Christmas Gifts- Their Words

Manny- I got Bey Blades that come in a set with a Stadium. I got a Videoscope Lab-- with slides of a piece of lettuce. I plan to find a butterfly wing and put it under it.

Benicio- I got these night-vision goggles. Also a remote control plane. Also a little box of candy. Then a tiny Sprite. Also I got a laser pointer. I know I will have fun with these things.

Clara-I got a sewing machine. I am going to sometimes sew with it. I got some soda like Benice. I got Cheetos and a skateboard and I will use it outside in summer. There's a T-shirt that matches it. Also, popcorn and a Mulan doll. Then I also got a set of Fancy Nancy books. I also got a towel to go on your head. Also a metal toy bird. I want to put it in my room on my toy shelf. I got a jar of candy. These little two roundheaded people. Ones a kitty and one's a baby. Also some yarn in purple. I plan to knit and crochet with it.

Calliope-I got a Princess Belle Barbie, a little Sprite. I got a purple towel to wrap around my head. Also two tea sets: one is fake and one is fake too. Also I got Cheetos but not a sewing machine or a skateboard. I just got all the things I got from Santa. I shared my things with Clara.

Trying to Remember This.

Jonathan Edwards: "He didn't tell them, 'Instead of pleasure, seek God,' but 'Seek your pleasure in God.'"

Art Requires Protein

I have resisted here the narcissistic practice of thinking that my kids are mini-me's. That they are somehow extensions of me or that they exist for my pleasure. However, my Calliope had a moment today where she was doing something that I remember exactly and viscerally:

She was drawing, knees to floor, pen in hand. And right on her lap, she kept a piece of meat, which she munched periodically. During the curlicues of princess hair, she would break, take a bite, then continue.

Swinging for the Fence or the One He Avoids Grading

Okay, so I finished my last exam. And I have to say, that I was at the top of my game. Pitched forward, poised and clicking away, undaunted at the questions. Or I thought I was at the top of my game. It was an essay test. Question 1 is from the readings-- how does the author frame the Old Testament as pre-figuring Christ? Got it. Then another one from readings. It was a stretch bc I had to harmonize two articles-- one which I read and one that my printer made wonky. Unfortunately the wonky one was by a Catholic theologian. I really wanted to answer it well as a nod back at my professor's nod at Catholics. So I took a crack at it. Then the third question was about the 23rd Psalm as a prophetic text to be read in the voice of Christ. I totally loved that interpretation so yeah, I sailed through that one.

Then, by the light of the fire that Geoff built, I was halfway through my alotted time and my energy started to flag. The question about Adam and Eve's knowledge of good and evil and when they had that knowledge, I started to get that sinking test-taking feeling. I shifted in my seat. But I threw some "typology" and some "dominon" into the mix and pretty soon I had a paragraph. Okay and then there was this diagram of Dominon and I was supposed to interpret how it was the Kingdom of God and how it described prophecy fulfillment. I pretty much eeked that one out. And then with like fifteen minutes left, I had to answer the application question, which I felt good about. A chance to sum it all up. I like a tidy conclusion so that went okay.

I logged out. Signed the honor pledge. Submitted it. Sweet victory. Five pages of blood, sweat and hermeneutical tears.

Then I breathlessly read over it and read very clearly at the top: PLEASE ONLY ANSWER THREE QUESTIONS. And my eyes re-focused and I could see the sections where he was giving us choices of which questions we wanted to answer. So basically, I answered two extra questions. He will either grade me with a flabberghasted enthusiasm for my brilliant as well as COPIOUS answers. Or he will see Mike Legaspi's little sister's crazy, Mary-worshipper zeal, and then proceed to shove my exam to the bottom of the pile. My scattershod attempt to throw my knowledge, Pollock-like, all over his carefully-structured exam may not be interpreted as an awesome thing.

The great thing is, the unbelievable thing is, it's okay. This semester, I have seen fresh-faced Southerners flummoxed by the tough-grading here. I have seen Fujimori's hipsters stymied by the elusive and seemingly non-existent "A." And frankly, I am no longer starry-eyed at my professors. With their ties and hiking shoes, they are human like the rest of us. They take forever to give our papers back. And because of their schedules can only give the most meager commentary back. It really forces one to sit back and say, oh yeah, I'm not here for the prestige. Or the A. I'm here to look harder and more intently into God. A score or a grade does not have a verdict on me.

Elving, Interrupted

Okay, so another thing to add to the list of why I feel like a dinosaur in grad school: Apparently, the exam will be administered online with the honor system. It was put online last night (When one would expect the live exam to take place). But instead, you get to choose when you take it. Login, get 2 hours to take it, logout. My study buddies are all full-timers so they are waiting to take it until Thursday.

When I found this out, I was really thrown into a tizzy. My thought process went like this: I should just take it when I thought I was initially going to. But then I wouldn't get to study with a group. But what about all the plans I made--bake Geoff's birthday cake, a carefully-scheduled PTO meeting, bedrooms to paint? In the end, I have made lurching attempts at studying. Reading and rereading the professor's take on Ruth as a proto-resurrection story. Going over the days of creation for the twentieth time.

I spent time with an old friend this morning. And it made me want to hunker down in my house. She had three hens, stoked her woodstove, and had paperwhites on the windowsill that held so much promise. I keep my index cards in my back pocket, and have to soldier on until tomorrow's study group. Maybe I'll lay out my painting overalls and the trowels.

By Friday, I will be a woman liberated. I will throw myself headlong into stoup-making, the swags, and all the merriment to be made.

One Down, One More Tomorrow

Last Thursday, I had the unique experience of taking an exam and knowing most things. I was able to answer every question with something from my memory. I know that sounds sort of basic but my entire test-taking life, there would always be questions that stymied me. I remember taking French exams in high school. I would seethe with a mounting frustration-- She never went over this! What in the world is this jibberish? Or totally in my error, I would have grids with Latin conjugations that would just stare back at me with these blank fields. And I could see with every space, the visual reminder of time that I could have spent studying instead of any number of awesomely dumb adolescent practices.

So I sat there at my own computer with my Human Personality Exam. I went through all the questions with a rough answer. Then went back up and fleshed them out further. A little more explanation. Another reference to the case-studies. The questions were like, "In class, when I have said X, what have I meant?" Or "Sin is the cause of sin. Explain."

Unlike dishes, when I answered the question, it was done. There was a sublime sense of completion when I went over the exam for the last time. The exam punctuated the end of the class, the end of the study of that topic. Unlike laundry, which multiplies under beds and dust which mounts in the eaves. I like having a work of my own, something besides running the house. Even though, I am deeply tied into the house and all of its upkeep, it's refreshing not to have my identity in it.

My Body, My New Friend.

I took two Body Step classes in 24 hours. During today's class, I had this thought: I don't need the body I used to have. The body I have now is the one I need for now.

I took my first prenatal yoga class back in Jamaica Plain. It dovetailed well with the birth class we were taking at that time. "Relax, relax, relax like your life depends on it." This was my script at that time, a first-time mama, full of anxiety and a strict desire to do right in my new role. There, in the dim studio that smelled of patchouli and feet, we were trying to be vessels for our babies. I did some of my best meditation and prayer there, it was the first place I felt Manny move.

Post-natally and for years thereafter, that yogic relaxation was essential. Let labor happen, let your milk down, relax about the co-sleeping, ease up on the scheduling. Let your baby sleep. The most challenging thing in my first yoga class was to hold a pose for the length of a contraction. Then at my first yoga classes here in Philly, pregnant with Clara, I began to understand yoga as an exercise of strength. Strength for labor's marathon, for sure. But strength for conviction to do a homebirth, strength for a noetic resilience to put my face into the wind and accept what was ahead.

Physically speaking, though, during those years, I was soft. Not like sedentary soft but soft like an inviting bosom for nursing. Soft like a comforting place to rest after a toddler's fall. Now, though, a different strength is called for. The strength to hold down a drug-affected 9 year old whose feet are almost as big as mine. The strength to carry that 9 year old out of a bad MRI. The physical discipline to get up at 6 sharp, retrieve a forgotten violin, and still chase down the bus.

I used to feel the fatigue and hunger of a woman whose body was a vessel for a growing baby. Coming downstairs at 9pm hungry for dinner as if I had never eaten the full dinner I had, in fact, eaten at 6. Those languid breastfeeding sessions, when I would get up and eat bananas and a whole quart of yogurt. Now, however, my fatigue rushes on me when I sit down in front of a movie. And my hunger is much more distinguishing--I want a plate of warm, perfectly-seasoned food with seltzer and a lemon wedge. If it's not going to knock my socks off, I usually hold off on eating.

I think my salt and pepper hair are forming my new body-image. Where it used to be soft and Marmee-ish-- a soft but potent femininity. I really like the strength that I have, even though I'm not used to it. I guess more of a Binoche from Dan in Real Life, mysterious and complicated but can outrun her fitness instructor. Or Mrs.Felicity Fox--a landscape painter who can disarm a bad guy and throw him over her leg. And I don't mind that silver hair is associated with aging because yes, I am aging. I don't mind that I will never have a flat belly. Because yes, I have carried children. And if you remember when I was pregnant with Calliope, my belly was unbelievably fecund. I really don't miss that. I wanted to be a mom while I was still young. Young enough to chase the hell out of them. Young enough to take a kickboxing class with them, us doing jump-kicks side by side in the mirror.

