Exuberance, Part 2

It’s that time of year again. The daycare end-of-the-year program is tonight. Back in December, I wrote about the last installment of the daycare touring show — the Christmas program. And just like that experience, exuberance has again been rearing its head around my house.

Granted, exuberance comes standard where Bug, the four-year-old is concerned, but it’s so much bigger and well, exuberant when there’s a performance involved. Especially a performance he’s been practicing for.

So, this morning I was informed, “Today is next Thursday!”

There’s been quite a buildup to “the program,” as we’ve come to call it. His teachers instilled in Bug the idea that “the program” was happening on Thursday, and ever since, I’ve been asked to explain all things relative to the particular Thursday in question.

Today’s the day. Exuberance struck this morning in full force with major jumps around the kitchen, speed chasing through the hallway, volume set firmly on ten and umpteen questions about who’s coming, did we realize it was tonight, wait is it tonight, my teacher said it was tonight, and so forth.

I found myself saying, “Bug, we need to calm down.”

“Bug, settle down.”

“Bug, we need to lower our voices inside.”

“Yes, Bug, I know it’s Thursday.” (insert sigh)

“BUG! You’re too excited! You need to calm down. RIGHT. NOW.”

He stopped. He searched my grim face for a moment. His giant grin dropped to a blank expression. He looked away for a moment. His face colored slightly. Then, he smiled at me again. Maybe a little weaker, but a smile.

That’s when it hit me. WHAT am I doing? I’d rather see his vibrant grin than a blank stare any day. Any moment. Every moment. This was something he had worked for. Something he had practiced. Something that was just his. In a year of big firsts for his older brother becoming a kindergardener and his younger sister learning to talk and do so many things, this was HIS moment. He was the only one of us in “the program.” This was HIS program.

And he was excited about it.

Dare I say, exuberant. And I want him to be. I want to celebrate with him. I want him to know that I can’t wait to see him shine. And I told him so. I grabbed him for a big hug — the kind mommies give when they know they’ve handled it all wrong. The kind with the prayer under my breath saying, “God, please don’t let him remember this.” I told him I was SO excited about his program. That I couldn’t wait to see it. And he bounded off again with exuberance somewhat in tact.

Yes, I understand self control. I understand appropriate. I understand time and place. I understand how frenzied those exuberant moments (and days) can be. And, I understand how they stretch even the most patient mommy (which I am not) during the daily morning routine. Still, in a world where folks pay big money to attend seminars devoted to helping them find the motivation to do things they already say they want to do… In a world where the self help aisle is burgeoning with ways to get yourself on target with that next big idea… In a world where it seems to take an inordinate amount of effort to defy the inertia of lives plugged in to this technology or entertainment or the other… In that world, I WANT to see exuberance. Blinding, unfiltered, self-generated exuberance.

In my Bug, I want to mold it. I want to season it. I want to train it. I want to channel it. And, yes, at times I may even want to contain it. But I never want to squelch it.

Instead, I want to celebrate it. And tonight, I will.

Golden Moment

I was driving south on Highway 45. Going home to my parents’ house for Thankgiving with the children. The trip is only about 45 minutes, not enough mileage to be considered a real trip, I guess. Still, it was a symbolic trip of sorts, the opportunity to step away from my weekday surroundings and our normal work and school routines. I had spent much of the day working on last minute design projects and gathering clothes, toys, movies, and bedtime favorites for four days away from home. The short drive was my first moment to relax. It’s funny how powerful those moments can be sometimes.

The children had already spent much of their excitement about the trip that morning and one by one drifted off to sleep, lulled by the tires on the pavement. I was alone with my thoughts in transition from the busy-ness of the week and ready for a few unscheduled days. My mind was pressed. It had been a full week of thinking crammed into only two days. I had been in a period of thinking and creating, dealing with stressful situations and my own wrestling leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday. It’s hard to quiet myself during those times.

It had been raining off and on during the morning, so the sky was striped with clouds. The sun had finally dropped below the cloud lines enough to make its appearance. The timing was golden. It was a perfect sphere of light hovering just before its decent into sunset. The glow was what distracted me.

