It’s not a secret that our current physical geographic location has been bumming Chris and I out for the better part of the last 5 years…turns out that someone finding a house for you to purchase in the merchandiser seems convenient enough…but trying to sell that same houseseveral years later might not be as easy. Naive as Chris and I were, we assumed that you live in a house for as long as you want, and then you sell it and you move. I guess not. So anyway, we’ve made it really nice over the past 10 years. We enjoy being INSIDE our home. We even enjoy being in our yard, if our neighbors have recently cleaned up after their 3 dogs (insert constant Spring/Summer/Fall time wafts of animal excrement blowing through the kitchen window…ahhhh!) and as long as there aren’t too many hospital employees taking a smoke break at the end of the block and if our diabetic neighbor isn’t “nasty drunk”…basically conditions have to be perfect. So anyway, until Chris finishes nursing school (2, 3 maybe 4 more years…who knows) I think we’re just going to get EVEN MORE comfortable at our current residence. Obviously our kids don’t know any better or care for that matter. They think having a hospital parking lot to hang out in is fun. I hope the hospital continues to feel the same. BONUS! When we are injured it’s just a short stroll to acquire any necessary medical attention! 

Today, I’ve decided to put aside my shitty, ungrateful “when the hell is this season going to be over” attitude and I’m going to share my latest, most favorite household addition. Bird feeders! Our back yard has always felt a lot like a glorified cage to me…especially when there are 7 of us and at least 3 extra neighborhood kids in the yard. I’ve installed 2 bird feeders and I have to say, for as small of a yard as it is and being the only neighbor around that feeds the birds…things have been feeling very “Alfred Hitchcock- THE BIRDS-esque” in that tiny yard. Max and I are in LOVE! We eat our lunch on the porch and watch the squirrels and the birds fight for bird seed and it’s as close to nature as these kids are gonna get for now. And I think there’s something comforting in knowing that those birds could fly anywhere they choose…and they choose to be in my itty bitty inner city yard. Thanks for stickin it out with us, little birds…even if it’s just for the food. 
My most dear friend and sister in Christ told me years ago that she felt the Bible verse Psalm 18:19 was given to her for me. “He brought me out to wide open spaces; He pulled me out safe because He is pleased with me.” First of all, I don’t imagine that God is necessarily particularly “pleased” with me…He may be, (grace and blood and all that supposedly means He’s as alright with me as He is with any other Christian) but it hasn’t been a real goal of mine in recent years (if I’m being honest and I am because this is my blog and if I can’t be honest here then what’s the point and if you don’t like reading this you can leave and never visit my blog ever again as that’s ok) and I haven’t given Him any reason to be any more pleased with me than with anyone else. Secondly, while I like to believe in God and assume that He loves us and wants good things for us all the time…Chris is more of a realist. He assured me that “God doesn’t care where we live.” He spoke from the viewpoint of there being much larger, more pressing issues for God to concern himself with…like Syrian refugees and starving children. I get that. So I fall somewhere in the middle…like “if He doesn’t care then why can’t we actually live where WE want…”. At the end of the day, it’s about preferences. I don’t prefer to smell dog shit from my neighbor’s yard or park my van 2 blocks from my house when the parking lot is full. I guarantee that our neighbors would LOVE some more “city friendly” residents living next to them. We are outside making noise ALL THE TIME! We have scratched their cars with our bike handles. We are messy and loud and we (the kids) spy on them from our tree house. We burn firewood which I’ve come to realize isn’t everyone’s favorite smell (it’s one of mine!) I’ve tried to tell myself that if we weren’t here, “where would the neighbor kids hang out and play…would they have a safe and fun place to be?”- but then I remember that it’s not my job to make sure every unattended kid in the neighborhood is having a safe fun time. I have 5 of my own kids to provide safety and fun -and that’s a full time job. 
So the glass is half full and it’s looking like a few more years in the bird cage. And speed bumps…I’m installing speed bumps. 

I was in the bathroom the other morning when I heard a domestic disturbance begin one door down, in the boys room. Recognizing that the last task I asked them to do was pick up their clothing, I felt the need to monitor slightly, even just to ensure the completion of the chore. As I enter the room Micah (8) pops his head up from his top bunk. Owen (5) is standing on the ladder to the bunk and the argument is in full swing. I ask what’s going on.

“Mom! Micah has more land than me!”

“What are you talking about?” I’m patient and puzzled.