Answers and Stuff

Even in his injured state, Geoff is partnering with me and helping me. At a very weak-sauce hour, I fell narcoleptically asleep as if head-struck. I was wearing not only my day-clothes but this included not only earrings but slippers and a scarf, too. I awoke at 4am flustered and confused fretting about a little talk I'm giving this morning. I found that Geoff printed out the 3 papers that are due today. They were neatly placed on my computer. He had even clipped them with the Italian paper-clips I love. My toothbrush lain on the sink's edge, pasted and poised-- lonely. Last night's coffee, half drunk sits mocking me in the mug.

I still have the big paper due tomorrow. But last night, Geoff wrought the Tooth Fairy's visit, lunches for the day, and all is right with our world. All the answers for today's questions have been answered. And that is all that I need right now.

On the Eve of His Eighth

Usually, when I reflect on my children's birthdays, it is with great amazement that they are now this old. For Benicio, I am struck--eight? Just eight?

We are talking about a boy who has a profound cultural awareness after his role as King Kalipulaku de Mactan in a family play. He understands narrative structure as evidenced by the complicated books he reads as well as the detailed stories he writes on pages and pages of newsprint paper. He is mature in his social interactions--he looks after his siblings, both younger and older. He has a few "trusted friends." But he understands how to be this strong peer in a group, a real friend to count on. He also has had to mentor a first-grader, a role he took very seriously. Probably too seriously. He has separate budgets-- a batman wallet for "pocket-spending." A yellow piggy bank for "St. V's." And an Incredibles bank for "long-range savings." He has a muscular sense of justice and makes convincing cases in favor of having his own room and even for things like why his brother should try the deep water test. He has adopted his teacher of two years' solemnity in the practice of Quakerly "feedback." This practice of discussing conflict in a group setting. When I have witnessed this, I cover my mouth from giggling at how cute but also grab my chest like my heart's going to fall out from the intense level of maturity and honesty.

Eight years ago, this little but mighty force came into our life. This compact person with an enormous heart. I often think about how I got to literally pull him out of myself and into the world. This impossibly hot and slippery body who slid out of me like an unfolding folding chair. Maybe that's too graphic but that's exactly how it was. I gripped him under his shoulder and he entered the world with this unexpected force. This is how he is: a quiet force that brings delight. He lay on me for what seemed like hours, unbathed, unweighed, unexamined. What an exquisite privilege those moments were! I think of that birth and I feel like I was Wonder Woman and that Benicio was this triumphant star. We didn't know he was 9 pounds until morning. And when the midwife weighed him, we gasped and Geoff jumped up and down, laughing in disbelief.

He is honored to learn that he shares his birthday with the legendary Bruce Lee. My brothers have an epic devotion to BL and Benicio has inherited it. For one of my brothers, he solemnly ends his workouts with 20 pushups in honor of Bruce. For Benicio, he likes to hear about how he is Asian but U.S. born and how his kick was so strong once that it broke the ribs of film-crew guys who were trying to support the guy he was actually kicking. It tickles me for Benicio to find a cultural hero. An icon of his favorite virtues: quiet and precise strength, defeating cultural odds, defying customary ranking systems, victory over an impossible number of bad guys.

What a year you have had, son! You will win the day over the bad guys, and when you don't, we will be here for you. Happiest of birthdays, to our all-star with adult teeth, our joyous boy, our Benicio True.

Some Sound Advice

When we were in Boston, we had a pastor who advised us to ask for our inheritances in order to stay there. We had years of Lents and Advents without mention of Palm Sunday or an Advent Wreath. And he told us that our marriage seemed unstable. Now none of this is wrong, per se. But I can tell you for sure that none of this advice was good for us.

So, when Boston rents were too high, we moved back to PA. We have come to observe the Liturgical Seasons with great detail and reverence. And we work at our marriage as though it's being tested by epic monsters.

But there is some advice that he gave us that has been good. In Cambridge, where you have the world's best and brightest. And in its pews, our church held some of the most intense and work-driven believers. Our pastor preached about this distinction: Our approach to daily work, whatever it is, is not to be dogged and driven so that at the end you can rest. Our work should be OUT OF REST. That we have great comfort in the approval and love of God--- we should work with that in mind. We should work with that glorious end in mind.

So, this is my treatise on why I have only just now awakened from the most glorious nap. I dreamt about my amazing friend Craig and his Harlem apartment with coloring-book walls crossed with my Human Personality professor played by Jeff Bridges falling over in a rocking chair and then oddly my childhood best friend's Dad played by Oliver Platt telling me which bread to buy at Giant. Also in the dream-- my deaf cousin had this beautiful baby, whom wept when I met her. She had this great bow in her hair that was made of fishnet. And also was my theologian/poet cousin who was trying to work for Craig. It was such a juicy dream, so many souls I got to visit. I woke up in a hilarious drool puddle, my calendar buried beneath Geoff's hip, the week's menu is down in there somewhere.

Okay, more later. We're going to Dodgeball Practice!

plot walk

Writing is a solitary practice. Having done it for as long as I can remember, I can't tell you how refreshing it is to have a partner in it. This 10-pager I'm working on has consumed my thoughts. I have the outside sources. I have the passages. I have everything but the thesis. I came home from the library with a few ideas. Then I went out with girlfriends. The evening meandered and you wouldn't think much work toward my paper could have been done. But that's where you'd be very surprised and pleasantly so.

This writer couple that I so admire have a writer's shed in their backyard. They work back to back all day. And when one of them needs help, they go on "plot walks" to help develop the story, work out kinks, etc. I so envy the time to achieve that, the shared experience, to have your marriage be also a creative crucible as well. They have the consummate Berkeley life. Short of the job at Pixar, it is exactly what we'd love to do on the West Coast.

After 2 cocktails, the newest Katherine Keener movie, and washing dishes, we came up with such a good thesis, I was racing up the stairs for my computer to get all the ideas down. It was one great point after another glorious question. It's too late in the evening to explain but I feel as if I have an idea and that we walked it as far as we could. I am really excited to see if I can take it further, like 10 pages.

My school offers a tuition break for spouses. I feel like there should be spousal-credits when they hand you the thesis to your paper. Geoff should get a Master's in Management of Wife's Sanity and Creative Conflict Resolution with a concentration on How to Teach Your Wife to Use NO as a Complete Sentence and other life-saving techniques.

Totally Hot Theology

Reporting Live from the Library

I am writing from the WTS library. And I am writing this while it is my first year, my first semester, and my first "finals season." I couldn't get a parking spot and was tempted to take a faculty spot but I didn't. My dashboard Mary would give me away. I am the only female I have seen in the library besides the librarian, Marsha. It is freezing in here and I need to outline a paper tracing the Holy Spirit throughout the Old Testament. I am layered up like a homeless person but I think that helps me be invisible in a good way. If I need to, I'll go into the women's restroom anteroom where there are Martha magazines, maybe even an Oprah.

It's the longest paper I've had to write yet. I think the assignments a great idea. I just wish I had the time to pore over the texts. And I only got two papers back out of the 4 I wrote. Reading the Old Testament to try to find the connections in Redemptive History is like translating a language--Water equals condemnation. Exile equals judgement. Jesus is the tabernacle. Jesus is the Passover sacrifice. Jesus is Adam. Jesus is David. I seriously find it riveting. I know it sounds crazy. It is walking that fine line. . . okay Jesus is David? David was such a mess! Wait, really? How is it not heresy to say that? And then the professor's like, "That's right, the connection is spot-on." It's strange but this is exactly my flavor of crazy.

When I have my Fridays here to work, it's so weird, I really miss my kids and our home. I have to give a half-hour to list-making: party details, recipes to find, where their holiday clothes are. I miss their crazy jokes, the loud chaos, and for heaven's sake, I even miss when they climb on me. I make a menu for next week, I feel better.

My trick for pretending I don't speak English here doesn't really work a) bc a lot of people don't either b) because I am obviously reading English texts c) when you are getting ignored for being a female, that crosses the language barrier. I wish that my program had its own library. But would a library for counselors really be that quiet, with all those folks trying to console and encourage? Maybe it would be extra quiet, like maximum-serenity, asylum-like quiet.

I guess I will get back to my outline. If I get a handle on this paper, I have two more to do. For those, I have to write my personal anthropology. (No, not the store.) And then I chose to write about Michael Chabon's book Manhood for Amateurs where I have to describe his personal anthropology as presented by the book.

And then, it's exams, baby. Yard by yard, life is hard. Inch by inch, life's a cinch. (That's from my hs field hockey coach's office. Did you think I got it from the Septuagint?)

Can/Can't

Things I Can't Control at This Moment:
-the weather (field trip)
-our bank balance (birthday party)
-the laundry imbalance (Should I load more if I can't put away what's already clean?)

