It's all in the balance

There are lots of new things going on at our house. For one thing, as you may have read, I have a (sort of) new job. I also have a new bike! My first since I was about 10 years old.

Taking on the responsibilities of a news editor is both an exhilarating challenge for me and a bit of a hardship for our family. I will be staying in Marion to edit the Record while my husband and daughter move back to Kansas City where he has gotten a job. It’s not far. It won’t be forever, but it will likely be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

The bike was purchased primarily to get me to work and back since Michael and Lyla will have our family car and to allow us to take family bike rides around town.

Before we settled on buying one for me, I rode my husband’s uber-fancy road bike to work a couple of days. I wanted to get back into the swing of balancing my whole body on the tiny surface area of two racing tires meeting the road and going pretty fast without being surrounded by a metal shell.

Needless to say, I started small. I hadn’t been on a bike in about 15 years.

It took me several attempts just to get the courage to do more than push it along with my feet. I eased my way into a jaunt down the block. After a few trips around the neighborhood I tried riding to work for my first day as a full-timer in a few years. Speeding down the hill convinced me I needed a heavier bike than the tiny featherweight thing my husband rides. Pushing back up the hill later that day in 103-degree heat along side grain trucks that can’t easily share the road convinced me I needed more practice.

The child seat my mom brought was the kicker — it didn’t fit Michael’s bike. It was time to get me one. So we did.

I’m getting the hang of (some) things, but I’ve got a long way to go. We’ve been taking bike rides at least once a day since I got it, usually after work. We strap Lyla safely onto the back of my bike with her Lightning McQueen helmet on and a juice in her hand, and Mike leads the way so I can focus on learning to mess with the gears and, most importantly, balancing.

Balancing may seem like a small thing to some, but the 30-some extra pounds I have strapped to the back of my bike makes it a major feat to me. Plus, I’m rusty. I’ve nearly fallen a couple of times. My body hurts as I’m getting used to riding on a small seat over bumpy roads, but, again, I know when I learn to be better balanced, I’ll relax a bit, and my muscles won’t be sore after every ride.

The process so far has been a lot like growing into my new job. Much like my bike riding, it’s been a while since I’ve worked full-time in a news room, but I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it soon. This past week I’ve had moments I was sure a paper wouldn’t go out — I’ve nearly fallen down on the job — but I didn’t. I’ll get better at that too.The key, of course, will be balance. I’ll have to learn to make good decisions more quickly and to account for the weight of all that’s riding on those decisions with me. As I learn to relax, to find the balance, I expect the rough roads will take less of a toll.

Last night we went for another family bike ride, and as we coasted past somebody mowing their lawn, I caught of whiff of fresh cut grass and gasoline — that strange combination that permeates summer. It’s been rare this year with so many lawns shriveling in the drought.

I sat back on my bike seat and took a deep breath.“Smell that?” I asked Michael. “It finally smells like summer.”I felt my shoulders drop and I slowed down to look around me instead of at the gears or the bumpy road. I saw people out in their yards and walking their dogs. I noticed my neighbors’ lawns and flowers starting to look more green and healthy like I’m used to. I saw people. I saw Marion. And I didn’t lose my balance.

Today has been a bigger challenge at the Record than I anticipated. But I know I’m up to it. I just need to remember to take deep breaths. To look up and see people, see Marion, and remember those things are why I love what I do.

As published in the Marion County Record, August 10, 2011.

It's all a matter of perspective

Last year was our first experience of Chingawassa Days. As parents of a 1-year-old, and considering the oppressive heat that weekend, we didn’t attempt to participate in much.

This year, we were ready for something a bit more exciting. Knowing our toddler, we still weren’t planning to spend the whole day at the festival, but we were just sure she’d be interested in enough things to make it worth the effort.

She’s really into bouncing lately, so I thought the inflatable attractions would be a hit. If nothing else, I knew she’d love to see and pet animals.

We planned ahead and blocked out a good chunk of time Saturday morning for the glee we were sure would ensue. I charged the camera battery and packed plenty of water. I dressed her in something I was sure was “bouncing friendly.”

