seriously? I remember when I was a kid riding with my mom down the highway. This other car had “honk if you love Jesus” on the bumper, so of course, my mom honked and waved at the lady, and she stared at us like we were crazy (and maybe we were). Which makes me wonder, how often do people forget about these little bumper identities? Other times I just wonder — well, I wonder a lot of things – what are they thinking? Mark and I recently read a bumper that said, “if you’re gonna ride my ass, you better be pulling my hair.” (Just so you know, we were stopped at a light, not her ass.) Disturbing, right? What thoughts went through this sweet little girl’s head that said, this is the way I want all of these strangers to identify or know me. Wow. When did this evolution of identity occur, so that now driving in shared space is no longer simply about reaching a destination, rather an opportunity to emote, criticize, brag, and predominantly, have other drivers take note of your individuality?
Am I being ridiculous? Maybe. Maybe I’ve thought too much about this. Maybe I should just put it on a bumper sticker.
Filed under: musings
March — what happened to March? It has been a blur of activity: Burke’s birthday, Beckett’s birth/day, traveling to DFW, traveling to OKC, traveling back to DFW and visiting friends and family, traveling back to BCS, visited by Kerry and Isaiah (my cousin and son), visited by Kara Beth and Kayla (well, only providing accommodations; they were here to see my brother Dave), and . . . crash (followed by a deep sigh and lots of cleaning).
I’ve had so much trouble lately finding time to blog (see above). While there are no deadlines or mobs waiting to hear my latest ramblings, I’ve come to relish this little space of my own for processing this life, these lives. I’ve been thinking more about my need for introspection and my lack of natural ability to regulate or manage things outside of myself. Ironic, isn’t it, seeing as though one of my primary functions in this phase of life is to regulate and manage, among other things. Managing a home (people and space) requires so much intentional observational thinking. The nurturing, playful side of the wife and mother role I completely understand and love, but things like having to remember to brush three other sets of teeth three times a day or wash the kitchen floor consistently, if at all – I’m hopelessly flawed. I lose myself too easily to the “other world,” and I am having to learn to put it aside while I take care of the things and people in front of me. But, don’t worry, I’m still setting aside time for imaginative personal space. My recently prized discovery — books on CD for the kids: they have the pleasure of someone else reading Peter Pan, and I get a moment to ramble, even if only inwardly.
Filed under: musings
“SILENCES are holes in the sound wall/SOUNDS are bubbles on the surface of silence. Sound, like silence, is both opening and filling/concave and convex/life and death…[E]ntering into LIFE is also entering into the DEATH process. Every day lived is a step closer to death and every sound sent OUT is breaking IN on silence.” -Trinh Minh-Ha
Our life sometimes feels like a circus. Various people (familiar and strange) coming in and going out, entertaining midgets climbing assorted obstacles and performing tricks on bikes, food everywhere, music serenading, and laughter — everything short of a tent, animal, and a bearded lady, thank God. But, occasionally, it stops. Everyone goes home, the midgets go to bed, the food is cleaned up, the music (and TV) turned off, and I suddenly find myself sinking into the very hole described above: silence. Tonight, I’m relishing this new-found abyss, clearly hearing my whispering and fleeting thoughts, for tomorrow, I will chase them again through the sound bubbles dancing around me — only this time, restored from my time in a hole. Let the circus begin.
