Running Down a Dream

I have another post on Dare to Dream this month. I just love that site!
This entry is about Mermaid's medical mayhem and how running a marathon made it easier.

Encouragement

I want to be a writer.  SumGreater says that part of that is collecting a wall full of rejection letters proving my courage to write anyway.  My Mom said something similar about stretch marks after my first child and I didn't believe her either.  I had an essay proposal accepted to be part of a book.  My first essay was too narrative, my second essay was the same topic as two other essays already being included and my third essay was "valuable and interesting," but "not a good match."  Being rejected three times by this obscure project with an obscure publisher that was going to pay nothing anyway, did not make me feel courageous.  I haven't wanted to write anything at all- not even a to-do list.  

My Hero and SumGreater have both been so encouraging.  Family members are often the first ones to point out our flaws.  Perhaps they hope to save us from future ridicule by letting us know we've forgotten our pants before we walk out the door.  More often, they prevent us from ever leaving the house.  But these two continually praise what good I have to offer and lovingly share ideas for improvement only when I ask for them.   This works for me since I'm sure most of it is "eh-stinky," as we say at our house.  It's nice to have someone saying, "Save that.  It's working."  Continual encouragement is definitely a better motivator than rejection.  I'll be thinking about that this week.  And I'll be writing.

Secrets

My sister, Plainbellied, has tagged me to share some secrets to dealing with insecurities as part of her New Year's Resolution Kick-off Extravaganza. Part One involves sharing secrets to dealing with insecurities. Part Two is for listing something that I already feel good about.


PART ONE

1. Regularly acknowledging God and our relationship to each other.

2. Noticing how much I've progressed over years. I change too slowly to notice in a few weeks or months, but if I look back over the past 5, 10 or 15 years my heart actually has changed significantly followed by my behavior.

3. Remembering that I have eternity to become. Maybe I only have a few talents now and I may have even defined myself by those talents at some points in my life, but eventually I will master all virtues and disciplines. I believe the promise that I can obtain all that the Father hath through the mercy of the Savior including being a whiz at marine biology and a master architect, chef, musician, servant, comedian... everything. Practicing developing skills now in one or two areas now will allow me to expand into other areas in the future. The point of this part is that I know I will have it all eventually, so I'm trying not to get caught up in comparisons or rushing or ever thinking it's too late.

*Bonus* Sleep enough and eat daily

PART TWO or Why I am Fabulous
*One thing that I really like about myself is that I pursue growth and anticipate that my ideas and understanding will change.

*I am forgiving, which plays a critical role in being able to change and in allowing for change in others, but recognizing my role to forgive whether anyone else changes or not.

*Writing -I'll just put that out there without an adjective. It's something that I enjoy doing and I do believe it improves with intense revision. I had a couple of stand out proud moments this year. 1. training for and completing a marathon 2. accepting an invitation to write for our Stake Christmas concert and then presenting my writing. I wanted to give the gift of laughter and I still can't really talk about how it felt to hear a thousand people laughing as I read. I'm not used to that feeling. It was a good one and I would like to feel that way again.

PART TWO B an example of my growing, not my writing. ;)
I am getting better at receiving. I was very big on DIY and the hardest way must be the best way. All the usual martyr stuff. Through a variety of circumstances, books and conversations. I am altering my perspective from a scarcity perspective to a perspective of abundance. I have come to realize that me receiving does not create a lack for someone else, especially as it relates to all of the blessings that Lord has for us. This earth has abundance. It is sufficient to sustain all of us in abundance. Spiritual gifts are also available that way. Love doesn't divide every time we get it or give it, it multiplies. So, I can set aside my fears about receiving. As far as being worthy to receive [and I'm talking about receiving anything: a compliment, a material gift, a foot massage-all of those things were difficult for me], my worthiness is irrelevant. The givers just want to offer these goodnesses to me. The best thing I can do is to receive with gladness so that we can both rejoice.