Only five minutes behind schedule (which is like being early when you have a 2-year-old) we set off for the park. We urged her along the whole three blocks. She dawdled, and we kept assuring each other “if only she knew what awaits her, she’d hustle.”

When we arrived at the park I immediately started scanning for the animals before we’d even paid for admission. I figured we’d start there to warm her up to the sounds and people before the big reveal: the inflatables.

On our way to the petting zoo area we had to pass by one of the fountains that’s always on in the summer. I didn’t even think about something so mundane distracting us from our course toward total awesomeness, so of course she was several yards away from me, running full speed and squealing, before I noticed she was gone.

We turned and pursued our toddler who was careening through clusters of people without any consideration for who or what she ran into.

We caught up to her at the fountain at the far end of the park. She stood in awe as though she hadn’t seen it 800 times before.

As I approached her, she turned to me and screamed like a teeny-bopper at a boy-band concert, “Mommy! The fountain! They turn the water on!”

“I see that sweetie, that’s really cool,” I said, trying to affirm her, or so I thought. “But don’t you want to go pet some animals?” I asked.

“No, I just want to look at the fountain,” she said, her last words trailing as she was walking away from me so I couldn’t force her to leave.

I relented, briefly. But I’m ashamed to admit I kept trying to convince her.

Eventually we did make it over to the animals. And, as I predicted, she was delighted.

We moved from there to the first inflatable attraction. To her credit, she did remove her shoes and climb onto the thing without being coaxed — much. But that was as far as that train went.

I had prepared myself to accept whatever my cautious little girl was willing to risk, and after only a couple inquiries if she was sure she was done, I lifted her off and put her shoes back on.

And what did she beg to do after that? Look at the fountain some more.

In fact, that’s pretty much all she wanted to do the whole time we were there.

Her wonderful father lovingly sat beside it, walked around it, and expressed amazement right along with her, but I was truly bored.

I tried to fake it, but kids know fake when they hear it. She eventually stopped trying to engage me in her wonder and stuck with her dad. I’m sure she could hear me thinking, “We didn’t pay to stand around and stare at something we can see every day!”

In fact I think I was saying this out loud when it hit me — isn’t that what I love about her?

She has said something about the fountains being on or off almost every time we have driven past them since they turned them off in the fall.

When the fountains came back on a couple weeks ago she talked about it every time we got in the car. I should have seen it coming.

When I finally squatted down Saturday to hear what she was saying, I heard her talking about the water going in and out, about the sounds, the wetness, the shapes, the coldness of it.

And isn’t that one of the things I have so loved about being a parent? That she is consumed by wonder in things I barely even look at anymore, and this invites me to stop and enjoy some wonder of my own.

She has never been a risk taker or one to thrill at lots of noisy new things with lots of people around. That’s just not my kid.

But I can’t even count how many times something old has become new in our house by the mere fact that Lyla has discovered something new about the way it moves or how it relates to other things in her world.

She can see a universe of sensation and fascination in a fountain I hadn’t even dipped my fingers into maybe since the week we moved here — not until Saturday that is.

She was right, the water was moving very fast. It was cold and loud, but the cold was refreshing and the sound helped me tune out the world around me and tune in to the world of wonder at my fingertips.

As published in the Marion County Record, June 8, 2011

Share in our laughter

One of the joys of having a toddler is getting to hear the funny things they say. And I’m lucky enough to have a toddler who is both very verbal and very much a budding comedian. So, I thought for some laughs to kick off summer with a smile, I’d share some of the funnier things we’ve heard in recent months at our house that made me laugh or mass text my friends and family.

