Author: Bethany

28Jan

The Death of Chipper

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

My mental dialogue lately has been about as opposite from chipper as possible. (In fact, I completely despise the word “chipper” and would love nothing better than taking a sharp, rusty eraser to it. Case in point.) I’m partially proud of myself for not letting this negativity spill over onto my blog and partially guilty for not having the balls to write through the rough times. Either way, I’ve missed you, sweet Internet.

I seem to have come down with a raging case of Incurable Motherhead that has left me flat on the freshly-scrubbed bathroom floor wondering if I will survive the month. The choices do not look good from here: 1) Live in abject squalor, forego cooking, and largely ignore my family so that I can make a foray into the world of writing… or 2) Continue to be a tolerable housewife and mommy while stifling 97% of creative impulses because free time? Doesn’t exist so much.

You mamas whose children are finally in a less-needy stage of life—Was it this hard for you? I feel terrified that if I give up on my daydreams now, I won’t be able to pick them back up once life has settled enough to allow for them. I’m likewise terrified that if I don’t find contentment now, my girls will grow up with an aloof and unhappy mother. Occupied, distant, unfulfilled, absolutely not the kind of parent my little girls deserve.

And now you all need antidepressants. Apologies.

I’m unsure where to go from here—should I redirect my lagging energy away from cleaning or blogging or venturing out of the house or occasional grooming practices?—but I assure you: it will not involve the word “chipper.”

22Jan

Poltergeist

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

January is the poltergeist of months—all shivers and creaks and rattles and filmy-gray. It never snows in our city (though both north and south of us celebrated white Christmases), and we’re now stuck in a stagnant patch of blah until March. It helps if you say it out loud: “BLAH.” It also helps to roll along with the creaky, shivery days, not expect too much from them, and (perpetual moral alert) enjoy the little things.

Like,

Fresh Asiago cheese sliced thin and nibbled compulsively (by me, Dan, and the girls, who would gladly live on cheese alone)

Being in one of my husband’s biomechanics studies and thus having incentive to exercise every day (instead of sitting around feeling exactly like uncooked bacon)

Feist (I especially love climbing up inside “Mushaboom” and daydreaming about spring)

My sexy new microplane zester (Come on, baby, zest those lemons!)

Cheering along (from my bed) with kajillions of people on the Washington Mall for a hopeful, refreshing change

Sweet-smelling laundry hung around the house to dry (too cold outside, but I no longer mind)

Keeping the girls up late because we’re just having too much fun being silly together (is there any better reason?)

It also helps that January’s three-quarters over. May it rest in peace.

15Jan

Headless Is Hot Right Now

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

For the past week, I’ve been mulling over Rebecca Woolf’s post about whether marriage or motherhood is harder than the other. At first, it felt like a terrible question to consider at all… Is chocolate or raspberry gelato more likely to make me throw up? Do I hate the guts of fresh spring mornings or crisp fall evenings more? Would I take greater satisfaction from strangling my husband or strangling my babies? But perhaps it is a legitimate question after all. Relationships are not always easy, especially among people who live in the same house, and especially when life throws itself in the blender (as it is so wont to do around here).

The answer was simple at first, and I’ll give you a few hints:
1)      Surgical removal
2)      Breast pumps
3)      Explosive diapers
4)      Projectile vomiting
5)      Screaming fits
6)      Teething
7)      If it is liquid, it must be spilled
8)      Preferably on the rug
9)      Or even better, on the sofa
10) Did I mention the explosive diapers?
Motherhood is not easy by any stretch of the imagination. We parents sacrifice a lot of freedoms for our children, including going out at night and shutting the bathroom door. Little ones have too many emotional and physical needs to count, and my idea of an exhausting day is hanging out at home with my girls. My precious, beautiful girls who have oh so much in common with tornadoes.