A few years ago, a baby shower was thrown in my honor. It was very difficult for me to be the center of attention. I was humbled by the outpouring of love I felt to have all those women arrange to be there and join in this celebration. One extra special friend had spent a long time thinking about me and handmaking the perfect gift. I passed it around for everyone to see and praised my friend for yet another talent. After the party, she helped me pack my bags and insisted on a cab home in the veritable monsoon rains. I was planning to walk home like a cheapskate pregnant martyr. While we waited for the car, this wonderful friend really laid into me for how poorly I had received the gift. She said that it was my night and my gift and I had deflected all the attention right back to her. She had wanted to see me light up and find joy in the gift without saying, "Everyone look at my friend, isn't she amazing?" or You shouldn't have." or "It's too much." She was really disappointed and I worried that I had offended everyone there by being too modest and conservative. I thought about it A LOT. It was a meaningful lesson and a turning point.

My heart is changing. My behavior is changing. This year my extra special friend sent me a similar gift for Christmas; something she had made herself especially with me in mind. I knew she was excited because she called to tell me to keep an eye out for it and let her know as soon as it arrived. I'll admit I had to squelch a faint clamor of voices in the back of my mind about the inferiority of the gift I had prepared that year: an emailed collection of personal Christmas stories, handcrafted over weeks, sure, but easily duplicated. If this friend had been in it for gift reciprocation, she would have dumped me years ago! ;) When the package arrived, I called her so that we could be on the phone together while I opened the gift from her. I was delighted. I squealed. I was still impressed with talents she has developed that I have not, but mostly I just felt so much love from her and so much love for her. The giving and receiving of gifts, at best, should multiply love so I am happy to report that I am getting better at receiving.

Story Problem

“Can we listen to Hannah Montana?” Already, I was dubious about the wisdom of this endeavor. One pregnant woman on a 30 hour road trip from New York City to St. Simons, Georgia, minus one busy husband, plus four children under ten stuffed shoulder to shoulder in a minivan; great idea or hormonally induced catastrophe?! I had avoided traveling alone with kids since a blizzard stranded me as the sole pair of arms to bear the baggage, car seats and collective tears of three small girls watching an empty luggage carousel make its pointless midnight rounds. Though my devoted husband, My Hero, wasn’t available for this new adventure, we had places to go; life to live! Besides, there are no blizzards in September. True, we had added a fourth child (a boy!) in the intervening years and I was well along in a new pregnancy. Still, I only planned to fill the van for one day each way. I would deposit Star, my type-A firstborn, and Angelfish, my wanderer, with their aunt in Maryland while I continued to Georgia with the clingy younger children, Sparkle and Torpedo. Once in Georgia they would be completely absorbed into the same-age children of my hosting friend. Essentially, it would be a kid-free vacation.

This paradisiacal plan sprouted from an humble intent to tour the White House. My Maryland sister had importuned her congressman and six short months later our extended family had been granted access. New York to D.C. had been the impetus upon which our “side trip” to Georgia embellished. This was also supposed to be the easy part of the journey. But the distance between point A and point B now stretched into a sharp, eternal ray. Near stand-still city traffic meant hours in the car, guzzling our allotment of bottled water, covering very little distance. Even with the aforementioned pop diva, once all that water raced through their little systems the typical whines took on a fevered urgency. Only ten miles outside of the city, I informed my belligerent brood that we could not possibly stop this close to home. Star voiced the growing consensus, “Mom, we’re hungry and we have to go!” Maybe the diaper days weren’t so bad after all. I envisioned unbuckling, entering, sticky fast-food fingers, tense whiny exits, and buckling four sweaty bodies back into the same seats now dusted in pretzel crumbs, all deviations from my plan. My shoulders dropped in defeat and I mildly resented the universal release of tension from my triumphant mutineers as we rounded the next exit.

My boy set a New Jersey Turnpike record for the most items attacked by a single toddler at a single rest stop. I grimaced and supported my pregnant belly with one hand while sprinting past indecisive travelers, blankly thumbing artless postcards, to save the Sunglass Hut from Torpedo's disastrous touch. I did not get there first. Star did. Her steady hand deftly caught his chubby wrists before he even grazed the expensive eyewear. Where did she come from? Still in the astonished moment, I spun chasing Torpedo with my eyes. He was headed for the arcade, but Star and Angelfish were racing after him unasked and with surprising success. His small stature enabled him to dart through travelers, but he couldn’t shake them. My husband calls the addition of each new child a “promotion” to which I respond by rolling my eyes, but maybe he had a point after all. I couldn’t safeguard four children at a busy rest stop by myself, but maybe I could delegate. I had to delegate. Angelfish supervised Sparkle at the food court table. Star shadowed our two-year-old Tasmanian. I shouted directions from my position in a slow line for fast food. A well timed rest stop always lightens the mood. For me it was something more, more than a high fructose corn syrup haze. It was the revelation that I could count on my children for meaningful help. We were becoming a team.