“No I don’t, Owen!” Micah has a gnarly scowl in place

“Owen, your bed is the exact same size as Micah’s bed…they are the same bed…just one is on the top and one is on the bottom…” I’m curious as to how this became an issue to begin with, but then I remember what they are supposed to be doing and I realize that they would rather be doing anything than actually picking up their dirty laundry…so we’ll call this one of their completely irrational, out of thin air arguments.

As I reason with Owen, while he stands above me…looking down from the bunk bed ladder, he hangs his head and exclaims,

“But Mom! He does have more land than me!”

“What do you mean? ‘He has more land’?”

His hand are holding onto the ladder…”He gets to have this ladder…”

Micah will not sit idly by while Owen poses an illogical argument…”I need the ladder to get up here!”

This could have gone on for hours if I didn’t direct it otherwise. I made sure that Owen knew that he may hang out on the ladder and I made sure Micah knew that the ladder was not part of his “land”.

Sometimes I’m positive that I am a smart, talented, and even efficient human woman…it just so happens that most of my time is taken up settling disputes of rightful land ownership. Or chicken nugget ownership. Or silky gym short ownership. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like very important work. I actually have to write a blog post to remind myself that the work that I’m doing here is sacred work. It’s work that most women would choose not to do. Some days I just want a career. I want a clock to punch and a piece of paper at the end of a long week with a dollar amount printed on it that accurately communicates to me my worth within a company or business. For now, I just get to vent to my husband and listen to him tell me that he knows it’s hard to be a low level referee for the town lunatics. He will tell me that even if no one else appreciates what I do here, he does. And that needs to be enough. And it is. I am enough.

And someday, this blog will be here… waiting for our five kids…and they will take a sober glance into the secret, special thought life of their mother and they will know…that they had surely driven her to madness!

Micah found a red and grey, striped, crew neck, cotton, zip front sweat shirt from a recent bag of friendly hand me downs. (Dear God, thank you for every bag of boy’s clothing that comes through that front door…boys are so hard on their clothes.) I am currently loading a pile of dirty laundry into the washing machine.

“Look at this shirt…”

I barely take my eyes off the duty before me…but I engage him in conversation…”Oh wow.  Did you get that from Cam?”

“Yeah.  Maybe you should take a picture of me…”

I am busting my hump to get some chores done before Max wakes up from his nap, so that I can feel free to spend those immediate 20 minutes when he wakes…simply getting his lunch in him and then promptly escorting the 6 of us to the pool…ITS 92 DEGREES…it’s the pool or it’s nothing.  We haven’t yet installed our main air conditioner for the downstairs, so it can get down right miserable in certain situations (insert short video of me impulsively and involuntarily shaking free of the sticky hands of a small child, not intending to startle the child but doing so anyway…leaving behind an even more unfortunate scenario than previously…) So I was aiming for a 3 o clock date with that warm, tranquil, bacteria rich baby pool.

I remain focused…if I stopped and took a picture of my kids every time they requested it…I wouldn’t get anything done…ever.  This time though…his request felt different.

I didn’t stop what I was doing to take the picture.  I regret it now.  I take so many pictures of these kids.  It wouldn’t have been a big deal to stop EVERYTHING that I was doing to enjoy his life with him.  I had myself convinced that a heap of filthy duty in my bare hands somehow took precedence over the living, breathing, growing, insatiable suggestion of my 3rd and 2nd and 1st child.  (Micah is so special…he was my first single child, my previous pregnancy had been twins.  He was my second pregnancy.  He was my third child. )  When your home begins to fill up with the products of the love you share with your better half…you start to wonder how each of them will always be reminded and be sure of how very special they are to you.  Will they forget that they were the apple of your eye?  Will they change completely and totally and will they end up being someone in the end that you never imagined they would hover could have been?  Positive or negative?  Will it feel as though this person is a product of everything that has been poured into them…emotionally, relationally, spiritually?  Are we not creating our own future with every interaction we perform with our children?

I rambled something about…”Well…that’s more of a winter shirt, Micah.  You’re probably hot.”

I wasn’t denying him my approval on purpose…I realize, looking back.  I just had this other thing, this dirty laundry…that had sat for 3 days and begged for my attention with its inadequate and frumpy presence in the corner of my kitchen…It just needed me more.  And Micah usually isn’t a hard one to appease with agreeable conversation.  Owen can be a little harder, as he requires eye contact…imagine that.