Suddenly, for the first time that day, I was bathed in sunlight. It felt like the first time that week. The first time that month. My light blue shirt was aglow as the western sunbeams streamed into the car window. It’s interesting when light presents itself. It’s unmistakable. It commands attention. It demands to be noticed and given its due. That one shaft of light stunned the noise in my brain into silence.

It made me take a deep breath.

As I looked in the rear-view mirror, I could see each of my gifts. Their faces were turned in odd but restful angles in their seats and shining. The sunlight set them aglow. The same glow I see constant in their spirits through the changes, through the stages, through the brotherly love and scuffles, through the first words and moments of learning, through the bedtime kisses and cheeks pressed against mine. Life. Aglow. A glow that brought into sharp perspective all the efforts of the week, all the commitments, all the decisions, all the needs and wants, all the challenges and joys.

Suddenly, I wasn’t alone with my thoughts anymore. I was alone with the three most precious hearts I’ve ever known.

Thinking About Cows

What is it about kids and cows? Of all the animals in Creation, each of my children have learned to speak cow first. Most recently, Baby Girl has added the standard “moo” to her vocabulary. Only for Baby Girl, it’s a husky, emphatic and insistent “moo.” It’s said with a gusto not found with the ho-hum “woof” and “meow.” There’s just something about cows, I guess.

I grew up around cows. Sort of. My grandfather and my father both kept cows on my grandparents’ farm kind of as a hobby. We visited there almost every weekend when I was a child–sometimes on Friday night through Sunday afternoon, sometimes just on Saturdays. I didn’t spend a lot of time with the cows. They were more of a continual presence. A background, so to speak, for lots of other tomboy activities. In a farm setting, I suppose that’s often the case. My mom grew up on that farm, and I know the cattle were a physical and metaphorical backdrop for her as well. I remember stories she told me of playing “church” in the neighboring cousin’s barn. From the make-shift pulpit, she expounded on scripture she learned at Sunday School… “be not like dumb driven cattle.” Cows. A continual presence.

Cows have an uncanny stare. I’ve been the recipient of it many times over the years, both from near and far. The stare is deep and thorough. But, it’s also a bit blank. You just know there’s not a whole lot going on in there. Still, I’ve always wondered what they’re really seeing with that unflinching gaze. The whole “dumb driven cattle” reference is quite appropriate. They tend to be followers, there’s no doubt. When one begins to gaze, you suddenly find yourself in the grip of the whole herd’s stare. And, if they’re familiar with you, they’ll adopt that stare from up close.

The cows in my dad’s herd learned every pick-up truck he ever had. They saw it every couple of days and with Pavlov’s nod, rightly associated it with feed sacks. When the cows in the front pasture saw it coming around the gravel bend toward the house on those Saturday mornings, they began the trek to the barn. Even if the dumping of the feed sacks wasn’t imminent, I suppose they wanted to be prepared, to make sure they were in the necessary position.

In the back pastures where there were no roads only worn down and less bumpy paths, the cows would gather around the pick-up. There were only select places in that area where feed troughs were stocked. Those cows relied on hay and grass for their sustenance. Still, the truck meant something. They gathered around as close as a bunch of 600 pound, fattened-up beasts could. My dad would roll down the truck window to touch their noses or their foreheads. He wanted them to be familiar, especially the bulls. Bulls are a whole other essay of the more ornery sort, but Dad made a special effort to forge communication with them. He would talk to them, “hey Big Man” and coax them into letting him touch their oversized foreheads. It pays to have a bull on your side.

When the truck was ready to move on, no amount of honking could encourage the cows on their way. Only a small shift in the gas pedal and a slight bump to one’s rear would sink in. From there, the whole group followed that one cow’s jump and bolt away from the vehicle. It was the same with “driving” them or losing them. All it ever took was one cow in some moment of independence wondering if that blade of grass on the other side of the fence would be more tasty, and before you knew it, the whole lot of them had lumbered through whatever sagging barbed wire structure was there to un-pen themselves. Likewise, usually just one wave of the hands and gruff shout from Dad (or whoever might be helping him) could frighten them down the gravel paths required to get them right back where they should be fenced. You would think it would be harder than that. After all, I mentioned the 600-pound quality. But, I guess none of the other cows stopped to wonder why all the fuss or the need for such quick movement. They simply reacted to the one ahead of them, who reacted to the one ahead of him.