Traveling hours are like dog years, especially when listening to “tween” music. I snuck in a few lectures regarding lyrical subtext, but I also memorized many of their favorite songs as we perfected our stereo time-share. Confession: I actually liked most of it. Star's shot-gun seat gave her the most freedom of movement for car dancing, but Angelfish shook her abundant copper hair to great effect. Miraculously, Torpedo slept soundly despite Sparkle “dancing” in the back of his chair. My short legs didn’t allow much room between my belly and the steering wheel, but I caught some of their standout moves in the rearview mirror. Their car dancing choreography all seemed to fit together coglike until it suddenly didn’t. We were only 90 minutes from our nighttime destination when Armageddon rumbled behind me. “She’s leaning on me!” Push. “Well, she hit me!” Glare. “We already listened to her song five times.” Smirk. Shove. “WuuuaaaahhhHHH.” Torpedo wasn’t sleeping anymore. No debates. We veered onto the exit ramp for another micro-managed rest stop. Well past bedtime I finally pushed in the parking brake at Grandma’s house. We could boast an enviable collection of free local maps from the last rest stop, but that would have to wait till morning. We quietly sank into the deep slumber of those who sit too long and stretch too little.

We had two excursions planned for our time in D.C. The White House tour was obviously the jewel at the center of this chain of events. But first we squeezed in a big kids visit to Mount Vernon while Grandma babysat. We had annual membership passes and a systematic approach. We had already viewed the welcome center, the main house, the herb gardens and slave quarters on previous visits. We determined that an indoor expedition would be wise as the mercury was pushing 100. So we kept a steady, if somewhat limp, march over the few hundred sweltering yards to the education center. Beads of sweat were already forming on Angelfish's brow and Star's cheeks were pink with the heat. We had nearly reached our turn off when a free shuttle bus parked at the stop immediately in front of us. Maybe Torpedo's absence made me adventurous. One glance toward my matted girls raised the question. Our deliberate plan included air conditioning and educational opportunities, but this bus shuttled to a boat waiting on the Potomac River only a mile or so away. They resisted. “We need air conditioning.” Nevertheless, they loyally followed me through the open doors where we joined several elderly women in pastel pant suits and name-tags. I smiled, “Hey! The bus has A/C.”

The half-sized bland colored bus bumped along steep forest trails like some ancient roller-coaster ride. We braced ourselves. More than once, I expected to hit a tree. How many pacemakers had been activated on this pilgrimage? We lived to behold to the lazy Potomac river. Other sweaty tourists who had survived the shuttle bus sat under a pavilion fanning themselves with glossy brochures awaiting the next boat. Dust from the departing shuttle bus had settled before we realized that no boat rides were included in our membership. Bummer. We instinctively felt the miles separating us from the air conditioning so precious in southern climates. The unusually calm river did nothing to abate the humidity and supported an abundant mosquito population. I had gambled and lost.

Trudging up the return path, we discovered a four-acre living museum plantation on our left. We hadn’t seen it in shuttle bus blur and I had never heard of it. No other tourists were there. In fact, it almost seemed we had stepped through a time warp to find farmers planting cabbage, touching tobacco plants and carding cotton. An encouraging breeze picked up and carried the cool of the river just across our cheeks and shoulders. My delighted daughters spent the next two hours receiving private training in the horticulture techniques of the 18th century. Watching Angelfish converse with an elderly farmer and plant cabbages in the dust, dripping in costume jewelry rhinestones and sweat, it struck me that my children were between times. They were between fashionista and farmer, between city and country, but also between childhood and the adult world. They were between following and leading. I realized that ‘between’ was a wide open space full of surprising opportunities.