I can’t recall exactly what was said next, but Micah went away, as I remained set on my course toward laundry greatness.  Then tonight, while I tidied the kitchen…I recalled his 8 year old voice…”Mom. You should take a picture of me in this…” and I regretted letting that moment slip by.  I probably have at least 2000 pictures of Micah.  I can’t feel bad, but I do.  I just don’t want to dismiss too many of those opportunities.  I always want them to know that I am here to snap a pic of them when life is feeling good and they have on a new sweatshirt.

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” Thank you, Mr. Lennon…for saying it best.

Stop what you’re doing.  Take the picture.

Iris and Micah have been at it all morning.  At one point, while holding Max on my hip I mentioned that there were about an hour and a half of chores to do and then I would love to take lunch to the pool…but I felt like I had been standing around most of the morning refereeing a fight.  I told them I was charging by the hour that I had to stand there and keep things civil.  I’m trying to look at these occasions as more of a monetary transaction and less of an emotionally charged event.  There are tears.  People have told one another that they would prefer if the other “never existed”.  It is hard to watch.  It is hard to witness one of your children actually putting themselves out there to apologize…and to watch it not be received.  And its hard to know what it feels like to be the person, so offended, that you are requiring MORE than an apology…because “Sorry” isn’t erasing what you did!…Its a hard row to hoe.  There is a lot of keeping track that has to go on, and it can become consuming and depressing…life inside unforgiveness.

So I’m happy to stand for 5, 6, 7 minutes…I say very little.  I just let Iris cry and stomp around the kitchen and I watch Micah sit in the far corner, on the floor beside the shoe bench…his back to her…remarkably non-responsive.  He offers nothing in the department of a soft heart in the moment of anger.  Frankly, he’s a bit “cut throat” at times.  Mostly he’s a bad guy to cross cause he’s not only occasionally a little bit wildly angry, he’s also very intelligent and not too bad with recalling finite details of an offense.  Its a nasty combo.  So Iris is ALL emotion and Micah’s heart becomes harder with every exasperated word Iris cries.

Iris has finally fled to her room.  Micah remains only a little longer sitting in a relaxed, slouched position on the floor and he then moves on with his day.  I’m left calling out after them that they can pay me in chores…but I would be collecting my referee fees by the week’s end.

I’ve witnessed worse arguments between the kids.  This was not exceptionally gory, but it did spark a realization in me.  There I was, making myself fully available to let these kids act out all this pent up emotion…and at the end of it I didn’t feel great.  I felt like, “Wow, they have inherited quite a few of Chris and I’s worst character flaws.  What a relief.”

I attempt to get on with my day, hence removing the sleeping baby from my back and into his crib.  A smooth transition.  I walk down the hallway to find Iris at the bottom of her bedroom steps.  She seems emotionally recovered…she has a national geographic in hand and asks, “Mom, whats the difference between magma and lava?…because I had a teacher that would always say magma when he was talking about lava…?”

“I don’t actually know…we should look it up…”

I was presently in the midst of a business transaction with Flynn, wherein he worked around the house for me for 20 minutes to earn time on the computer, browsing eBay for go-pros and night vision goggles…  He was nearly done with his task and approached me to ask if there was anything else he should do.

“Will you run downstairs and grab my phone?  And then you’re done…”

He is fast and efficient.  I thought this moment would serve as a great opportunity to prompt everyone past the mornings dark cloud and on with the day.  I call for Micah who is one door over in his room…he appears.

“Hey, would you ask Iris to come down here?” (She had since gotten distracted and ran back up to her bedroom…)

“Can you do it…?’  He is looking down and away.  The mention of his sister turns him cold.

“Please Micah, don’t make this a big deal.”

He obliges his mother.  Flynn is asking if he can be excused to go shop for go-pros…I disappoint him by informing him that we were actually all about to find out what the difference between magma and lava was…

“Come on mom.  Cant I just go?”

“Sure, if you can tell me what the difference between magma and lava is…?”

“Ugh.”

I ask him to hand the phone to Iris.  He is immediately hesitant…he knows that it would be quicker if he does it.

I specify, “No, we’re letting Iris use the phone and look it up herself.”  Flynn has always had a habit of over helping his twin sister.  It is kind of like there is an unspoken understanding between them at times…like they both know that Flynn is more likely to succeed, faster than Iris at certain things.  At times I have to stop them…like in this moment.