Thinking about cows has me wondering. How many times in my business, my home keeping, my relationships or my faith are my actions simply reacting to the one ahead of me? How often do I respond simply out of habit the way that’s always been expected of me? And, how much of my experiences am I missing out of plain old numbness because of it? That “be not like dumb driven cattle,” spoken from a young farm girl’s play and gleaning of faith, is actually a pretty good admonishment. I don’t want to lumber through my experiences bound by the blank stare of simply following old habits because they are habits or following the ways everyone else is doing something because that’s just how it’s done. And, I don’t want to bump and boulder through life immune to the thought that comes from really seeing what I’m seeing. No, perhaps I want to adopt that one creature’s wild hare and be bold enough to step into something new, to push my full weight against the fences binding me until they finally give way.

There’s just something about cows.

Oh Happy Day 043010: Lunch Hour

It’s Friday again! It’s the day I’ve set aside for my little gratitude blogging experiment — the Oh Happy Day! project. It’s my version of “TGIF” with the literal “thanking” thrown in. I try to pull at least one thing from the week for which I am thankful as a way of re-focusing my attention on the blessings of life and love and time. Honestly, it usually works. Gratitude is funny that way. (And, yes, I’m a bit sporadic about the project like I am with everything else. But, I know you’ve grown to accept my Junkie ways.)

This week, it was easy to decide my most gratitude-inducing experience. It was obvious the moment it occurred. Not every week is like that. Sometimes that choice is a bigger stretch. Sometimes there are so many things to be thankful for that it’s hard to choose one to act as Junkie subject matter. Sometimes, my vision is clouded, and I can hardly recognize even one of those blessings to inspire my writing (and thankful heart). This week started out in a move toward the latter. I began Monday tired and frustrated from some events of the prior weekend. A busy schedule and a full immersion in my own overthinking tendencies compounded my anticipation of a “difficult” week. Annoyingly, the mopes just tend to multiply, pushing gratitude further and further from my mind.

Then yesterday rolled around. It was the peak of my frustration, the final lap of my racing thoughts, the tipping point of my emotional balance. Lunch hour to the rescue! I opted for the local deli not far from my office and an outdoor table. Nothing adjusts the attitude like lunch outdoors. I ordered the usual… a cup of chili with crackes and a large sweet tea. This time I also got one of those giant sugar cookies simply because I was at the aforementioned peak. I sat down and was able to look around me. Outside. Outside of me. I felt the temperature of an unusually cool Spring day in April. I stopped taking my own temperature for a moment. I made notes in my journal about new blog posts and work promotions. I took note of something besides my own frustrations. I enjoyed a phone call from a friend, and I listened to a voice outside the one in my own head. Sitting there in my blazer and heels, trying to keep the napkins from littering the parking lot, I actually felt the wind on my face. I actually noticed for the first time that day that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was a breath of fresh air, literally and for my spirit. It was beanless chili with just the right amount of spice for my body, but it was food for my soul.

It always amazes me how a little thing can shift perspective. How a simple and mundane action can alter so many things when we choose to pay attention to it. I guess that’s why I write about it so much. Sometimes the daily things we do a thousand times are just the needed reminder that life is big and small all at the same time. Having lunch outdoors at the deli on Thursday–something I do quite often–turned me around with its sheer simplicity. Simple words. Simple tastes. Simple light. Simple sweetness. Simple deep breaths. Simple pleasures. It shifted me outside myself. And, that’s a good thing.

Thursday’s midday experience made me think of the other spectacular “power” lunches I’ve had this week–the ones that were lost in my internal involvement… Monday’s unexpected sandwiches with my Mom and Dad, Tuesday’s quesadilla with the Queen featuring project planning and sage advice, Wednesday’s enjoyment of leftover taco fixings at my desk catching up with cyberspace.

This  morning, I got the call. It was one of the girls from downstairs in our office inquiring about lunch. We call it “Friday Lunch,” and it’s become a tradition around here for whoever wants to join in. (I’m posting about it today in Quack! the other blog I write for the day job.) We decided on our chosen local carryout by the typical process of elimination and deferring of judgement. We sit to eat together. It has power. And, I enjoyed it.