Things I Can Control Right Now:
-doing my homework for Thursday
-packing lunches
-setting out rain boots and violins and the one comb Manny tolerates

Essentials

We are re-arranging the kids' bedrooms. We've gotten as far as the beds and bedding. In the midst of their excitement, which was manifesting like exploring with wrenches and getting underfoot in the bunking process, I asked them to grab the essentials from their old room and bring them into their new ones. This is how they responded:

-Calliope went right over to her stuffed animals and baby dolls and started bringing them over by the armload listing: "Connection Baby, Prize Monkey, Ella the Cat, Sarah-Olivia the Bear, you are coming with me."
-Clara parked herself on the floor of her closet and began filling bags with her shoes. She proceeded to scatter a path with them as you would with flower petals-- ballet slippers interspersed with her hand-me-down cork wedges (Ingrid), glittery holiday shoes co-mingling with her soccer cleats.
-Benicio grabbed his Crucifix (My childhood best friend's mother gave it to me for my bridal shower. It is light wood and the figure is carved in this very modern style in silver.) and the Bruce Lee poster he chose from a Chinese gift shop in Ottawa. We hung these two things front and center in his room and then he was all set.
-Manny went to his bookshelf and made trips back and forth beginning with Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl. He began building a kind of wall with them on the floor of his new room.

The Magic Packed in a Weekend and What It Can Do

This weekend, we had a chance to hit the big "reset button" as Geoff likes to say. His parents arrived at 5 on Friday ready to help. The sprung into action, picking up a hot dinner and then running Friday Night Movie Night with aplomb. We called home at 9 from my sister's and found a sleeping house. We returned home after midnight to find four dry beds and kids sleeping with faint smiles and muttering things about Buzz's Spanish mode.

In these past weeks, I have been strangely comforted by movies and television. Not just in-- Watch Charlie and Lola while I grab a shower but like driving to Bryn Mawr for a screening of Mr. Fox so that I could wrap my arms around Manny and laugh with him at all of his favorite parts. I took Calliope and Manny out for the day, they don't get to be one-on-one to often and returning to the café table to him feeding her veggie soup and trying to bend his smoothie straw for her was life-affirming.

We had the best double-date on record with my sis and her hub. We came bearing brushes and drop cloths and helped paint their first floor. Better than an HG show because it was slower and funnier, full of gossip that is specific to people who have lived a long time knowing one another's preferences and peeves. Throwing ourselves headlong into their home-improvement shook us loose of all of our own house projects but also took us out of the head space of our myriad kids and their myriad problems.

Yesterday, I had the surreal experience of discussing events of my freshman year in college in odd and hilarious detail while my kids quietly drew in front of us. Like the smell of Tower B's fourth floor lounge, the smuggling of contraband into those towers, and who became friends with whom and in what order. And all this while Manny occasionally looked over his shoulder at me, to roll his eyes and wrinkle his nose like "Mama, what kind of crazy college was that?"

And then today, my Dad stealing away with Benicio to array him with donuts after Mass. Calliope receiving her Cupcake Girl costume and not taking it off since. Also, going shopping and in the quiet hustle of the store going, "Mom, Momma?" And then my Mom finding me. It was like being 5 again, that finding each other and knowing she was just nearby. And of course, the pep talks from my parents, stoic yet hopeful. My Dad saying, "Manny's a good boy. He's a really good boy."

For Our Girl as She Turns Five

I know this is late for her birthday but here's the scene. This is an example of who Clara is right now:

It's pre-dinner in the dining room. The floor is littered with homework, dressups, goldfish crumbs. After much begging and threats, Manny is practicing his violin. He is standing there, bow in position and then eeking some notes out of the strings. You could barely call it music, intentional squeaking is more accurate.

Then you have Clara, poised and in socks, dancing to these sounds. She is lithely and brightly moving in time. It is hopeful and oddly trusting in Manny that what he is doing is in fact, perceptible to a ballet-interpretation, that in fact, what he is making is music.

This scene was affirming to us all that not only will we make it through this trial-phase of medicine but that we are higher-minded and soulful beings. That what one person offers as a small artistic effort, another honors by lovingly dancing along.

Accepting This, Saying Goodbye to That

Three of my favorite women recently gave birth to their firstborn sons. I have the birth announcements up in my office. They take me back to the moonlight nursings, the arboretum walks, the miraculous sling, and all that open-ended time devoted only to getting to know this creature, this baby of your own. Even the faces, the tiny ribbon-like nostrils (my Mom's phrase), the odd shock of hair-- will it go this way, part that way, spike up like this forever? The little sleeping-infant face, the moving cumulonimbus clouds that pass across so briefly and so swiftly. Thinking of the time I passed this way with Manny. Hours and hours in that rocking chair on St. Rose St.

That stands in contrast to the days we've been having. And while I think they are brought on by the anti-seizure meds, his behaviors have seemed to bring on a completely different Manny. We've had hitting, throwing things at us, Geoff got a right-hook in the car. The doctors seem to think we need to give this more time. Five weeks on Depakote. 7 Days on Zarontin. I feel chemically-altered and it's not even me that's taking them. I vacillate between compassion for all of his neuro-biology and just being so mad and frustrated. It's like-- all pissed off and no place to direct it.

I try not to be a sewer-grate for advice, just taking in what's said but one of the girl's teachers had a father who was on anti-seizure meds and told me today, "You just have to let go of what you expect him to be. And help him to be who he is."

By this advice, which makes me cry, I need to let go of my oddly clear vision of Manny winning a Cross-Country Scholarship to Swarthmore and then going on to study music and then writes a dissertation on tribal music as it relates to worship in the Third World. I need to ease my grip on my own fixations and unrealized fantasies of my own and just let this child be who he is right now.

I need to look at this with a redemptive lens: What's the best good for this child? Is he tired? Could this be solved by my walking away? Could this be solved by a brisk walk outside? Should I just hold him right now? What adds sanity and compassion? Does it matter if we're late? Does it matter if this gets done? Trying to draw from a deep account of love and patience.

Ten.

10-The number of emails Geoff has to write for his search committees.
9-The number of hours we drove from Ottawa.
8-The number of servings of lasagne I served at dinner.
7-The number of weeks until finals.
6-The number of weeks since the Epilepsy diagnosis.
5-The number of bags I unpacked today.
4-The number of peacefully sleeping kids upstairs.
3-The number of shots Clara had today.
2-The number of grownups who have to tap away on their computers tonight.
1-The number of kids I will keep home tomorrow.

Provocative

O how I love thy law! it is my meditation all the day.-from the Psalms

I just got home from my theology class. Our professor's lecture culminated in some exegesis that he described as "wild, fun, and provocative."

Back in the halcyon days in my creative writing program, we were presented with Bukowski and Burrows and our own teacher's stuff as examples of work that could be described as "provocative." The poems were raucous and base and bestial. They put you in touch with our primitive urges, distinct moments of pleasure and euphoria. I definitely signed up for that sort of thing. That unflinching examination of our human needs. Need for company, need for being known, the need for contact. In my definitive ouvre of poems from that time, I wrote about "too many poems about rough sex and premature death." That's pretty much my definitive conclusion.

Now, in my studies at seminary, it is so different. Simply put, that writing program was, for me, a time of exploration in what it is to be human. And all of its ridiculous and beautiful implications. Seminary now is, for me, time to explore who God is. Maybe that sounds Shirley Maclaine-ish but if I am to be honest about who I am, I have to be honest and say that I am a person that needs God. And my journey toward God is huge.

So anyway, our professor was describing these certain psalms as theologically provocative because the writer refers to the Temple as God. This was controversial because the Israelite psalmist was hyperbolizing and describing the place of worship as "god." The theological implication is: Is the psalmist saying it's okay to worship a building? The professor was saying: No, remember the genre, it's a song of devotion to his God, he's lost in praise. What's essential is an understanding of the context, the genre.

Okay, maybe I'm rambling in a technical way. But the point is I love what I'm studying and this type of provocative is just my speed right now.

Comment Test

This is just a test to see if comments can be added. . . .

Geeky Seminary-Humor

Geoff and I stay up in the laundry room (our office) and we work. It's nowhere as cool as the Waldman-Chabon's but here are some things Geoff has said that undo me with laughter:

When trying to set the paragraph margins for my paper, he advises, "Justification is an ongoing process."

When I whine about having another assignment to do AFTER I finish the one I am faltering through: "I'll stay up with you as late as you need . Your paper will be my paper. Your God will be my God."

And when I committed to participating in the campus-wide Day Of Prayer and Fasting, we had cranky little phone exchanges day. I pictured us feeding the kids then breaking fast together at sundown with wine and these gorgeous pork chops with pumpkin and apples. He had to do a "dinnerview" for a dean candidate. So we broke fast at 3 in the afternoon by disgracing ourselves with Mexican egg bake and leftover orzo.

I guess that's all I can think of now but I know there are more. Things get sillier the later it gets.

*all star*

Yes, I have to blog about these on the same night. I have to prioritize getting it all down over being perfectly equanimous between my boys.

Benicio was chosen to play in the all-city, Philadelphia Parks and Rec- All Star Game tonight! Glorious, glorious night! Benicio was the smallest one out there but the coach kept saying how fast he was. On the field, under the lights, he looked like my Dad might have looked at that age-- wide, squarish head, crew cut, eyes darting and bright and the quickest footwork you have ever seen.

When he was announced as an All-Star player, Benicio's first question was, "Does this mean I don't get to play with my team anymore?" And then tonight after the game, he tried to give the jersey back because he wasn't sure he should keep it. He is only halfway through his first season of organized sports and he is being recognized in this way. I weep at God's timing in this. I laugh at the way that this happens at the same time as Manny's diagnosis.

I go to these games, yell and clap my heart out, and watch our little boy play with abandon. It is an enormous joy for me. On one hand, Geoff and I look at our kids and say, "Oh, dear. What have we brought about?" And then sometimes, like tonight, on that field, under those lights, we look at our kids and say, "Can you believe this kid came from us?" The agility, movement to the ball, the quick back-peddling. The way he can break away from multiple defenders. His fool-proof Beckenbauer move.