• Upon opening a box of clothing she was gifted at Christmas, Lyla exclaimed, “I found laundry!”
• After she guzzled a whole cup of juice one day I commented she must be a thirsty bear (a phrase used often in my family). She looked at me quizzically and asserted, “No, I a thirsty Lyla.”
• I call my husband by his first name often, which has resulted in Lyla calling him Michael as often is she calls him Daddy. I was trying to explain names one day and told her, “Daddy’s name is Michael. Mommy’s name is Amanda.” I asked if she knew Lyla’s name. She thought about it and answered after a thoughtful pause with her finger on her chin, “Well, it’s not Sponge Bob.” I was silent, mostly because she’s never seen the show as far as I know, but then she looked at me and cracked up. She was telling a joke.
• In yet another teaching moment turned comedic opportunity, I was talking to Lyla about different kinds of families. “Some families,” I told her “have a mommy and daddy just like yours. Some families have just a mommy with no daddy. Some have just a daddy with no mommy. Some families have two mommies. Some have two daddies.” At which point she chimed in with, “Some have two basketballs. Some have two toes,” and then began to giggle at her own hilarity.
• Prior to a recent trip to the zoo I asked Lyla if she wanted to feed the giraffes, like last time. She replied, “Probly not. I’mma feed a tiger!”
• “Excuse you car.” Directed at a car passing by our house as it revved its engine suddenly.
• “MOMMY! I WANNA SNUGGLE!” Yelled menacingly from her crib upon waking to tell me she’s ready to be done with her nap ... not the most enticing invitation I’ve had to snuggle.
• She’s clued in to the fact that if she asks only for ONE more, when we acquiesce she will only be getting ONE more of whatever she’s asking. So, now the request is “Mommy, I want FIVE more.”
• Sometimes in frustration, but also trying to keep things light, when she has started every sentence that day with “I want,” I will respond with, “Well I want a million dollars but we don’t always get what we want.” Not great parenting, I know. The other day when I went to get her up from a nap I asked what she wanted (I meant for a snack). She responded, “I want a million dollars.”
• In an equally impressive turn of the table on me, the next day as I woke her she asserted, “I want twenty dollars.” Apparently she figured out $20 was something I might actually have.
• Planting flowers the other day in the back yard, Lyla was digging with her special shovel in the dirt, her back turned to me. Suddenly she turned to me as if a thought had just occurred to her and asked, “Hey, you know Handy Manny, right?”

For every one of the hilarious things Lyla says there’s at least a dozen times I pull it out of my memory to lift my spirits on a bad day. I hope by sharing her words I can lift others as well. 

As published in the Marion County Record, June 1, 2011

Fear and wonder in Seattle

I took a much-needed trip recently to visit old friends. On my own. A chance to be a woman and friend and not so much a mom or wife for a few days.

I’m normally quite obsessive about making arrangements before heading in to any new venture. I’ve relaxed over the years and even made a point of doing so with this trip.

Still, when I left, I was relatively certain there wasn’t much that could happen I wouldn’t be able to take in stride. In fact, I thought, I might even enjoy the kind of challenge I used to encounter all the time as a young, single woman, figuring out the world. Maybe it would make me feel more connected to the woman I used to be and often find myself missing.

My first day I had planned to explore an unfamiliar city several hours on my own before meeting up with a friend I hadn’t seen in more than eight years.

I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say by the time I reached my friend I’d waited in a rental car office for three hours to prove I was who I said I was, lost a cell phone charger, missed a bunch of appointments, gotten lost and trapped in the center of an unfamiliar city, and then lost again when I got off the highway in the rural area where we were supposed to meet.

I called my friend to get help finding the location but my cell phone died (and, of course, the charger was missing). So, I was an hour late.

But despite all that I kept finding myself slowing down on the winding roads to look at a bird or barn or body of water in the rain.

Despite the challenges I faced up to that point, I was taking in the natural beauty as though I had never seen trees before.

The time with friends was so nourishing to me, and I definitely appreciated eating on actual plates at a table for every meal like I never did as a single gal — but the trip continued to hold irritating snafus every day.

There was even a point I faced the very real possibility of being unable to get back to Marion without hitchhiking or selling my organs.

In all my years as a single woman, making mistakes and learning, I had never encountered so horrific a series of events that challenged my abilities and resources and problem-solving skills.

At one point, driving from Portland to Seattle on the last fumes of fuel I had paid for with the last cent I had access to, floods of hot tears streaming, I realized something: I had done all I could to solve the problem. The only thing changing as I continued to wail was my soul, my spirit, my heart — the very things I went out there seeking to restore.

I had to accept I might run out of gas and be forced to thumb it to the nearest gas station where I was hoping my wit and charm might at least get me a free phone call.