This week, I’m thankful for lunch. Oh Happy Day!

Flying Cheesy Dogs and the Art of Perfection

Makes you wanna cuss. And, I don’t mean “curse” in that polite and grammatically correct way. I mean cuss. In the vernacular.

The other night (seriously) I made “cheesy dogs,” the quintessential kid-friendly dinner composed of hot dogs stuffed with cheddar cheese and wrapped in crescent rolls. The parts are out of their respective packages and on the table with presto combined deliciousness in under 20 minutes flat. The pervasive opinion of the preschoolers in my house is that they are best accompanied by tator tots. No, preparing them probably doesn’t actually constitute cooking, and they don’t have much true nutritional value. But, they’re popular, and they can be a Mommy’s salvation after a long day of work.

So, last Friday I took full advantage of my own need for a quick fix at the end of a busy week. I made cheesy dogs. Eight of them. They were fresh out of the oven, and I was prying them from the pan with a spatula in my usual “grip with the pot-holder and scrape with all you’ve got” method. They always stick for some reason. The first one is the hardest to remove from the cookie sheet because of the close quarters produced by eight wrapped hot dogs arranged on about 180 square inches. Plus, the melting cheese always eliminates any space left between them.

I was holding with the pot-holder. I was scraping with the spatula in the upside-down position that almost always works. Almost. Before I could say “beefy jumbos,” cheesy dog #1 flew off the pan and onto the tile floor.

I told you. Makes you wanna cuss.

Don’t you just love the best laid plans? The table was set. Little Drummer Boy and Bug were in the living room announcing “I’m hungry!” I don’t remember, but I’m sure Baby Girl was on top of the coffee table. The week of a thousand heart-filled preschool parties was finally over. Tator Tots were on the table and ice in the glasses.

Just to recap: Cheesy dog #1 was ON THE FLOOR. And no one else was in the kitchen. So, what did I do? NATURALLY, I picked up #1 from the tile, blew it off and gave it a prominent location on the yellow serving plate. I popped those other seven suckers off the cookie sheet in short order, and “Dinner is served.” (Please send Martha Stewart Living subscriptions. Quick. And, Mama, just forget you read this.)

The bad news: Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you planned. The good news: No one has ever keeled over from a little grit on their cheesy dog. Honest.

Life isn’t perfect. In fact, perfection is an overrated and hopelessly flawed pursuit. And although I hate to play the role of the realist, realistically, a life lived in whatever moment of perfection I might enjoy is perhaps a life spent waiting for the other shoe to drop (or the other cheesy dog, as the case may be.) Perfection just can’t be maintained. And, TRYING to maintain it can be a nerve-racking, tension-filled, white-knuckle attempt. It’s simply not sustainable.

Sustainable perfection implies that the people achieving it are perfect. It assumes that those folks will always make wise choices, that they will always take into account and avoid the pitfalls (and clumsy spatulas) of life. It means they will never make mistakes, or at the least, they will always learn from their all-too-brief mistakes immediately and completely. Funny, I don’t see that person when I look in the mirror. I don’t know ANY people like that. In fact, the reality of those traits is pretty much universally disproved by the popularity of Wiley Coyote, don’t you think? Yeah, or at least by flying cheesy dogs.

Now, if you’ve never experienced your own cheesy dog epiphany, let me assure you that it’s coming. It’s a fact, and there is no fruit in denying it. The lesson learned from my own cheesy dog experience was that I can really shift my body a little to the left to block that whole flying off the pan thing, and this: Real life happens in the grit.

Thank God for the grit. It’s the stuff that lets us know we’re human just like everybody else, bound in a commonality of error. It’s the dust that reminds us of our own inherent needs, our own blessed short-comings. It’s the crunch that protects us from the trap of arrogant assumptions and exclusive palates. It’s the road-worthy flavor that ensures we are flexible and patient and willing to change and aware of the unexpected and able to embrace a surprising life.

Sure, plans are better made. They’re better laid with the best of intentions and wisdom and effort. They’re worth thinking about and following. But, from the poster child of plan Bs, let me just say that into every life a little cheesy dog must fall.

Blow it off and bon appetit!