I hope we can always remember tonight. How Benicio is still able to play without the albatross of pressure-- parental pressure, coach pressure, peer pressure. His favorite thing about playing in the Columbus Day Tournament was the patches that the teams exchange. He's lines them up and reads them over, the mascot, the team names.

Today, during the 45 minute practice I held for him and Manny on the YMCA filed. I said, "Honey, tonight you will play against the best kids in the city." He replied, "You mean I get to play with the best kids in the city that are in this league tonight?"

"Right. You are exactly right. That's what I meant."

Special Effects of Side Effects

We had a weekend in the trenches of Depakote side-effects. Side-effects should be called front-effects, back-effects, effects that have you holding onto your hat and your heart for dear life. We had public spitting, being told he hated us, public thrashing, kicking, hitting. Geoff and I had to wrestle Manny to the ground several times. Geoff wept because he loathes aggression. I wept because I can enjoy expressing aggression. But neither of us were prepared for these expressions toward our child.

I write here to document for later. But I also write here to document for now. To keep my head in the game, to not give up and to present myself for every new day resting on new strength, living out of a restored hope. I can help my kid through a bad cold, a night of fevers even but these light-switch temperament changes, the smirk of defiance followed by spitting, sends a deep existential chill to my very core.

This same kid, though, is capable of emerging bright and strong from the side effects, over a mercifully long weekend. Yesterday and today, we had grave apologies from Manny. We had him slamming the brakes on his anger and turn his heart around to calm himself down. We had him drink so much water you wouldn't believe it. Depakote has a period of like 17 hours where it stays in your system. The dose that was scheduled anticipated a quicker weight-gain. So we went from a glorious improvement of attentiveness and maturity to I guess too high a level for him to function normally. His affect equilibrium was off, his fuse was so short, and his first impulses were aggressive and verbally hyperbolic.

I can see the long journey ahead and I feel so tired. When I look at the small shaft of dappled sunlight in which I stand for one moment in the day when he is at play, happy and okay, I can rest there. This is enough for now. Enough for right now.

MRI No Go

I have been trying to be on a grace hunt rather than a sin hunt. That is, looking for God's hand in things, not necessarily a silver lining but the imprint of a Loving Designer on our situation. The Guiding Hand, the reason things should be this way, the structure of how things are working together. Trying to silence my searing judgement. To suspend a critical eye and to look on others with love.

That is, until Manny's MRI today. I want to know, why would you work at hospital for children if you have disdain for them? Why would you work in a radiology lab if you don't have a "testing" and good-natured spirit about the whole thing? Remind me not to sign up for a radiology appointment on a Friday afternoon of a Phillies game. I think everyone was trying to wind down to the long weekend. Especially the radiology tech who had the bedside manner of Lurch from the Addams Family.

Picture Manny harnessed down on this stupid little conveyer-belt gurney. Then they put him in the claustrophobic MRI tube. She leaves the room. I'm standing at his feet. This ridiculous humming and buzzing, then the banging! I'm trying to hug his feet and be really present for him. And through the glass, she's shaking her head at us with contempt. Then she lumbers out and comes into the room, pissed off and I am nervous that she's going to sit on me. She's like, "Emmanuel, you are moving your head all over the place!" I'm like, "We've never done this before. This is not an every day occurrence for us. This isn't easy for him. Part of the reason we're here is because he has seizures. " I say this with clenched teeth and I picture myself stuffing her into the MRI tube and using my descending elbows move from Body Combat. I know. Not so Quakerly. Sorry. Then I just look at Manny and talk to him because I know I'm getting nowhere with Lurch.

I'm trying to talk to him about how we really need this test done. How we don't want to have to come back and miss Gym Class again. Manny is sensitive to noise anyway. He says he wants to go see the kids. We leave that whole wing of the hospital, go out to the Atrium. Manny's in stocking feet. We are flushed. I want to buy him a smoothie.

After a rant about Lurch, Geoff switches places with me. In cases like this, his people-skills are awesome. I calmed myself by knitting and watching iCarly in the Atrium. Benicio was knitting bookmarks. Clara was writing thank you notes. Calliope was running back and forth from the wall to the couch.

Twenty minutes later, they come out. Geoff's shaking his head. He says will have to come back. Manny's like, "We're going to Slices for dinner." And that's just what we do.

List for Mamas Before Taking Son to MRI

On the night before you take your son to his MRI, try and:
*-laugh with your friends
-read the side-effects of his meds with a glass of Merlot
-not read about the magnetic radiation your child will receive
-pack Benadryl for him
-trust the caregivers
-trust your child and his survival instincts
-not blame yourself (for having instrumentation used in his birth)
-not blame your spouse (for myriad family health history that may or may not even be relevant)
-lie with children and pray for them
*-pack knitting (Baby Dom's Blanket Buddy) and good reading material (Everyday Food, Michael Chabon, and Miniboden catalog)
-listen to The Nutcracker and look at Van Gogh's Starry Night. Both of those guys are said to have had Epilepsy.
-Drink white tea and watch your husband work on lesson plans.
-Breathe.

*Would not be possible if it weren't for the marvelous M.Davis who, in a good way, teaches me about friendship on a daily basis.

Cooperatives

The more I study, the more I realize the significance of the metaphors that guide you. The pervasive themes like: wanting to be the first Heather. Or wanting to lie below the radar, safely swimming in the still waters of conformity. Or wanting to be Jennifer Capriati, discovered for her talent at an early age. At different times, I lived by all these personae.

And then somewhere in college, I learned the theology of the servant. On the night before his execution, Christ took a humble place and washed the feet of his friends. He took this menial and gross task and made a sacrament out of it. Doing the banal, humble thing and infusing it with of all things, love, took on enormous redemptive meaning for me.

When we got married, we did this at our wedding. I chose these Kenneth Cole satin slip-ons in ivory for the express purpose of being able to slip them off for Geoff to wash my feet and for me to wash his. Yes, in the ceremony. I know, what a cheesy and cute thing to include in your wedding! And yet, it has marked us. Not only do people still remark about that eleven plus years later, but we live marked by that every day. We take it upon ourselves to allow the sacrificial work to speak into our days: making lunches, washing clothes, swiffering. Taking time and care to use these tasks as a media for love.

A week after moving and getting married, we both got jobs at the local food co-op. This funky little market was where we learned about organic and local and free-range and vegan. I was a produce manager and he was a bulk manager. We worked and ate with a born-again pagan, Dick Gregory's daughter, a Critical Mass devotee, and Cab Calloway's chauffeur. It was so odd and disparate. But we all loved food. And we were willing to sweat for it.

Fast forward to now, we have this little co-op nursery school community. Back in college, Geoff's favorite professor sent her son here. So when we moved here, we looked it up. All four of our kids call it "their school." It is also funky and little. And similarly, we are motley mix of family-styles and the children are as unique as you can imagine. I belly-ache about the weekend cleaning, and the rigorous work that co-oping involves but it is good. It is good to administer the sacrament of pre-kneading hand-washing. The benediction of the coat-zip. The blessed extraction of the wood chip from the Croc.

This has been a dominant theme in our marriage and life with kids. I like that we can be passing it to the kids. And it is good to be writing this five years after the very day that I went into labor with Clara, while of all things, I was co-oping.

by heart

Things I know by heart:
-the whole movie Heathers
-the whole movie Say Anything
-the whole movie Goodwill Hunting
-the whole movies Before Sunrise/Before Sunset
-the whole movie She's Having a Baby
-the whole movie Royal Tennenbaums
-the collected poetry of Michelle Legaspi
-Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
-Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
-the moles on Geoff Beatty
-Manny's medical history
-the exact layout of the Anthropologie store at the Atrium Mall
-the exact layout of Gabriel Brothers in Union Deposit
-the recipe for homemade baby wipes


Things I wish I knew by heart for grad school:
-the book of Ephesians
-Christ's lineage
-the 10 Commandments
-the 66 books of the Bible
-TULIP
-Kate Turabian's style manual

Tovu wa Bohu, the name of my band

or the concept of what existed at the beginning of creation. I simply love that there is this huge heady concept of what was before there was anything. I find that if I don't write about the obvious infirmity that has befallen our son, I can write. And maybe in what I write, you can see where I am.

When asked about the past 14 days in the past 14 days, if you asked directly, you have seen me answer with apprehension, with fear, with anxiety, sometimes with hope, a few times with humor, many times about how you could pray. I have to thank everyone for the calls and messages. Sometimes I can talk about it. But really not so much on the phone. Usually, I have kids with me and our goal is to really keep things so chill for the home environment. We like to set the tone to feel rather still, like something sacred and quiet is happening. Because really, something is.

It has been my work to be steady at the helm of the ship. The dinner menu like a diner rotation: Monday, salmon. Tuesday, chili. Wednesday, tuna cakes. Thursday, skirt steak. Friday, pizza. Choosing outfits are a delight for me, finding that elusive combination of clothes to suit the day and that they find comfortable. The laundry has been a touchstone for me. In the chaos of thinking about Manny in an MRI tube and all the anxiety that brings, I can dump soap and clothing into machines and produce fragrant piles of perfectly-sorted clothes.