I could keep freaking out about it. Or, I could accept that, just as I had survived everything in my life up to that point, I might survive that, too. And if I didn’t, well, what a shame it would have been to have spent the last hours of my life so focused on my troubles I was missing the trees outside the window or the beautiful dark clouds parting every now and then to let a determined ray of sunshine gild a spot on a lake.

The beauty of the natural world has always felt a bit like a love note from the universe to me and here I was missing some of the most spectacular natural beauty in the country, crying, in effect, over spilled milk — over things I could not change.

Days earlier, driving winding wet roads through the spectacularly lush beauty of the Pacific Northwest, I had been so totally distracted by the birds and sights I kept missing my turns. That’s part of why I was so late. Now, a few days later, I had run out of wonder in such a short time. The beauty around me hadn’t changed, I had. Or rather, I had let the changes in my circumstances change me.

A few days before I had been consumed by awe, and in such a state I saw a bald eagle, a blue heron inches from the car, fields of tulips, and on and on. I was, as Albert Camus describes it, “on the surface of myself.”

In one of my favorite Camus passages he writes, “What gives value to travel is fear. It breaks down a kind of inner structure we have.

“Far from our own people … stripped of all our props, deprived of our masks … we are completely on the surface of ourselves. But also, soul-sick, we restore to every being and every object its miraculous value … we are aware of every gift.”

I had been reading this passage as I sat in the rental car office the first day, and it came flooding back to me as I willed the car to make it the last 100 miles.

I did make it. And the rest of my trip held moments that continue to fill my heart. And I made it home thanks to the incredible support of loved ones.

And while the sight of rare birds and time with old friends was amazingly restorative, I think the biggest gift I took from that trip was knowledge of myself.

Being stripped of all comforts forced me to choose who I wanted to be in that situation independent of the circumstances. That lesson holds true even in the very familiar life I live every day. I know who I am and who I want to be and am now more determined than ever not to let circumstances change that.

As published in the Marion County Record, May 25, 2011

Creatures great and small

I like to think my 2-year-old has been instilled with a healthy respect for the awesome power of the natural world, animals in particular. We’re big respecters of all life in our house. As vegetarians, we have explained to Lyla that the food on our table comes from plants like the ones in our garden. We have also told her that some food comes from animals, including the milk, eggs, and cheese she and her father partake of. We were lucky enough to have a friend be the wonderful agent of an educational opportunity with eggs recently and Lyla can’t stop talking about it: “We took those eggs from the chickens!”

I explained to her the chickens let us have them and we should be sure to think of them when we say thanks for our food before we eat.We have explained that some families get their food from animals in ways that we don’t. We are careful to avoid making any kind of judgment and we certainly aren’t trying to indoctrinate her. All we do is explain this is how her dad and I have chosen to live. Anything more would be too much at this point.She has developed, completely on her own, a respect for bugs I promise she did not get from me. I, of course, encourage her to “leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone,” and she has seen me trap and release some creepy crawlies that somehow found their way inside our house, but she has also seen me squish more than a couple of spiders. I have my limits.But Lyla has gotten to the point where she steps over ants and says “excuse me bug” and lets them go on their merry way ... even in my kitchen!The other day she noticed one marching along a few feet away from where she was playing. She went over to it, greeted it, and ran off to get something. In her absence, I stealthily transplanted the critter back outdoors. When she returned and couldn’t find him, she wailed as if a longtime friend had been ripped from her arms. “I wanted to show him my puzzles!” she cried, hot tears streaming down her face.I explained to her that, as an ant, he really needed to keep doing his ant thing, gathering food for his family outside. I also ventured that he may not have been a very cooperative playmate for her because she looks very, very big to him and he might have been afraid.She seemed to ponder that, and I hugged her, deeply appreciating all that her mind was trying to grasp about the balance between love of nature, keeping a respectful distance, and her own desires.It’s a hard concept and an exceptionally difficult balance to strike. I struggle with it daily.There are principles I live by that come from a deep, thoughtful place within me that were formed many years ago when I first started trying to live a little lighter on this planet.But what happens when I can’t afford the sacrifices such principles require? I wish I could always read every word on every label of everything I buy and refuse to purchase if, say, I know some aspect of the production of that product perpetuates a system I feel depends on a lack of respect for some form of life, animal or human, that is so oppressed it cannot speak for itself. But I can’t.Sometimes, I don’t have the time. Sometimes, I don’t have the money. Sometimes, I don’t have any other option.Sometimes, my job is to do my mommy thing and be sure I’m not spending so much time researching greener options that I miss the chance to teach my kid why those principles are so important to me.Sometimes, there’s an intensely creepy spider the size of my fist making its way toward my child and I stomp that thing like a mama bear protecting her cub.Lyla sees the contradiction and asks about it.“Mommy, are you going to put the spider outside?”I answer honestly.“Honey, sometimes mommy can’t tell if it’s a good bug or a bug that hurts, and if I think it might hurt you, I squish it.” I share my own struggle for balance in an effort to be transparent and it gives her still-agile mind something to chew on. And maybe, in doing so, she’ll come up with some brilliant way to bridge that gap for her generation.Maybe she’ll reject vegetarianism but catch and release all spiders. Who knows? Either way I’ll know her choices are rooted in reflection about her place in the natural world that has already begun.
As published in the Marion County Record, May 11, 2011