But then I thought about conflict. Let’s say (hypothetically of course) that I yelled at my three-year-old for grabbing toys out of her little sister’s hand for the 7,415th time yesterday. One big hug and a “Mommy’s sorry,” and our relationship was back to its typical giggly state. However, let’s say (also hypothetically) that when Dan came home for lunch last week, I said “hi” and then snapped his head off and swallowed it whole. And while we may both know I was reacting to unrelated stresses, our relationship requires more than “sorry” to get back on track. We need shovels and flashlights and hardhats and paper for sketching a map as we dig. Then, once we finally unearth whatever tricky, deep-rooted problem that made me eat my husband’s head in the first place, we start the science experiments to find a solution. And then, once we’ve taken care of the problem, we still have a head to replace and a tunnel to crawl out of and some revisions to our daily routine to institute so that it doesn’t happen again… and I now need a nap.

The point is that both motherhood and spousehood are draining. Complicated. Scary. Hard. And far, far lovelier than I deserve. I feel wildly fortunate to live with three relational guinea pigs people who let me hang around despite my mistakes… and laugh at my jokes… and let me tickle them silly… and cuddle close… and say crazy things like they love me. As much work as these relationships can sometimes take to maintain, they are more precious to me than all the freedoms in the world. Yes, even more than shutting the bathroom door.

13Jan

The Valley of Strange

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 2 Comments

I’m not often intimidated by an empty page. First sentences are some of my favorite things in the world, if you want to know the truth. Ending a piece… well, that’s where the palm-sweating and cursing grumbling come into effect… but I adore sitting down and unlocking the possibilities of a blank document. At least, I did before this January broadsided me.

My brain hasn’t checked out exactly, but it has locked itself in a steel-plated door marked “Authorized Personnel Only” to browse classified information without me. I’m no longer authorized, it would seem. Even personal letters I’ve written over the last few weeks have fought tooth and nail and blunderbuss to avoid being committed to paper. I have four (or five?) drafts of a special story collecting dust on my hard drive, and I’ve actually ignored a couple of writing offers. How can I explain? My brain is being a poopy-head?

I have been trying to carry on the illusion of professionalism by sitting at my computer instead of giving in to the power of the nap (as my body has been screaming at me to do… stupid body), but that first sentence is always just out of my reach. So instead of writing, I’ve been immersing myself in others’ stories. Others’ spacious and hearty lives, others’ intricacies and hues and incredible feats. And somewhere between empathy and actual motivation to get off my chair and live is the Valley of Strange.

Perhaps you’ve been to the Valley of Strange too. The scenery is fairly typical—sticky counters, dust piles under the couch, forty-five stacks of papers that were important two months ago—but none of it looks familiar. It’s like waking up to a lavender sky fleeced in turquoise clouds. Shoes are misplaced, words are forgotten, emotions are hazy. No moment registers quite like it should. Breathing just feels… strange.

I keep thinking of a comment Stephanie made last week, about how this sounds like an important time in my life. I sure do hope she’s right, because otherwise, I don’t know what to make of being locked out of my own story. I have to hope that something big is happening in my brain behind those closed doors, that there’s a mountain of AWESOME on the other side of this valley. Yes, awesome with a capital everything, plus clarity and purpose and enough Red Bull to fuel my explosive motivation. Yes, please.

7Jan

Drink More Pie

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

The new year so far has been set to Radiohead and Frou Frou with too much black eyeliner and madly-swirled daydreams with sprinkles on top to prove it’s not moping. I’m not fooled though. It’s been hard to face these lumbering gray skies and the remains of last year lying belly-up in the recycling pile. Too many days on that calendar are circled in charcoal and navy, and I’m still not sure I took the right steps to climb out of my mental sludge. 2008 knows, but it will never tell. So I do what little I can to welcome a fresh-faced year I’m unready for: pour myself a mug of hot peppermint tea, light a cluster of candles, and write to discover the good.