At seminary, I have my rituals. I bring my coffee, nuts in a little tin, a power bar sometimes. Today, I meant to get a juice from the vending machine and out fell a Dr. Pepper. I only drink Dr. Pepper at the movies! It threw me for a sec. I considered trying to resell it to the 22 year old behind me but I drank it and it was a good change. The teacher that I have on Thursdays is someone I first read in 1997. His book on people-pleasing reframed my interactions with friends, bosses, siblings, everyone. Later, his books on anxiety, depression, ADD came at these felicitous junctures in our life. And here he is, reading my work, critiquing my arguments, inter-freaking-acting with me. It's just incredible.

An example of something an insight from today: This teacher described his father's dementia as a gift or a medium for knowing his father in a new and different way. He had felt he knew his father exhaustively but not fully. His father's infirmity offered a new way to respond to him. A man he'd always known had become this fascinating creature. See? It's that sort of thing that keeps me going back to class. This insight would never occur to me. It is antithetical to my woe-is-me tendencies. School is casting truth and light into my life nonstop. I did not expect seminary to be this good, this fruitful, this meaningful to me.

confirmed double-rhythm

I grabbed my husband in the kitchen tonight. Okay, yes that's not unusual.

I bear-hugged him with clinging desperation and relief when he confirmed that he, too, felt as if he were floating above himself in a daze. I have been feeling this way all week, hot, slightly out of it, and narcoleptically tired at 1 in the afternoon. We have been in this same schedule for weeks now: Up at 6 for breakfast and clothing. To the bus at 7. Out the door for class, exercise class, or nursery school drop off. Our afternoons vary. But it's back home to meet the bus by 3:50pm. Dinner by 5. Soccer, Tennis or class for me. Baths, stories. Then from 8-midnight, it's freelance projects for him and nonstop Theology for me. And then the whole thing all over again.

Add to this documenting seizure-meds and the thought of Manny fighting or coping with Epilepsy and we are shredded down to the wires, man.

Maybe I am brootsin' (PA Dutch for complaining or kvetching). But I seriously thought I was coming down with something or that I had some sort of neurological problem, reeling on my feet at the kitchen sink at 2 in the afternoon.

So this week, I will master the art of the Japanese power nap. I will read email once a day. And those things I cannot do, I will do as well as I can or completely forget about them. I shrug my shoulders, count 6 heads, and press on.

exhibitionism and use of the subjunctive

Calliope came home from her second week of nursery school to report: When I was showing my belly to my friends, I might have shown my belly, I lifted up my heart shirt.

Me: Oh, okay. So who did you show your belly to?

Calliope: I might have shown it to Una and Shea at the monkey bars.

boy with brainstorms

So, we have Epilepsy.

In a 20 minute EEG, Manny had 5 seizures. We found this out on Friday. And I'm assuming if you are here at my blog, that you are close enough to us to care, which means, you are close enough for me to ask you to pray.

Children are so vulnerable. I keep thinking about Manny's brain seizing up like Lily Tomlin's telephone circuits-- all lights and confusion. I guess for years he's been having seizures. That's the part I cry about most. But it's true, I marvel at the way he has adapted all this time. The way, though jarring and challenged at times, he has managed to live many long healthy days!


We are on good meds. We are taking it day by day. Learning to *trust the Captain, to trust the crew.


*my favorite author's tattoo says this. I used it without permission.

baby theology 101

Mema gave this little game to the kids. It looks like a tablet of paper, spiral bound, vertically oriented. Using pictograms, it quizzes kids about nature. Things like: In what season, does a tree lose its leaves? They give pictures for multiple-choice answers.

I was reading them with Calliope. Her question was: Who makes this (spiderweb)? Choices are a picture of a snail, ant, and spider. She says, "It's none of these because God made that web."

Later, Clara, unassisted, is going through the questions. She sees this one and says, "Oh yeah, this is the web that the spider gets as its home."

Love that, love that. CF's idea that things in nature are God's doing. CM's idea that their is grand design in it and the function of creation is good.

what school has given them

after only a few days:

Manny-We're not sure if it's from fatigue or transition into a new schedule but Manny had an unprecedented day-time night terror. It was 3 hours of confusion, fear, and prayer for all of us. He goes in for tests tomorrow and Friday to determine if they were seizures or anything else. Since then, we have become a house aflame with prayer, calling docs, and anxious tears (mine).

Benicio-The role of mentor. Our neighbor and nursery school peer has joined Benicio's class. He has helped her transition. And he was assigned a first grade-classmate to mentor as well. He commented to his friend, "This guy doesn't listen. Wait til we have to teach them to knit!"

Clara-The role of big sis on campus. In the great tradition of older sibs watching over younger ones at school (my bro Mikey, standing at my first grade desk while I took my first spelling test), Clara is simply seamless in her looking after Calliope. Without cramping her three-year old style or impinging on her sand play, Clara knows where her sister is and with genius, seems to know what the agenda is toward her.

Calliope-Drum roll, please. Calliope has revealed what she wants to be when she grows up. Ready? Her words: I want to be barber at Hersheypark. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen.

the writing, alive, well and rife for revision

Okay, so you know that feeling when you are thrifting and you score the perfect sneakers for Kristofferson from Fantastic Mr. Fox, or the best Yoko dress ever? Okay, well, I had that feeling at my school. What I found was The Center for Theological Writing!

Long ago, when I was a junior at Pitt, I was in the office of my informal Religious Studies advisor (Who is a surfer/philosopher and Big Lebowski rolled into one.) He loved Socratic dialogue and spoke in it often. Eager to graduate and get married, I said I didn't want to dual major anymore. This is what he said:

Okay, you are teaching creative writing at your university. You start reading St. Catherine of Siena and you tell your chairman that you would like to teach a course in religious memoir. And they go, "Like okay, sure, but what the heck do you know about religious writings?" And you go, "Well, um, in my undergrad days, I was 3 courses short of a major in it. So yeah, like, I could teach Aquinas handily!"

I took the extra courses, graduated with a dual major, and still got married like I wanted. I do not teach creative writing nor do I teach religion. I teach table manners and cat's cradle. My poetry gathers dust in the hallway. And only now am I thinking of my Biblical Hebrew and those things that I studied back in Pittsburgh.

I went to the orientation for the Center for Theological Writing on Wednesday. The boys got on the bus. I handed the girls off to Maggie who took them on a field study of their own. For the first time in over ten years, I sat among adults and discussed one of my first loves-- grammar!

I know, it's so dorky but we started with a grammar and citation check as a "warm up." When I identified the grammatical error of a split infinitive, I wanted to throw my arms over my head and jump up and down like a game show contestant. I sat with my colorful pens, my sailcloth portfolio (best birthday gift in recent history btw), and let the citation guidelines roll into my consciousness. Let the discussion of genres like apologetics, church history, and systematic theology pour over me.

And just tonight I had an awesome chat with the woman who started CTW. How does our writing illuminate what's going on in our souls? Is it a scholarly pursuit to try and systematically put feet to our beliefs? I could have talked those things all night. It's not often that I feel this way, but today is a day when I think that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Second Grade, Second Grade

On this occasion of the start of second grade, I post this prayer. My Mom's Dad, my grandfather, was a true academic. When he got home from work, he didn't ask, "What chores did you do?" He'd ask, "What have you read?" This was his favorite hymn. I pray this for the boys, that they would pray this in their year.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;
where there is hatred, let me show love;
where there is injury, pardon:
where there is doubt, faith ;
where there is despair, hope
where there is darkness, light
where there is sadness, joy
O divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
Amen.

stinky character

Clara pushes the envelope. She is preparing for the deep water test at the Y. She has solo dance sessions that are irresistible to watch (I think she might be a Mariah fan). But she also has stinky character right now. She can have so much sass and disrespect, I want to throw up my hands! She has my mean bone and some of my mean-girl tendencies. When they surface, I am paralyzed at the self-recognition and horrified at the relational-damage she is capable of. She is audacious in striking her brothers and deceiving her sister is a daily occurrence.

But then things like Sunday happened. I've discussed before the way that the kids at St. V's re-enter the service by bringing up the food-pantry baskets. Well, first of all, we were singing the Servant Song, which we sang at our wedding. So Geoff and I are both misty and crackly-voiced to begin with. Then here come the kids: Manny and Benicio tandem-carrying a laundry basket of food. But no Clara. The whole line of kids goes up but I don't see my girl. Just then, I see her carrying the bread for Communion. She and her friend, and the Spiritual Director are bringing up the sacramentals. And then they get up to the Altar, she stands poised. When she catches my eye, she bites her lip to stifle her smile. I am covering my mouth to stifle my tearful paroxysms: our girl is up there presenting the bread and wine! Seeing her up there, she seems so big! Having no pocket, she carries her Sunday School page inside the red sash of her dress. Oh, I will keep that picture of her in my heart forever.

Our little girl, wild and beautiful sinner that she is up there with the body of Christ. This is how I feel starting Seminary. A messy, broken and complicated character standing to bear witness to God's Word, to God's work in the world. Small in comparison to the thing I am witnessing but in it and attentive none the less.

Night Before Seminary

It's random, the things I am thinking about: kids' snacks, should I bring my computer, will I be ostracized for my Catholicism, putting out big trash, and what the heck to wear.