Emboldened by our Mt. Vernon successes, I felt ready for the White House. My childhood dream was coming true. Background checks and security measures which stripped us of water bottles and cell phones only added to the prestige. We were prompted at every turn of our self-guided tour not to sit, not to touch, and not to breathe too freely in the historic halls. My children complied. They didn’t sit on or touch anything. In fact, I had to catch my breath just to keep up with them. They raced past photographs. They barely registered paintings, décor or the craftsmanship of custom cast doorknobs, molding, fire places, etc. They whizzed through so quickly that I wasn’t sure if they’d seen more than an historical blur which probably looked much like any other blur. After the fact, they did recall “sparkly chandeliers” as the standout feature of the famous building. This 25 minute jog through the big white house with “sparkly chandeliers” had been the premise for my entire adventure. I was flabbergasted.

Nevertheless, a pattern for success began to emerge: if the kids were willing to try new things and I was willing to be flexible we all had fun. I enjoyed being with my children. They enjoyed being with each other. They enjoyed being with me. In this miraculous moment I did not want to leave them behind. Given the choice, I wanted to spend 20 more hours crammed in the car and two more days unbuckling, buckling and spreading Georgian sand everywhere with my children. I invited Star and Angelfish to join us. They weren’t impressed by my palm tree appeal, but to my amazement, their proclivity for sleeping in won them over. Evidently, waking up for the seminary class Auntie was teaching that week was less desirable than squishing in the mini-van for 20 hours where you can, after all, sleep.

On departure morning there was little eagerness. Fearing mal de mer, Angelfish nearly escaped without eating breakfast. Sparkle couldn’t find her shoes because she wouldn’t look for them. And Torpedo arched his back in opposition to the car seat. Only my ten year old gem, Star, sparkled with cooperation. Of course, she was riding shotgun and felt the pleasure of her new privileges and responsibilities; not the least of which was controlling the radio. Before the first CD ended, Angelfish did lose her breakfast in the backseat. Armed with a container of wet wipes, Star bravely released her seatbelt and shimmied into the backseat to minister to her suffering sister. With all of the windows opened, our noses eventually adapted to the offense. I empathized with Star. Responsibility was sometimes overrated. Only nine driving hours left for the day.

As we trekked further south of the Mason-Dixon line an odd pattern emerged. We had to make multiple stops for every break. One stop would provide public lavatories, grassy spaces, picnic tables and huge civil war plaques; another stop to fuel the car and a third stop for food. That meant fumbling with seatbelts at least 20 times and finding eight pairs of shoes. Growl. They were clean and well stocked, but in a region famous for its hospitality, the rest stops were unexpectedly inconvenient. Star chased squealing Torpedo in a game called “Don’t die in the parking lot.” Luckily, she was mostly winning because I was too tired to play. I merely watched from the little nest my crossed arms made for my head on a rough hewn picnic table. Angelfish and Sparkle entertained themselves by balancing on the raised gardens ledges around civil war plaques. They found fun at a rest stop with nothing more than a public lavatory, historical plaques and some picnic tables. Surely I could pick myself up by my sandal straps and exhibit a little enthusiasm as well. I corralled my sticky, smiling family around a huge sign boldly declaring “Georgia” and took a picture to prove to my children, lest any of us forget, that I did take them somewhere…once.

Then, I almost took them nowhere. We arrived on St. Simons island after dark. Even a small island can hold infinite wrong turns. Star instinctively understood “Are we lost?” was taboo and transmitted the message to the backseaters who stopped rumbling about the lack of travel tunes, food, space, light, etc. She shifted calmly into navigator mode and maintained constant cell phone communication with my girlfriend as I repeatedly traversed the same few blocks in the last uncertain minutes of our drive. Thanks to her, we finally parked in front of the correct house and stumbled onto the spongy southern grass. “You made it!” my friend cheered. “What’s that smell?”

We had a singularly happy time with our friends against the gorgeous and varied setting of St. Simons, Georgia. Serendipity netted us 19 live sand dollars, an amazing chocolate bread pudding and countless tender memories. Our return trip was smooth. We functioned in concert; little cogs fitted tightly together in a watch. If the cogs were separate, they wouldn’t bump into each other, but the watch would stop. We bumped into each other constantly, but we could soften the blow by working in rhythm and responding to each other’s needs. Yes, we made more unplanned rest stops. We bought greasy, sticky food to make our blood sugar soar. We buckled on shoes and seatbelts ad naseum. We got lost again. And we may never get all the crumbs from the secret crevices all minivans hide, but we will never forget our journey. Based on this proof, my hopeful hypothesis is that the odd family in this story problem can continue at the speed of happiness from point A forever.