A surprise pops up when I glance over a post from one year ago. Despite my pulverized post-partum emotions, 2008 granted me nearly all my weakling hopes. To enjoy my girls, to branch out in cooking, to get confidence in Italian, to take better care of my body, to befriend others, to start down a new spiritual path, to fill myself with others’ words and to fill others with my own… each resolution blossoming quietly while I looked the other way. I would feel sure I floundered through last year if not for the wealth of gifts I hold on this side of it. Several new friends. Morning dates with The Message. Pages upon pages of whimsical love letters to my girls. A recipe treasure trove. Italian vocabulary sets to go with snowboarding, doctor’s visits, board games, babysitting, school, and pie (most important of all, that one). I am rich.

Another surprise: After thinking and thinking and drawing blanks and finally giving up on a word for 2009, I bumped straight into it—Drink—one accidental word to tie up all the loose trails of thought that have wound through my head lately. Drink stands for being present in my own life and rushing headlong into meaningful experiences. It stands for choosing adventure. It stands for refusing to let fear shrivel my decisions and for indulging my ever-present thirst to learn. No resolutions this year, just this one word to live out.

Well, okay, maybe one little resolution: More pie. Yes, that will do.

4Jan

Trail Marker

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 4 Comments

Enough time has passed since I’ve written about religion to revisit it, right? I usually imagine blog readers running for the hills at the first whiff of a controversial subject… but controversy is not what I’m carrying around these days. Instead, I’m wandering through new spiritual territories with a backpack of honesty and little else, and you’re more than welcome to come along.

Church was one of the first topics I wrote about on this blog, and though we’ve changed continents and denominations in the meantime, little has changed. Our current church fits me like a glove… on my ear. A few of the points make actual contact with me—for instance, the friendly people and the bustling social functions—but the rest flops senselessly off the side of my head. Nothing about the services connects with me, not a single song or prayer or message. The only bit of liturgy I find meaningful is the entire congregation sharing a glass of wine and a loaf of bread. I love the unity it symbolizes (and relax, no one that I know has contracted a sanctified strain of mono as a result), though I think the original intent of the Lord’s Supper would translate better to sitting down to a meal together and reminiscing about Christ. (Side note: Dan and I once suggested doing that at our home in the States, which, heresy alert!!! Apparently, bread and Jesus are only compatible within church walls, officiated by an ordained minister. Our bad.)

The thing is, one can’t exactly be picky about churches in a country with extremely limited options. Unless we want to attend a Catholic church, which studies show would turn me into a prune within the month, we’re left with a missionary-run Baptist church (no offense to missionaries or Baptists, but ::shudder::) and ours—part of the Italian Brethren network. It is sincere and brim-full of warm-hearted people I’m thrilled to know… yet my Sunday mornings still trickle down the drain.

Here’s what I don’t need one drop more of: scare tactics, sin management, crucifixion details, calls to repentance, shadows of doubt, words found in the King James Bible, theoretical sermons, fire-and-brimstone, self degradation, righteous anger, controversy, squabbles over which side of the stage the piano is placed, “preacher voice,” hard-backed pews, clichéd sentiments (“God is in control,” anyone?), or legalism.

And here’s what I’m parched for: conversation, open minds, collaborative creativity, practical messages in a practical format, spontaneity, field work, fresh ideas, meaningful-now traditions, questions, answers (or at least journeys toward answers), committed honesty, acceptance without conditions, extravagant generosity, and a tribe of soulsiblings (as Rachelle would say).

Is sitting through three hours of Same Old Religion every week worth the friendships I gain as a result? I think yes, it is… but I sure wish I didn’t have to feign participation to be part of our church group. The role of charlatan doesn’t suit me. I think often about a friend of ours, a former pastor, who caught this strain of religious disconnect and couldn’t keep up the pretense. He publicly announced his doubts about God and left the church under a shower of criticism I can only imagine. I find his choice incredibly courageous, incredibly sad, and incredibly not for me; I’m not ready to cut loose from the church, no matter how it fails to inspire me. But what other options exist for those of us with hearts and minds split down the middle, wide open and raw in the fresh air, unsure where to go from there? If and when I ever figure it out, I’ll be sure to put up a trail marker.