When I worked at the kitchen store, my dear friend Mercedes had many useful phrases. One of my favorites is "wearing your boobies in a V." As in: Coming to the kitchen store in search of a muddler is no place to wear your boobies in a V! One thing I like about it is that it presupposes that there are some times where that might be a good option. Needless to say, I won't have anything in a V tomorrow. I like thinking of her when I choose my outfit.

Anyway, I have my orientation tomorrow morning. Just did a harried fashion-show for Geoff. Sky blue shirt dress or blouse and dress pants? He was like, what are you going for? Comfort? Seriousness? I said, which one would [the head of the Architecture Dept at his school] wear? He chose the latter. But I switched out the pants for an anthro skirt and wedge sandals and feel much more like myself. That's probably going to be a good formula: business-fancy dialed down to my comfort.

Ames wrote me and advised "bangin' lip gloss and comfy shoes." She knows me well. I had the minty Burt's Bees in dark crimson and the sandals I antiqued in all set. She also advised an "extra Baggu" but that's another story. (That presupposes that I was bringing one Baggu to begin with!)

I don't want it to be a big fuss. I want to be one among many, just one of the human race, as my bro says. I have chosen this program for its merits. And they accepted me for mine. Let's take this path as a path to another path. No huge agendas, no crazy pronouncements, just one step on a path.

And Then Roses Came

I don't even know how to describe these neighbors. It's going to sound uncharitable. And me, in my error and out of my comfort zone, is where I very often begin. And from this spot, I am challenged and taught to grow in love for others. To put it simply, there is a woman on our street who is an addict. Picture the neighborhood "cat lady," talking to and feeding stray cats. On top of this, she verbally assaults her husband in front of our kids. Cars with strange plates pull up in front of her house and she makes her transactions. It brings a bizarre and unsettling tone to our otherwise idyllic block. She looks like Cruella de Ville sans the Dalmatian stole. And he looks like Andy Warhol dressed in a flower-delivery guy's uniform.

When we first moved to Philly, my next-door neighbor advised me that on this block, the key is to keep to yourself. Since that time, I have applied this advice. Until I noticed cars rolling up onto our street at all hours, which is when, I began to write down the plate numbers, and get really concerned for our block. It is one thing to see dealers' cars but something else to find tiny bags and something else entirely to try and explain to the children.

I feel lame, my list of makes and models. My repressed confusion and anger every time I see them. Then our dear neighbors who not only keep an Eden-esque garden but model sanity and compassion told me that this same couple had lost a child to a motorcycle accident many years ago. Standing in my backyard, this information wedged into my heart. This is what tragedy can do, this woman is not simply an addict, she is a mother completely undone.

So at Geoff's lead, I began to say, "Good morning." I began to make eye contact. Maybe it's been a year now. Then just after we got back from Cambridge, the husband stopped Geoff outside and confided grave news. He said that his wife is sick. She had been bleeding for eight months and has been diagnosed with late stage cervical cancer. That she will start chemo in a week. Just after Geoff comes inside, we hear footsteps on the front porch. And Francis has left roses. Not like supermarket roses but pristine white ones, the size of Bordeaux goblets. They are arranged in a perfect globe. I ask him, "What are these for?" He says, "They're from a wedding from Old St. Joseph's Church."

Bowled over by this news, and from these particular folks, we did what we always do when overwhelmed, we pray. Geoff asked for wisdom. I asked for my fear to ease up. We both asked for her healing, body and soul. And then I did what my Dad always does when overwhelmed, I cooked. The sloppiest, cheesiest mac and cheese, a tomato soup with sausage and basil.

It gets better. We continue to find flowers. And not wildflowers but a 32 inch wreath of Baby's Breath with silk organdy ribbon on the porch. I always try and chase him down but it's so awkward. I'm like, "Francis, what are these? " And he never answers my question but replies, "Wedding at Villanova Chapel!" or "Banquet at the Palm!" It is the strangest kind of grace. And I'm talking grace both ways: The grace to regift ostentatious flowers as thanks for food. The grace to look into their eyes and see the battle that they are fighting against this illness now and fighting against the looming tragedy from their child.

When she thanked me, she said, "I've gained three pounds and I know that it's because of your food." So much grief, complexity, and beauty in the mix. In my ignorance and fear, I had such a guard up. When I began to cook for her, the threat of what I thought she could do to our block or to me withered. And something blossomed in its place.

Hook, Line, Sinker and the Glorious Detachment from the Outcome

After last week's vacation, there has been much napping, hydrating, and the compulsion to fast from excess. For the consumption of coffee, pinot and margaritas, liter upon liter of water. For the consumption of birthday cake, chernobyl-cheese powder and red meat, a fruit cleanse. And for engaging in raging competition and the intake of high-paced movies and video games-- FISHING!

That's right, my friend who lives in the woods called last night. My ears perked up at the phrases: five dollars and all four kids. There is an amazing nature center in the woods where we did maple-sugaring and other activities during our homeschool year. Using a five-bill that I found in the laundry (Cha ching!), I signed us up. We met up with three other families from our little school. It was a morning workshop. They gave the girls these bamboo poles with paperclips on the end. We spent some time catching worms for live bait. Then we hiked down to the creek.

The instructional portion was really informative: stuff I'd never heard about the hooks, cautionary stuff about safety and then really cute zen stuff about technique (how it's a waiting game but waiting with a fishing pole beats waiting for the bus). And you are supposed to be aware of your neighbor when you cast, and that you are supposed to shout, "FISH ON!" when you have caught one. There was a bait-buffet: meal worms, live worms, even cut up hot dog and frozen peas. At one point, I wanted to console a discouraged Clara, "Claresie, wanna switch up your bait?" She looks at her hook, carefully adjusts the bait and confidently replies, "I'm stickin with the hot dog, Mom."

Once everyone is baited up, it really IS about waiting. And in that wait-time, what's a mama like me thinking? I'm praying, "Please don't fall in the creek." I'm looking around at the other kids, seeing if my kids are "doing it right." The temptation is to want them to catch one more than I want them to learn the gestalt of the thing. The temptation to want them to win, whatever that means in fishing. Anne Lamott says that lure of perfection the "voice of the oppressor." So, there on the still waters of the Wissahickon, I am tuned in to the voice of perfection, "Come on, succeed!!"

The first fish of the morning was caught by Manny's classmate. She is a sturdy and sweet girl that Manny bonded with over their sacraments this year. I took her picture with her sunfish, her freckled nose, her oddly confident grip on that fish.

We waited and rebaited and re-casted. Psychologized about how the fish would follow quiet voices or sun light or swim away from loud voices, etc. This went on for an hour . But then after hooking his finger, a disheveled Manny, whose flannel shirt in 80 degrees and socks with crocks, shouts out, "I got one!! Mama, whoa, I got one!!!" I was prouder at that moment that he called me "mama" in public but then so tickled and happy for his catch. I was literally, like, "God , you are looking out for my struggling boy. God, you SO get Manny!"

After coming from a strong tradition of teeth-clenching, suck-it-up, push through it kind of success, how glorious to see victory come this way.

Summer Essentials

I often belly-ache that we don't have a digital SLR but I am arriving at the conclusion that I simply see things in prose. One of my favorite fashion bloggers helped me realize this bc she gave a list of wardrobe essentials completely in list form, no photos and barely any links. Even though I fancy myself esoteric, I really believe that life is in the details.

So here are some things that made our summer possible:

Ipods
The boys have their miniscule shuffles. For Manny, an instant "room of his own" where he could have his own thoughts, head space and literally provided the very individual beat that he drums to. Benicio loved to make perfect mixes, where old songs were spaced between new ones and always wanted to purge away songs he no longer enjoyed. For me, I was able to listen to all of my lectures. I listened to lectures in the van on 95 heading to New England, on the tread mill at the Yoga gym in Harvard Square, browsing the racks at the Garment District, and again back home fertilizing marigolds with G Love crooning in my ear.

My Bootleg Swiss Army Knife from College
I used to use it to spread cream cheese on the Schenley lawn and this summer, I used the scissors to liberate fishing line, screw in battery panels on toys, and even as a hammer to build a tent in our apartment.

Our Saltwater Sandals
In the mornings, I'll say, "Today, you guys need to wear shoes that you could walk all day in." The girls and I would meet in the front hall-- all wearing our sandals. Then that night, we'd line them up together after having worn them to Mass, to the library, and to two playgrounds.

Crockpot
Not the sexy stainless ones with the hipster-black crock. This orangey-brown one that hails from my childhood home complete with the cracked plastic lid. We have had Moroccan lentil stew, Mexican eggs, and veggie lasagne nonstop this summer. In that post-swim dash for a high-calorie dinner, we would come home to a sane and balanced feast.

Terrain Salad
I took the girls there for lunch where they were dazzled by the bread pots (brioche baked in terra cotta pots). But I am still trying to recreate the salad. FRILLY LETTUCE (KALE-ESQUE BUT NOT AT ALL BITTER) +RED ONION +GRILLED PEACHES WITH SOME CREAMY (BUT NOT RANCHY) DRESSING. I have made iterations of it involving Boston lettuce and broiled peaches when we were out of propane.

Goggles
I don't know anything more endearing than a kid in goggles. Their eyes sucked so tight you can see them bugged-out into the goggle sockets. Or from the front, their eyes are slightly uneven. Or sometimes, when water's in there, there's a little pool in there where you expect a microscopic Dori will swim across. Or the conversations you can have underwater with goggles like: underwater tea-parties or hang loose or I love you or rock on. On vacation, my brother and I formed a lineup of 3 or 4 of us in an "electric fence." You have to swim through the tunnel without touching the sides. The tunnel consists of people's legs. It is a very weird feeling to have your kids and nephews swimming through your legs. Kind of a crazy, chlorinated birth metaphor.

