Author: Bethany

9Jul

Cinder Block

Our living room is breaking out in boxes. With less than a week till we’re handed keys for our new house, I shouldn’t be caught off guard… but I am anyway. A psychological cinder block is sitting squarely on top of my packing mojo, and I really wish I knew why so we could get on with this move already.

I feel distracted by nothing in particular, my brain wandering in the annoying, aimless way of ten-year-olds on summer break. The agenda for this month had been impressive: potty train one child and teach the other to read and write. Both are ready for their respective milestones, and I feel the responsibility to teach, the urgency to do it now. But first chores take my attention, and then laundry, and I have to finish the grocery list, and what in the world are we going to do about our empty house in the States? And then everyone’s hungry and lunch is late, and our afternoon gets knocked so far out of orbit that not even coffee can help, and I plug the girls into the TV so that I can get some pressing things done on the computer… and before I take a single focused breath, it’s too late to go to the park, and the motherguilt sweeps its cloud cover over the evening. And then the girls are in bed, and I’m cleaning up from their dinner to make ours, and we finish eating at bedtime exactly, and I realize I have gotten nowhere for the sixth day in a row.

It’s frustrating. As is the rash of empty boxes in our living room. Somebody should really start packing them.

6Jul

Husbandversary

People always laugh when they hear my pet name for my husband, but come on— There is not enough R&B in our total combined bloodlines to call each other Baby without cracking up. Honey is what parents call each other, Sweetheart is claimed by our girls, and I’m not even going to get into the creep factor of calling one’s spouse Daddy. (It’s Ick x 1037,000,000, but you didn’t hear that from me.) Dan is both male and of sound mind, so Snoogly Oogums is out of the question, as are Punkin’ Doodle, Schmoopy Pie, and Peaches. Tragic, I know.

Fortunately for the dignity of all involved, something happened six years and one day ago which gave me unlimited license to the only pet name that ever stuck: Husband.

Which, if you ask me, is the most endearing term of all.


Photo credit: Dalton Photography

2Jul

There’s No Place

The sky is furious right now, which is my very favorite sky mood besides April-blue. Rain is pelting in five different directions at once, turning the asphalt into a bubbling stew, and setting off car alarms. I’m thrilled. Bring on the hurricanes! my whimsy chirps from its perch next to my ear. (Not always rational, that one.)

To those of you wondering, we are back from our madcap vacation. We accidentally drove halfway into New Jersey while trying to get to Philadelphia, but our return was otherwise uneventful. Relief started setting in once we reached London’s breezy, Euro-chic airport (where security actually checks liquids and passports but doesn’t make you throw out your baby food, take off shoes, or wait for half an hour to do so; America, take note!), and we let out a collective sigh of happiness when our second flight touched down in Rome. “I’m so excited to be back at Italy!” shouted Natalie for all four of us.

It was a golden realization—I am so excited to be back in our tiny apartment with July thunderstorms and the world’s best pizza waiting for us. Even the two-story library in Delaware wasn’t enough to coax homesickness out of me for the American life we left behind, and that’s saying a lot. We may be jet lagged and facing a move in two (2!) weeks for which we have not yet begun thinking about packing, but by golly, it’s good to be home.

The view from our balcony 2

26Jun

Packing Unlist

Dear self,
You will never do the following things on vacation:

  1. Work out
  2. Conduct a Bible study
  3. Potty train
  4. Teach someone to read
  5. Play tennis
  6. Accidentally go salsa dancing

So please stop packing for them.

Sincerely,
Me

22Jun

Sweaty Horns, Cracking Voices

I woke up grumpy this morning… not your average, garden-variety grumpy but the truly pernicious grumpy reserved for Sunday mornings with too little sleep. I know myself well enough by now to treat church as a soul-gobbling monster on these mornings—respect it by backing sloooowwwly away. Or run away screaming like the flighty blonde in a B-movie. Unfortunately, neither was an option this morning as my in-laws’ church group met at their house.

The caustic dialogue in my head jump-started with the first song. Why are we singing that? What does this even mean? Am I supposed to get something out of this? That line isn’t even true! And on it went, while I tried to move my unwilling lips along with the lyrics for appearance’s sake.

This disconnect with worship music is a fairly recent development. Church and I have had sundry problems over the years, but music was always my saving grace. When I was a child, a teen, a college student, and a budding world traveler, worship music was the alchemy that transformed divinity into something dear. Through it, I could feel God’s warmth. But now… Honesty, or maybe an earnest kind of cynicism, keeps me unable to sing along with church choruses. The words catch in my throat and slap against my ears. My connection with worship music is gone.

Or at least what most people consider worship music. In collaboration with the lovely Rachelle, a pioneer in soul sincerity, I’d like to share eight songs that connect me to the divine… now.

8 Things *8 Things: [Non-Churchy] Songs for the Soul

1. Cold Water by Damien Rice
 This song has to be first. It is raw and tender and fierce and so perfectly honest. Damien Rice has a gift for reaching deep down into unknown vulnerabilities and coaxing dry emotions into a flood; try making it through the Buddhist chanting at 5:34 or the cello at 7:04 without breaking open just a little bit.