Iris holds the phone in her hand and types…with mistakes…as Flynn is pointing out…”diference btween magma and lava”…Micah has now withdrawn a little further back into his room…keeping that wall up.  Flynn is sitting next to Iris on the attic steps and I am standing to the side looking at Iris’ face as her eyes search the lit up screen, with the heat of her brother breathing down her neck, who had already said “Do you just want me to do it?”to her once.  Iris finds the information.  She begins to read.  We are discovering that lava and magma are the same but one is the name for it when it is below the earth’s crust and the other is the name for it when above the crust.  Flynn and I are looking at Iris while she reads, when suddenly an object comes flying past me and the phone in Iris’ hand and smacks her right in the face.  A soft thud.  We look in Iris’ lap, it is a pair of boys character brief underwear.  She looks up, an instant scowl has taken residence on her face.  I look over my should and there stands Micah, mischievous grin in place.  He has taken a huge piece of elastic… (from my sewing box that someone has opened and used for their own selfish needs and left discarded on a table somewhere for people like Micah to pillage like a yard sailing pirate.  He doesn’t need a spool of thread for anything, but he’s gonna take it.  You just never know.)  I saw him earlier with the elastic, wrapping it tightly around his thumb and pulling, to give himself a long pointy thumb. He has taken the elastic and tied it to the doorknob and a coat hook beside the door and has created a giant slingshot, wherefrom he launched the briefs at Iris, who was captivated with magma and lava.  Flynn and I had an extremely hard time keeping a straight face.  I sputtered a small laugh as I told Micah he needed to sit in his bed.  Flynn is now fully laughing and I am trying to keep it in.  Iris’ scowl has turned to the kind of laugh that is refusing to come out but WILL NOT be denied.  She is laughing while trying to cry…but the laugh takes over.

Through and between laughter, I say, “I’m sorry Iris.  He is doing some time out…but that was really too funny…I mean you were doing a good job reading that…and we were paying attention …and them fwomp…underwear in your face.”

Everyone is laughing.  Iris and Micah’s wall is laying all around us and it’s not as jagged and dusty as you always think its going to be. It’s what I wanted since their whole feud began hours ago.  I just wanted to see them get thru it and for it to be over and to be at the pool…eating french fries and applying sunblock.  At one point while Iris and Micah were going at it in the kitchen, I looked at Max, who was stationed on my hip as this fresh gig as the fun house referee was delaying me putting him down for his nap.  His face had a look of concern as Iris cried and Micah shouted.  I felt bad that he was there and I didn’t enjoy one minute of it and now I understand what my parents felt when they would see their children at odds and unforgiving towards one another.  Its something that only someone on the outside can decipher.  From within we are blinded by our hurt and our offense. Unfortunately, parents end up being that outsider for their kids constantly.

There we four sat, enjoying a hearty and long awaited laugh. I reflected after the event.  It caused me to feel overcome with thankfulness.  In a world that can feel so heavy at times…alligators snatching babies, hateful people mowing others down, depressing political situations…on all fronts…it feels so good to hide away in the sanctity and rarity that are those unexpected moments of pure joy.  They happen more often the larger our family becomes.  The more variables we add, the more variations of that bliss we get to experience.  Some days I wonder what the hell we’re doing, bringing all these kids into a world that can feel so dark.  Those sacred moments cause me to remember that we are here for just that.  We are here to launch underwear at each other’s faces and get lost in laughter and push past grudges and relational crud that thicken life up till it feels like heavy, sludge…we try to wade thru it…but our unforgotten wounds and resentments and hurts keep us bound to the sludge, the familiar, that can even feel safe at times.  Letting your guard down, and having a full, hearty, belly laugh with someone when it is the last thing that you want to do…it catapults us into the unknown…in the best kind of way.

92 1/2 years.  What a remarkable feat.  The average life expectancy in the United States is 78 years.  When my grandfather was 78, he was still driving his Buick down to Joe’s Variety to pick up his lottery tickets everyday. One of my favorite things I’ve ever heard him say, was this past July when he made the trip to Pennsylvania to stay with my brother in the hills of Greenpoint.  He sat at the breakfast table and motioned to his oatmeal.  With as much emotion as one can muster while talking about their oatmeal he exclaimed to my sister in law, “You think I like eating this shit?”  He was as no nonsense as it gets. I still remember when he stopped dressing up for our family get togethers.  My grandmother would gripe and complain and insist that he change out of his quilted flannel and he would remain poised and unrelenting.  He wasn’t trying to impress one single person.  He had lived too long for any of that.  I can’t wait to finally not care what anyone thinks. To earn my rite to sit at the head of the Thanksgiving table in my 25 year old blue jeans and just take a nap.