Home from the Mountains

We just spent the week in the Mountains. For close to a week, our orbit consisted of the tennis courts, swimming pools, the volleyball court, and the arcade. But most intensely, we wore deep grooves on the steps between each of the two houses we rented, side by side.

The kids ran in the pack of a dozen cousins all week. They developed their own rituals like "taking a tub" in the condo hot tub after each pool visit. Also, rounding up a game of Ladderball after dinner, Larry poking his head through the sliding glass door saying, "Yo, I heard someone say, "Ladderbattle!" And also "Dance Island" on the little dock platform, where before you jump in, you are required to booty-shake. There was the pack of preschool girls affectionately referred to as "The Hello Kitty Club." There was the pack of primary-school boys who went by the "Super Smash Cousins." And then there were the teenagers who texted and and fakebooked but who were refreshingly present and dialed-in to the whole family-bonding scenario.

Elli, the oldest cousin who was there, recently graduated from college but joked that she felt like she was a member of the HK club because she found herself watching their movies, while eating popcorn and brushing her hair. But maybe that's essential in the making of a good vacation: finding ways to connect and take part of each set. Painting nails while downloading songs with the teens. Counting tokens and tickets with the Super Smashers at 10:30 at night just before the counter closes. Cutting fruit plates for the HK Club at the breakfast bar while they discuss Abby Cadabby and whether or not she's a baby.

And all of us were doing it. My eldest brother, a veteran of two wars tenderly petting and doting on their new puppy, Rudy. My second -eldest brother, an ivy-league lawyer and Mensa member, guarding his "Old School Jams Part 3 CD" with semi-paranoid care. And my fourth brother, a debtless Harvard phD kickboxing his heart out in the backyard with my ivy-league little sister and mother of two, recounting her bruises with morbid pride.

Elements of a Legaspi-vacation: rounds of emails about food weeks before (enormous egg bakes, 3-heads of lettuce salads, and the most obscenely big roast beef ever, a sheet cake for the inevitable birthdays), swimming every day possible, playing normal sports( tennis, volleyball), but also amping those games up to intense and semi-outrageous competitions (Ladderbattle that is basically dodgeball with golfballs and Newcome that is basically volleyball but with catching and precision-spiking), Bible quizzes (oral interviews about the Miracles and the Parables but also theological inventories that get at their character), Karaoke (singing into my Dad's fancy Korean microphone that scores you), and crazy dance parties (picture Kid n' Play meets Bella Dance-a-rella meets Capoeira.)

Because we have been together so long, I no longer feel like my husband's a neophyte, he participates completely in all the crazy things we do. Last night, driving to the arcade for the last time, a bunch of us were packed into the minivan, toddlers on laps sans carseats, teens recounting Scrubs and Lost lines, my sis asks me if I have any cash. I say I don't. Geoff, in the front seat says he does. My sister's husband says he does, too. From the driver's seat, he looks back and asks, "Aren't you glad you married us?"

The answer is: Yes, I am glad my sister and I married each of you adventurous and semi-crazy men. And I am glad that you married us, this contradictory and funky family.

Turned In

Now is when I should be writing a paper. I round up water bottles, lock the front door and make my way upstairs. All kids are asleep with dreams of deep-sea diving and the Sooperdooperlooper. Manny's asleep on his drawing papers. Benicio's webkin stands centurion by his pillow. By the light of their purple chandelier, I see Clara who gave her whole self to the day's swimming. Now, she gives over to sleep with an equal surrender. Calliope is wistful in sleep, her pillow is her cohort as she cozies into its softness.

And when I look into our room, the pages from Geoff's book flutter quietly from the ceiling fan. He is like the mango skin that I cut for the sorbet-- a peel that had earlier housed the day's calculus, its shape, its energy. His sleep is delicious and solid and I have a pang of envy.

But I will continue through the night with my ice water, the little hum of this computer and all the thoughts I need to hand in for Tuesday.

Open Apology to Soccer Moms

It's not that I really judged you, it's more that I didn't want to be you. The image in my mind: confined to a minivan, shuttling kids, a life-on-the-go for a vain and self-congratulatory purpose. The culture of obsessing about refs, recording scores, the horror stories of hockey dads gone violent. So far, I have resisted palling with the coaches, bringing excessive snacks, and standing within earshot of the players. But I don't know how long I can resist.

I need to apologize because now I get it. The joy it brings to see your child, this being that you saw come into being, out on the field at play and in-play! What an expression of humanity, I know it sounds hyperbolic, but I had this primal sense that my progeny was out on the battle-field and fending for himself, and it was nothing short of glorious!

Manny --on the tennis court, eyes still bloodshot from a tantrum about NOT wanting to be there, but now doing his little Nadal-inspired shuffle. And returning serves from a fourteen year old. Benicio--whose report card brought us to tears. His gym teacher wrote, "What an amazing little athlete!" Benici on the soccer field, a natural running to the ball, learning the give and go. Rockin' the Beckenbauer pull-back with aplomb. Clara, with her friend Zady on the soccer field, having to be told that they cannot, in fact, dribble downfield holding hands. But then Clara, with not one second of apprehension, lowers her head and SHOOTS on the goalie with an unexpected accuracy. And then of course Calliope, who I have spinelessly bribed all week, showed moments of promise when she played a game where they basically have to shoot soccer balls directly at the coach. For some reason, she got really into it.

Maybe it's a microcosm of how they will or do function in the real world. A microcosm-- a mini-scenario of what they do when faced with certain things-- when faced head-on with a kid twice their size wanting to slide-tackle you and possibly cleat you, do you back off, or do you charge? Or when being heckled for being slow during wind-sprints on the tennis court, do you wither or do you get faster? Or maybe it's a metaphor for who they are on a larger scale--Clara tends toward a slow and steady love of game whereas Benicio tends to burn bright and fast and risks burnout.

Either way, I am a junkie for it. My adrenaline gets up and I am transfixed. Once, I was watching my sis in a junior high basketball tournament. I saw her get body-checked, intentionally-fouled and I was livid and broke out into stress hives. Even so, seeing my sister's perfect passes and twitch-fast rebounds, was amazing.

So, I am sorry I laughed at your car-magnets, your lilliputian cleats dangling from your rearview mirror. If you will have me, I will proudly join your ranks. I will cut oranges for an army. I will be there on the sidelines. I will drive to Guam for the away games. I'm in.

Cambridge Days

All my writing energies have been devoted to these papers I have to write for class. Papers about how one passage of Scripture can crack a stony heart. And as you can imagine, my stony heart has been taking some beating. Not beating as in beats per minute but I mean beating as in major paradigm changes that leave me feeling emotionally whip-lashed and seriously fatigued.

But now that we're back home, I have a sec to tell you some things that happened since I last posted:
-We caught clams and shrimp and minnows off of the North Shore in Rockport.
-We saw the Paris Boys Choir perform.
-We spent a Saturday picnicking in the park with old friends. We ate, played Capture the Flag, and rounded out the day with a theatrical thunder storm.
-I took four skeptical kids to the Omni theatre where we (I) wept for the whales' beauty.
-Spent many afternoons in that library, eating and discovering new friends like Mouk, the Bear.
-Listened to the Black Eyed Peas ad nauseum.
-Got Calliope into the waves, up to her belly button!
-Got Manny into Walden, up to his nose!
-Turned our apartment upside down, scouring for lost library books, a rose earring, and one turquoise Chinese slipper.
-Spent time with Mikey's family at Andover. Kids wrapped in Spain's flag singing victory songs through the dining hall. Swimming with them and laughing about how fast our kids change and how little we can do about it.

finally

In the those years that we lived here, we never made it to the Charles on the Fourth. Until this year. . .

Letting C Free Be Free

These past weeks, I have tried to become an expert in these kids: Let’s document Manny’s behavior with regard to gluten in his diet. Benicio’s not completely out of size 6 but is it wise to buy any more shorts in this size vis a vis next summer? Will Clara attempt to play with this girl that is clearly only speaking Mandarin? The other day, I took them into this funky little consignment shop that I used to bring the boys to when they were barely standing up. It was an exercise in observing consumer and fashion behavior.

Finding an Oilily dress is a serendipitous surprise. Finding one that’s not dated and in your size is a small miracle. We found one for Calliope. It was a jumper with a soft denim top and a raucous color-riot of gingham tiers for the skirt. She told me she wanted to take it into the dressing room herself. Benicio and Clara went in to help her. A bit later, a sweaty Calliope saunters out of the dressing room with the dress on-- with only the top of her head and her eyes peeking out of the neck-hole. Doubling over with disbelieving laughter, I asked Manny to get the camera from my bag but he was laughing too hard himself.

She said she liked it as “sort of a necklace.” In any case, she is not a Dutch size 2 anymore. And I said, we would get it if only it didn’t impede her breathing. In deference to her sense of individuality, yesterday I allowed her to wear her bikini top backward at Walden. The two bust-triangles accentuated her shoulder blades while her front looked like some exotic Brazilian top-thong. I'm like, "Okay, do your thang, girl!"