The scent of a mother's love

My grandmother’s last Mother’s Day before she died of Alzheimer’s was my first Mother’s Day as a mom. This traditional day of celebration has a bitter-sweetness to it in our family. My grandpa lost his battle with cancer on Mother’s Day when I was still in pre-school. It is a cloud of loss that hangs behind the food and family and the heavy scent of lilacs every year around this time.

Growing up, I remember Grandma’s house in Iowa had huge lilac bushes that filled the entire block with their perfume this time of year. I’ve been told that, as a boy, my father used to cut bunches of lilacs from those bushes and give them to Grandma on Mother’s Day. She has always loved their smell, and the way she says the word “lilacs” sounds like she’s telling secrets of the universe — her voice like water tripping over small stones.

The day before her last Mother’s Day, Dad went in search of lilacs to give her. A cold snap got most of them that year. They were a little wilted, but the smell was good and fine and heavy. He knew the wilt wouldn’t matter to her, not at that point.

I was six months pregnant when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. The doctors told us she was declining rapidly and would live only a few months. I confess that I prayed she would hang on long enough to hold my baby in her arms. All those years her body would not let her go, and when it finally started to look like her body would cooperate, it was my heart that remained stubborn.

For as long as I had been aware of her as her own woman I knew on some level that Grandma just wanted to be with her husband in heaven. In the 20-plus years since his death she had survived a long list of ailments with surprising strength. Her gentle nature and petite stature veiled her fierce ability to overcome and to thrive. I guess that’s why Grandma always seemed like a fact of life to me, like seasons that come and go but always return.

I’m ashamed to say it truly startled me when Dad had to remind her why the name my husband and I chose for our daughter seemed familiar to her. After all, we chose the name Lyla in honor of the two men she loved most in this life — Hershel Lyle and Donald Lyle, my grandpa and my dad.

Dad brought her the lilacs he had found that afternoon near the end, a small bunch, slightly brown around the edges. She breathed them in deeply and said, “Lilacs. It must be almost Mother’s Day.” Somehow that deeply sweet scent had reached into her clouding mind and touched something solid, something more than memory.

I can only guess what it was, but my guess is it was something like tradition that spoke to her heart so deeply no clouding could touch it — it was part of the shape of her mother’s heart, not a memory she struggled to hold. I picture my dad as a young boy bringing this sweet and simple offering to her, year after year, and I can see how it would have carved the almost ineffable love of a mother for her child into the grain of her soul. I watch my daughter in her dancing and play, practically a mirror image of my grandmother as a baby, and I feel that deep unparalleled love shaping me as well.

My grandmother did get to hold my baby girl and held on for several more months. We all traveled to Iowa for the funeral in July right before my husband and I moved to Marion. We said our sad good-byes and on the way out of town my sister and I took our young families to the playground where we had spent many afternoons as kids during our stays with Grandma. This time, it was our children squealing with delight as evening settled in the little park that smelled exactly as I remembered.