3Jan

Tums for the Soul

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 8 Comments

Since blogging last, I have:
Baked cookies for everyone we know, and them some.
Taken girls to the doctor for seasonal maladies, discovered the doctor was not in, and tried again the next day. And again the next day. And again…
Finally Skyped a doctor friend in the States at 1 a.m. to find out if we should be panicking over Natalie’s fever or not (Answer: not).
Finished Christmas shopping.
Loaded up on groceries.
Cracked the code of crunchifragilistic caramel corn.
Used up the last of our wrapping paper.
Painted.
Made a mental list of the dumbest holiday song lyrics ever (Winner = Emery’s “God, please make a way for Santa’s sleigh”).
Put Sophie back to bed 4,687,721,003 times.
Concocted a white-chocolate-blood-orange cheesecake that will be the death of all other cheesecakes henceforth, amen.
Hosted Christmas Eve Brunch, complete with Christmas Casserole, games, and intense theological discussions.
Watched our girls open their gifts and hit the ceiling with explosions of sheer joy (a tent! a dollhouse! finger puppets! story books! Legos x 10480!).
Hosted Christmas Dinner, complete with chili, cornbread, and assorted fight-and-make-ups.
Guzzled Delicately sipped three gallons a bit of eggnog.
Read an entire book cover to cover (over the course of three days… but it totally counts).
Edited and uploaded reams of photographs.
Conquered the slopes with my new snowboard.
Worn the same sweater three days in a row.
Rolled sushi with the hubby (a fork may have been necessary at one point… shhh).
Gone on a hot date.
Wound up lost on spaghetti-sized mountain roads in the dark.
Attended two parties.
Swept under the shoe pile (lordy).
Been asked by a new acquaintance if I’m expecting a boy or a girl.
(Note: I am not with child. Not even remotely.)
Eloquently told the new acquaintance, huh?, at which point he dashed away.
Laughed.
Cried.
Laughed.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Laughed.
Been kissed by hordes of Europeans in celebration of the New Year.
But not gotten any spumante.
Twisted and shouted.
Participated in Italian group karaoke.
Finally finished a giant puzzle that Dan and I gave up on several years ago.
Climbed Mount Laundry and lived to tell about it.

The one thing I haven’t done is sat down to write, which had a lot to do with the flurry of guests and baked goods and teething Sophies. It also had to do with the stampede toward 2009… life getting off the couch to boogie, and my perspective getting trampled into the chocolate-stained rug. Symptoms of my new year include sweating palms, hair loss, and repeated trips to the chocolate bowl.

I’ve had over a year now to get used to life with two little ones, but I honestly feel more overworked than experienced these days. Soul-searching is limited to five minute bursts between dirty diapers and boiling pasta until my mind is impossibly fragmented and just. wants. sleep. You know that feeling, yes? Last New Year’s Eve, I had inklings of a lush, creative beautyscape ahead, but this year, I’m swerving along a tightrope with a chasm of housewifery below and aspirations obscured by neon signs flashing “Selfish! Selfish!” and “Untalented: YOU!” Miles away from champagne and fireworks, I know.

My belly has been an awful character lately (aside from making people think I’m pregnant, though that is certifiably awful): gnawing at me from the inside-out, tying itself into knots, whispering with clenched teeth that 2009 will be a wasteland. It won’t. I have to believe it won’t, but damned if it doesn’t look just like dirty bathrooms and tumbleweeds from here. Anyone have a burst of inspiration to share? An extra sprinkle of optimism? Some champagne-and-fireworks wishes that I can pop like Tums and transform my stomach from a gremlin to an upstanding citizen again? Because I’m not so good with tightropes, and Mount Laundry’s no longer waiting to break my fall.

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