As a young girl, trips to visit my grandparents were a sheer delight.  Not only would I be adorned with a fresh school wardrobe, but I had access to all I could eat fruit loops and my absolute favorite, soft fresh loaves of Edy’s Rye bread.  I was devastated the day I came to learn that the old miser in my gramps had finally taken over and he decided that Edy’s rye bread was too expensive, Shop Rite had a better deal.  He had created an addict and to this day I still pick up half a dozen loaves of that rye bread whenever I come to town.

My Gramps was exceedingly generous towards his grand children.  He was constantly looking for reasons to give us money.  I often felt great guilt about the money he would give to me.  I would comb his hair for 10 or 15 minutes while he watched the Price is Right and he would give me 20 bucks!  Thats a lot to me at age 32 and it was grand riches when I was 10 years old.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized what it was that my Gramps had done as a career.  My dad would explain to me when I was young that it was Gramps’ responsibility to keep everything going and keep everyone happy at one of the finest restaurants of its time.  I still recall going to eat at Rapp’s Paradise Inn, long after my Grandfather had retired.  I sensed that everything from the table setting to the wait time to the temperature of the lobster tail was under the close scrutiny of his watchful eye, because , of course, nothing would ever be as good as it had been when he ran the place.  A few years ago I stumbled upon a newspaper article in his house wherein he, the maitre d of this popular dining establishment, was being interviewed.  The reporter was asking him about the different types of drinks that people order from the bar and what it said about them.  I wish I still had the article because I found his responses surprisingly entertaining.  My favorite part was when he mentioned that a woman sitting by herself at the bar was always trouble.  Truer words were never spoken.

One of my most treasured memories of my Gramps took place when I was about 11 years old.  I had come to stay with my grandparents for a week over the summer.  I was playmates with the little girl next door, a nice catholic girl…her family kept a pristine sitting room in their house like nothing I had ever seen, coming from my home with five children and no use for such a fancy space.  She told me that we weren’t allowed to go in there because it was for “If the pope ever came to visit.”  We were sitting on her back deck when I must have mentioned something about my father having gone to jail in recent years (allow me to say that in having 5 of my own children, I’ve come to realize that kids need to talk about what’s going on in their personal life as much as anyone else, whether it makes me look good as a parent or not.)  My grandmother had apparently been eaves dropping from the bedroom window of their home.  She immediately called me into the house and made it very clear that there are certain things we don’t need to be so eager to share.  I went to my bedroom in tears.  Now, I can understand.  The family name was at stake.  Her pride in her family was shaken by my candid chit chat with the neighbor girl about the undeniable reality of her sons’ life choices.  While I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out the window, crying the kind of cry that takes over your entire body, I didn’t even hear him come in the room. My Gramps slipped onto the bed beside me and put his arm around me, drew me close.  He didn’t say much, just told me it was alright and held me near. It was, and will remain, the most tender moment I have ever shared with my Grandfather.

92 1/2 years.  I have to imagine that my Gramps had experienced emotions during those years that there are not yet names for.  The feeling of being one of the last of all your friends to be breathing.  The feeling of outliving your sons and your wife.  The feeling of losing track of all the grand babies and great grand babies you have. During the years that my dad lived with Gramps and helped care for him, he told me that he had observed that as a person ages, it is as if they become like a child again.  While many of us want to imagine ourselves living to a ripe old age, no-one wants to picture themselves being hoisted into their bed with a lift or not being able to make it to the bathroom or living in a cloud of confusion and frustration.  A complete loss of the dignity that we believed at some point was our right.  My Grandfather had done it all.  He felt the sea breeze on his face while cruising in the North Pacific Ocean during his time in the navy. He beheld the beauty of the Aleutian Islands and spoke of them as if he had just returned.  He built his home from the ground up with his bare hands.  He won the lottery more times than I’ll ever know, in more than one way. He lived through wars and depressions and unspeakable grief. My memories of my grandfather will always be of his strength and his wisdom and the brightness of his eyes while he watched his grandchildren playing at our family gatherings.

One of my children was disappointed to have to miss a spring concert today that they had been preparing for and working hard for months to present with their schoolmates. Sensing the disappointment, I explained that no-one ever WANTS to go to a funeral. It’s never ideal. It never seems to happen at a good time.  But when it does, when someone you love and respect has completed their mission on this plane of existence, it is time to reflect upon them and to honor them. I informed my child that if it weren’t for their great grandfather, they would not be here. We are who we are because of who he was. He has left his imprint on every person here. We will forever be better, stronger, wiser, more generous and loving people because in his 92 1/2 years…his life happened to touch our own. Gramps. We honor you. We thank you.