“Cold, cold water surrounds me now,
And all I’ve got is your hand.
Lord, can you hear me now?”

2. Dance ‘Round the Memory Tree by Oren Lavie:
I put this song on repeat nearly every day of this past winter, and on some of the bleakest mornings, it alone kept me turned toward life, future, and the magic of hope.

“Winters have come and gone, you know…”

3. I Gotta Find Peace of Mind by Lauryn Hill 
My friend Q introduced me to Ms. Hill’s “MTV Unplugged No. 2.0” in college, and this song has yet to release its grip on me. At its most simple, it makes me want to love God. And when Lauryn cries while singing “What a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, merciful God” 8 minutes in… the beauty is almost too real to bear.

“Please come free my mind,
Please come feed my mind.
Can you see my mind, ohhh…
Won’t you come free my mind?
Oh, I know it’s possible…”

4. Doubting Thomas by Nickel Creek
When I haven’t found the courage to pray over the past few years, this song has prayed on my behalf. It has all the gritty candor and fearful longing of those uncharted territories of religion, and I find myself meaning every single word.

“Can I be used to help others find truth
When I’m scared I’ll find proof that it’s a lie?
Can I be led down a trail dropping bread crumbs
That prove I’m not ready to die?”

5. What Child is This Anyway? by Sufjan Stevens
Three Christmases ago, I was frantically busy with a job I hated, and the holiday loomed like a garlanded menace. I put Sufjan’s Christmas CD on, fully expecting to dislike this song as I always had before, and instead found peace.

“This, this is Christ the king,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing…”

6. Christmas Song by Dave Matthews Band
Yes, another Christmas song… but really an Easter song and a Thanksgiving song and 4th of July song and a Sunday morning song and a 2:00 in the afternoon song and one of the best Bible summaries I’ve ever heard.

“Drinkers and jokers, all soul searchers,
Searching for love, love, love…”

7. Live High by Jason Mraz
Sometimes I need a reminder that spirituality does not need to equal stress; it can be as chill as walking down the streets of France with a guitar and a comfy hat.

“Live high, live mighty,
Live righteously, that’s right—
Just  takin’ it easy…”

8. World Without End by Five Iron Frenzy
This song might be the polar opposite of Damien Rice, but it reaches the part of me that loves concerts and Goodwill t-shirts and too many friends crowded into the booth at Denny’s. Somehow, sweaty horns and cracking voices convey more of the sacred to me than pipe organs ever could.

“In the soundless awe and wonder,
Words fall short to hope again.
How beautiful, how vast your love is,
New forever,
World without an end…”

Play along, won’t you? I’d love to hear what songs feed your soul as well.

15Jun

Ay to the Caramba

What was that? You want to hear the details of our overseas trip and/or are in the mood for horror? Well, if you insist.

I keep wondering if it all went wrong because we didn’t call a taxi. Saturday morning in Madrid was quiet, the whole city and the sun itself still groggy from their traditional late nights, and we decided to save money by taking public transportation to the airport. Technically, nothing went wrong (which is probably a miracle in itself). But by the time we had taken the bus, found the right Metro entrance, lugged the stroller up and down three sets of underground stairs, caught the two different trains for the airport, bought the ticket supplements to get into the airport, and walked for a week to the international terminal, we only had two hours left before our flight. And we couldn’t find the check-in counter.

Mangling the Spanish language beyond recognition, we asked an airport official for the American Airlines counter. He pointed us to the opposite end of the building, at which point we asked another official. He pointed us back the way we came. I thought bad words in Spanish. We finally found an information desk with—heaven!—someone who spoke English. “Oh no, no, no,” he clucked at us. “You can’t just ask anybody these things. You have to ask someone who knows. No, no, you are in the wrong terminal. You have to go outside and take the bus to Terminal 4. Here is the number for your check-in desk, and don’t worry; your flight has been delayed an hour!” We ducked away as he launched into a story about why some of the international airlines were not to be found in the international terminal, blessing the powers that be that we had an extra hour on our hands.

We took the bus. We found our counter. We waited in line until our turn… and found out it wasn’t the right counter. Not even the right airline. Oh, and our flight had not been delayed at all; it had been moved up. With only one hour left, we found the correct counter and waited a-tremble through the line. “Do not worry,” said the woman behind the check-in counter. “You have plenty of time. Except, there is a big problem.” She explained that their system did not show a ticket reserved for Sophie, and we were sent to wait in line at the ticketing office.

Natalie and I trotted off to buy some breakfast while Dan solved the situation, and when we came back, he was begging to talk with the ticket agent’s supervisor. Ten minutes later, he was still begging to talk with the supervisor. Twenty minutes later. Thirty minutes later. Finally, the ticket agent relented and called her supervisor, who shrieked on the phone, “Their flight leaves in twenty minutes?! Why are we still talking? Get them on the plane!”