Wanna know what we got that day? Benicio scored a blue fleece and these beautiful Indian pajamas in pure white cotton. Clara found a pair of fuchsia suede mary janes in her size-- the exact pair that she outgrew last fall. Calliope is the child I buy the least new things. (When I thrift, I’m always thinking of her and Benicio.) She got these Oilily shorts that I can only really describe as Jams. And she says that if I put mentos in the pockets, she will wear them willingly.

Some Adjusting

Lovin so far:
-the tiny amazing vacuum cleaner here made by Sharp (Don't they make tv's?)
-the way the kids hug the air conditioning unit when we come into the apartment.
-the kids from all over the world at Peabody Terrace playground. (I feel so lame just speaking English and offering them pretzels. It should be Tagalog and offering them nori or something.)
-St. Paul's Church just across the street, we squeak into daily Mass like Kramer entering the room.
-the play that they do together:tent sales, exclusive tent clubs, shows, action figure battles, them trying to read the kids books in Hebrew on the shelf, making fake money, sprinkler dodgeball, Go Fish adapted to 3 yr olds (upside-down shoeboxes so she doesn't have to hold her cards).

Tryin to cope with:
-the fact that Harvard Housing does not recycle. WTF?
-impatient launderers who interrupt my load and fail to close it so the time runs out.
-I can neither do late night nor early am laundry.
-neighbors above and below.
-factoring time to find a parking space on the street
-zig zaggy one-ways
-insane traffic just to cross the river

I think I sound a bit whiny there but really I am grateful to be here.

What They Build

Make Yourself at Home

Calliope made a rug for the terrace, which actually goes a long way in making it feel homey out there. And while I worked on a paper, Clara served herself some yogurt and ate it with a 1/2 teaspoon.

the marriage feast of the lamb will be located

at the Cambridge Public Library main branch. Okay, I'm exaggerating. Libraries are important to us-- every week, we fill a boat tote of books, CD's and movies. We have been doing this since Manny was a baby. They are story hour pros. I love the solace of having a clean table surface all to myself. Manny and Benicio know exactly how the drill goes-- they wrestle and rough house all the way up the steps at the Falls branch back home. Then as soon as we open the door, their voices hush and then it is them and their individual quest for Jack Stalwart or Magic Treehouse books.

Here, though, we have found the library of our dreams. It is essentially brand new, cool, clean and everything you could want in a public library. Wide-museum like landings, a music section the size of TLA, a robust poetry section, and the best part is the the third floor, children's floor. I was writing a paper on Saturday when Geoff had brought the kids. They came back and with mounting excitement, they all described it:
Calliope:Mama, there are puppets, lots and lots of good puppets!
Clara: There's not just a Charlie and Lola spot, there's a Charlie and Lola shelf!!! There's a sign that says welcome in all the languages!
Benicio:There are window seats, lots of them, there are pet mice in the librarian's counter, there's a self-checkout like at IKEA., they have bean bag chairs, they have tables to look like tree rings.
Geoff: They are open til 9 on weeknights!! It's all glass, the attention builders would pay to build a mall, Cambridge gave double to make an inspiring public space!

And, you can eat there too! After a crowded and rollicking story hour there, we sat down at a table for plums and water IN THE LIBRARY. It's incredible, wish you could see it.

Catching Bubbles, Medicine Balls

So they're back. The four siblings are back in action. Back when Calliope was born, I looked at the four of them and thought, "Oh, this is glorious. I love gazing at them, watching them individually do their thing is like catching bubbles. Like this elusive and wistful practice, maybe I'll catch one on my arm, maybe I'll get to hold one just for a moment.

But then there are moments like in the ER with Benicio wondering if he'll need an appendectomy or Clara's first dance recital with all of that performance tension in the air: I feel as if God is heaving a truckload of medicine balls at me. And I can't really stop them from coming.

Today, we were at Walden Pond. Manny was in his swim cap and goggle-wearing glory observing the marine life underwater, "I know plankton when I see it." Benicio was prolific per usual building an elegant castle, an Egyptian pyramid, and trick chocolate chip cookies-- all with the sand. Clara was intrepid in the water--she swam under the ropes bobbing back up gleefully with water gushing through her enormous smile. Calliope, who has inherited my suspicion of new spaces took to her botany work, sorting pebbles and seeds into her elaborate soup.

I got to read half of my book for my class. I just sat in the beach chair, donned my comrade cap, my shades and announced that I had to do homework. The heavens opened, the stars aligned and I read halfway through my book!

Oh, man. I am so grateful for this bubble-catching day.

To Be Taught, To Glean

Okay, I’ll say it: I have a tendency to fall for my teachers. It started in first grade when Sister Mary Ethel hid treats in our desks after the SRA testing. Then later, my brothers teased me mercilessly because my friends and I would squeal and giggle as we ran to hug our teacher when she entered the schoolyard. I had endless trust in these teachers-- the program they set before me, the high expectations met with little special rewards. They had delicious hand-writing, scratch and sniff stickers and clicky shoes.

Even though it was less so in high school, I had this chemistry teacher who resembled Edgar Allen Poe. He taught us to balance chemistry equations with dry humor and tons of extra credit. The glorious sense of accomplishment when both sides were balanced! During a tense adolescence, I adored the opportunity to focus on a black and white task like that.


One of my nieces attended the same college I did. In her last year, she asked about one professor that I’d always talked about. She said, I signed up for his class, you said he changed your life so I thought I had to try it. A month later, she’s stressed because he’s assigned Petrarch and Catherine of Siena and is in over her head with the reading. She pleaded, “How did you get through this class?” Twisting my hair in my fingers and biting my lip, I confessed, “Elli, do you know the class I took with him that I said changed my life? Well, honey, that class was called Freshman Studies.” Um yeah. That’s the one-credit required course that familiarized us with the campus map, the blue security lights, and using the internet.



I felt silly but I wasn’t lying. In teaching that introductory course, that particular professor taught us the gestalt of college-- the essence of being there. He wore Italian sandals and had this leather shoulder bag that squeaked when he walked. He had played college basketball but found Dante and never looked back. He was facile with languages, sophisticated and traveled. He gave a tour of the stained glass in Heinz chapel that could bring you to tears. Geoff and I tasted hummus for the first time at his amazing house. It’s dorky but this is where we saw the life we wanted. So yeah, he changed my life but it wasn’t with the reading he assigned.

So fast-forward to now where my first taste of grad school are these online classes. In the fall, I will start to actually GO to class. My challenge these days is to listen to these lectures, these disembodied voices and glean. The first professor is exactly who you’d expect to have as your intro to counseling school-- Harvard educated, found the Lord while working at a psych ward. He makes perfect, mind-blowing points. I listen to lectures, take notes, write response papers. It’s actually difficult to have those things stripped away-- no leather bags to admire, no stickers. Just the material and me. I think I may have a crush on my ipod.

Today Feels Like Summer

Things we did:
Combined hydrangea flowers with pebbles from the school driveway in an Aquafina bottle.
Had a picnic by a creek with friends.
Built sandcastles, dams, got wetter than we expected.
Ate birthday cake gelato.
Dared to eat watermelon seeds.
Changed in the car.
Listened to LZ's Fool in the Rain while comparing yearbooks.
Weeded.
Spat plum pits.
Made mint tea and salad from the garden.
Hunted down Bonhoeffer book and found it under a wet mound of swimsuits.

For Your Kindle

On the occasion of Calliope getting her first Library Card, a list of their NYT Bestsellers, were they to have authored their own right now:



Calliope’s:Little Goldsworthy: Pebble and Peony Petal Sculptures You Can Make Anywhere

Clara’s: No More Sequins in the Sandbox: What To Do When Your Friends Leave for Kindergarten

Benicio’s: Aboveground Railroad: Memoir of a Quakerly Rapper and How He Made the World a Betta Place

Manny’s: Killing Me Softly With Testing: How I Confounded the Wechsler IQ Test and Made them Sorry It Existed

Camp Chuckling Falls*

Chaperoning the boys’ camping trip this past weekend was like being a guest at a wedding. You don’t have to plan. You don’t have to organize activities. You don’t have a motivational role. You get to take part. You are encouraged to hang out . You are asked to be there for them. The structure is set by others and it was so great to do what was set out by someone else. However, unlike a wedding, the children’s cabin smelled like sweet milk and dirty puppies.

Highlights from the trip: Never having played Capture the Flag before, I was frustrated with how deadlocked that game can be. And yet the children were not as interested in the final outcome just the process was thrilling for them. Serving food lunch-lady style-- getting to see how they asked for what they wanted, how some didn’t. Watching them be on a trip that is an extension of their classroom. Playing the board game" Life" with Manny and his friends: “Manny, you can choose College Career or just plain Career.” Serving cheeseburger-sized s'mores to them for a post-breakfast breakfast. Having a thunderstorm with forty-some children in bunks. Being there for Benicio’s Feedback and Cleansing Ceremony the morning after many of them had been away from home for the first time. It would feel like to much disclosure to share too much about that. But I will say that it’s like watching kids pray, closing their eyes, their kid-belly jutting out, so little armor, so incredible.

*I like to tell hypothetical stories to the kids. A less preachy and indirect way of teaching morals, fears/shames, and in some cases, exclusion, tattling, sarcasm, things like that. So in the weeks before the trip, we discussed a hypothetical camping trip and its possible scenarios, whose campground went by this name.