When we moved to Marion, there were a lot of mysterious (to me) plants to be dealt with and either trimmed or removed in our back yard. There’s one bush along the back hedgerow that is different from all the rest and I thought I recognized the leaves but couldn’t quite place it. I don’t know why it didn’t bloom last year, but a few weeks ago I was out pulling weeds when I smelled something deeply sweet and familiar. My nose took me to the back hedge, and there in glorious lavender bloom was a bush full of lilacs.

I cut a few and put them in the kitchen window, and my kitchen is now filled with the sweet scent of the love between a mother and child that transcends words and shapes a soul in ways time and tragedy cannot touch.

As published in the Marion County Record, May 4, 2011

Miracle happens

We recently renovated our lone full bathroom. The process of the renovation, like any project around the house, uncovered more issues needing to be resolved than I had planned on, which required more money to be put into the project than I had budgeted.

First, we found out we needed all new flooring. I was frustrated, but thankful that I knew the County Seat Decorating Center would do wonderful work.

The day a County Seat employee finished laying the floor, I walked into my bathroom and, to my surprise, started crying.

Having a floor I wasn’t afraid to walk on barefoot meant I could relax in my own bathroom, and maybe Lyla would relax enough to potty train better. Maybe it was the tears that set the next part in motion.

As I was thanking him, he ended up telling me the incredible story about the birth of his second son. It’s not my story to tell, but I stood in my dining room listening to this man tell the story of a miracle child and his own part in bringing that miracle into the world. I was speechless.

Here was this story that took my breath away just flowing out of him like a life-altering miracle was just an everyday occurrence.

I couldn’t help but remember the remarkably fortunate circumstances of my daughter’s birth. My story is nothing like his, but she’s an odds-beater. As he told his story I felt like part of me was nodding along, not with shock, but with understanding.

As much as that encounter alone could have taught me my lesson, something in the universe thought I really needed help getting this one. The next hitch in the renovation saga brought its own miracle story into my home.

My dad and husband blew a fuse trying to hang a light. The surge broke my dryer somehow (don’t ask me, I don’t get it, that’s why I called the repairman).

The man who came to fix it was very friendly, and in the course of chatting, I learned he has a son who, at age 2, was taken by Life-Flight to Colorado with congestive heart failure. His young boy’s life, too, is a miracle. For the second time in as many days, I stood listening to a story of the miracle of some child surviving against all odds.

Their stories are not mine to tell, but they reminded me of my own miracle child and I was ashamed as I began to realize how little I think about how lucky I got with my daughter anymore. It used to be all I thought about all the time.

Then came my third reminder, like the ghosts of “A Christmas Carol;” apparently big lessons come in threes.

I was getting things back where they belonged after all the work, when I uncovered something I couldn’t believe had become hidden.

It may sound morbid, but I have hung in a prominent place in my home a picture of a friend of mine who died in 2007. in a tragic plane crash at the age of 28. He had a 5-month-old son at the time, his first and only child, and the boy had been born with a deformity. His life, too, is a stunning miracle.

Somehow the photo had gotten covered, bit by bit. I can’t imagine how I didn’t notice; I am keenly aware of it when I walk past, even when I don’t look.

I’d placed it so it’s the first thing I see when I sit down at the end of the day with a cup of tea in my kitchen. Every time I see his face I stop and take one deep breath and say “thank you”.

I’m not thankful for his death, but I look at him and I know how ridiculously lucky I am. That sounds awful. But it’s true. Every time I look at my friend it’s all I can do not to rush in to Lyla’s room and squeeze her with all my strength.

And as I uncovered his face, all that thankfulness welled up within me.

I think I used to be afraid if I wasn’t vigilantly conscious of how undeserving I am of miracles, I’d lose the things I love the most. That’s why I kept that picture up there. But if listening to those men taught me anything, it’s that miracle happens, more often than we think and with no predictable pattern.

You can’t earn a miracle or work hard enough to prevent real tragedy. All you can do is be thankful every day for the day you have. It wasn’t owed to you, it’s worth its weight in gold, you might not get another one, but that doesn’t make the day at hand any less beautiful.

As published in the Marion County Record, April 20, 2011