Eight blue-clad employees sprang into action. They slapped tags on our luggage, shoved a temporary ticket into our hands, and told us to run. “We’ll figure this out by the time you get to your gate,” they assured. So we ran the fifty yards to security. We got through and ran to the shuttle. We got off at the right stop and ran to the passport check… and nearly plowed into the 400 people in line before us. No time for courtesy; we dodged our way to the front, explaining in-between breaths that our plane left in a few minutes. We made it through and ran like we’ve never run before to our gate, where flight attendants were calling “Bassett!” Natalie and I dashed onto the plane while Dan paid the finally-determined amount for Sophie’s ticket, and we settled into our seats with still-warm breakfast sandwiches as the overseas flight took off.

The situation was decidedly un-funny until we were up in the air, at which point a laugh and a few more bad words and then another laugh were in order. The flight was smooth, and the girls did great. Once we landed, all we had to do was catch a short connecting flight, and we’d be done. Well, pick up our luggage and then catch the connecting flight. Well actually, only pick up the particular luggage items that the airline hadn’t lost.

We waited while someone in a uniform looked below for our luggage, and by the time he assured us it wasn’t coming, the line for Customs was fanned around the carousels to the very back of the building. We looked up the time at the exact minute our connecting flight was scheduled to take off. I thought unscriptural things about our airline. After this point, the story just gets tedious and teeth-gnashing: more lines, still more lines, a screaming Sophie who got us promoted to the front of the line, no way to call the relatives who were supposed to pick us up, replacement tickets for a flight several hours later, a flight delay, a second flight delay, a third flight delay, a 20-minute flight through a lightening storm, and finally a safe arrival at an hour our bodies expected to be waking up from a long night of sleep.

I will need counseling and maybe a few exorcisms to get over the trip itself, but I can’t entirely begrudge the effort taken to get here… soaking up the Florida sun in the lazy river, eating chocolate frosting with forks, and cramming into the minivan to sing Beastie Boys at top volume (while Dan’s mom teaches Sophie DJ scratching motions). Oh, I love my family-in-law. Their superpower is talking—both the Italian mealtime variety and the midnight heart-to-heart kind—and they like each other. It’s exactly the kind of vacation my sponge-thirsty heart needs.

Especially after that trip. Ay to the caramba.

9Jun

Stay-at-Home-FEMA

“So,” asks the nice lady at church, “Have you found a job yet? Are you working?”

Huh, I think. There’s no shame in being a stay-at-home-mom, but I always feel guilty admitting to it, as if I’m not pulling my weight in adult society. I don’t want to answer until I’ve shown her my résumé, issued a disclaimer in triplicate, and introduced her to someone’s toddler. Specifically, mine.

Sophie Ruth - What a face on this one

Because, have you met Sophie? This sweet baby of mine has a personality that is one part movie star, two parts hurricane, and fifteen parts trouble. She is the reason I am a stay-at-home-mom rather than a stay-at-home-writer or a stay-at-home-gadabout.

Sophie Ruth - On the table getting into markers while wearing movie star sunglasses

And this is her afternoon schedule:

  1.    Climb onto the bathroom shelf; dump out all the Q-tips
  2.    Spill an entire sippy-cup of water all over the kitchen (how?!); repeat
  3.    Get into the drawer of pony-tail holders; scatter across the bedroom
  4.    Get the candles off my bookshelf; eat one
  5.    Take off her pants and speed-climb onto Natalie’s bunk bed; pee on it
  6.    Steal my makeup; randomly decide which to apply, which to toss, and which to taste
  7.    Climb onto the kitchen table to get into the bag of cookies; take a bite from each
  8.    Turn on MTV; dance
  9.    Get napkins out of napkin holder; strew about kitchen
  10.    Unfold clean clothes; place in laundry basket
  11.    Dump out all the Q-tips again; pee on them
  12.    Scream with joy until someone gives her an ice cream cone; eat it from the bottom up
  13.    Sift through the trash; redistribute around house
  14.    Dump out all the recycling; redistribute around house
  15.    Steal my Microplane zester; lick
  16.    Unpack the lower section of the credenza; run around with a casserole dish
  17.    Ride her dump truck backwards into the kitchen; start the microwave
  18.    Climb into the bathtub; wander the floor in wet socks
  19.    Rearrange furniture so as to reach kitchen counter; dump out bag of sugar
  20.    And pee on it
  21.    Climb on top of the table at which Natalie is coloring; color arms and mouth
  22.    Do three sit-ups next to me; sit on me for the remaining thirty-seven
  23.    Run around the house with a limoncello glass; if anybody notices, throw it

Sophie Ruth - Reading a few books

19 months is adorable and horrifying, and I’ve never worked so hard at any job in my life. I thought teaching was a challenge, but it’s nothing compared to planters overturned on the rug or chocolate smeared across the wall, floor, and hair of a giggling girl. Or potty training. By the end of a normal weekday, our house is petitioning for disaster relief funds and my mind is curled up in bed sucking its thumb. If I’ve managed to edit an article or make it to the grocery store or shower, well… that’s just icing on the supermom cake.

Sophie Ruth - How Sophie twirls

“Well, are you working?” the lady presses.

“No,” I smile. “Not right now.”

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