Author: Bethany

20Nov

Pomegranate Seeds

The girls are finally in bed, and I’m sinking into the couch with half a beer and two fresh clementines, impulsively ignoring the to-do list that I wrote in flowery cursive to make mopping seem more appealing. (It didn’t.) These November days have been studded with these impulses, little sudden choices in favor of irresponsibility. A ten-minute detour at the park on the way home from school. A midnight game of mancala in bed when Dan and I are too restless to sleep. Guests on a whim. Dissecting a gorgeous red pomegranate instead of ironing. A second cup of tea. Rocking-chair rides with tired little girls, wrapped up in my arms with nowhere else to be.

To tell the truth, I feel embarrassingly petty writing this. Something in my soul believes, deeply, that it was meant to change the world. I feel it in music, I snag against it in great literature, I catch a glimpse of it on perfect blue-skied mornings. And yet, here I am coloring in my November with impulses. Pomegranate seeds.

But, for reasons I can hardly explain, I’m satisfied. I’ve settled into a rhythm of peace—or at least an armed neutrality—with housecleaning, and the cogs of our little family purr smoothly again. (Clean floors cover a multitude of sins, you know.) And my little spur-of-the-moment decisions toward happiness have put more than a year between now and last November. In fact, greatness may not be as far away as I once thought, wispy shreds of a future. I’m finding out that it’s more like pomegranate seeds and heart’s impulses. Like being completely present for one of my girls’ giggles. Like hopping off the beaten path with my husband. Like choosing deep breaths and whimsy. And really, that’s not so petty at all.

18Nov

Arpeggios

It’s that month again. A cough here, a drippy nose there, and then increasingly miserable viruses playing arpeggios on our lungs until spring. Poor Dan and Natalie always get the worst of it… bronchitis… ear infections… antibiotics and nebulizers and mountains of damp tissues. I usually weather through the mess with the special dispensation granted to mothers, but this past weekend knocked me flat. My personal cold settled in with a sonic-boom headache, and at first, I felt pretty trendy—finally joining the ranks of migraine sufferers and all—but spending the whole day in bed is not nearly as glamorous as it sounds. Especially when your own head is staging a coup d’état.

After a rush of writing productivity last week, I’ve been melting into the couch… playing a lot of Lego Indiana Jones, watching a lot of “Alias” re-runs, and pretending I don’t notice November sneaking by. Thanksgiving #1 is this coming weekend, and I am not ready for it. In the States, we always invited over college students and friends with no where to go for a feast and games; it was always a special and relaxing day. Even last year, for our first Thanksgiving in Italy, I cooked the traditional meal for a large extended family who had taken us in, and we had a fantastic time. However, I’m dragging my feet this year… maybe because of lingering sickness, but more probably because I’m reluctant to face the stark reality of a whole year gone. Time moves quite a bit faster than I do now.

Blah, blah. I’m sorry, it must the head cold talking. Have I told you about my new dishwasher yet? (Love.) Or that all-from-scratch pumpkin pie with dark caramel sauce and swirly whipped cream is on the menu for Saturday? Or how Sophie travels the house all day long finding books and toiletries and DVDs and dishes and laundry and dust bunnies to bestow on me? (With creation’s cutest smile, of course.) Or that I found strawberry-mango tea and Southern Comfort in the same grocery trip? Or how my sweet husband cooked for me all weekend, including a scrumptious Greek dinner? Or about the possibility of a girls’ night out next week (the first I have taken in… um, two years? for reasons entirely my own fault). Or about Natalie’s hugs?

So many things to be thankful for… even head colds, which help me slow down and inspire Greek cuisine and draw our dear little family together under blankets and heaps of love.

Handy considering it’s that month again!

11Nov

Enamannoyearningcited

Enamored with:
Mark Twain’s description of German opera in A Tramp Abroad. “The racking and pitiless pain of it remains stored up in my memory alongside the memory of the time that I got my teeth fixed.” I love Mark Twain even more than I love Shakespeare, and that’s saying a lot. (Oscar Wilde trumps them both, but that’s beside the point.)

The cauldron of fog overturned on our region two days ago. I love the mystery of not being able to see what’s ahead; for instance, I may know it’s only the supermercato, but perhaps it’s taken on a different personality or grown a mustache in hiding. Plus, the fog is just spooky enough to keep ghost stories on the menu.

Our new… are you ready for this?… {{drumroll}}… dishwasher! It has replaced Sophie’s high chair in the corner of our kitchen and is giving me reason to writhe around our tile floor in a frenzy of joy. The time I spend on dishes has gone from 1 ½ hours a day to 3 minutes. 3 minutes! Excuse me while I go lick the plate rack again.

Tea, after a two-year tastebud hiatus. We don’t have as many options here, but I’ve managed to find a mandarin-spice-cookie flavor that makes my heart sing. And anyway, my beloved peppermint is universal. (Now that I have a tea infuser, I’m itching to make peppermint tea from our riotous little balcony plant. Note to self: Learn how to use a tea infuser.)

My makeshift vanilla-berry candle platter and the friendly glow of small, contained fires. Natalie and I are going to paint holiday scenes on empty baby food jars and then put tea lights in them tomorrow for Christmas, and I’m finally going to get our money’s worth out of those Pottery Barn pumpkin pillars we carted over from the States. This year, I am not taking candles for granted.


Annoyed by:
Adults doing the children’s voices in cartoons.

Waking up to a bathroom-related mess. As in, it should have happened in the bathroom.

Finding myself from time to time really not wanting to be a mom. (See above.)

Other drivers waiting impatiently for my parking spot while I bundle the girls into their carseats.

How very, very yummy those caramel krispy treats were, causing me to make and eat a second batch when I was already full.

How my last entry (posted elsewhere as well) stirred up a level of controversy I never expected… How so many people were adamantly opposed to the government helping out those in need… How my joy over Obama’s election was squished out of me, e-mail by e-mail, until I began to wonder if speaking up was worth it… How this week was down in the first round.


Learning how to:
Respect people who think differently from me, even when their beliefs seem misguided and hurtful, even when they don’t treat me with respect.

Stick around for conflict rather than darting behind the nearest hedge.

Just say no to caramel krispy treats. (Still working on that one.)


Excited about:
Christmas decorations, Christmas photo cards, Christmas art projects, Christmas gifts, Christmas outreach, and a special Christmas treat for all of you!

Getting a favorable response from the company I so longed to work for. We have some tangley logistics to work out, but I am delighted to find out the door is not shut.

A clean house (thank you, dishwasher!), a sweet family, and a whole day wide open to living.

6Nov

A Vote of Conscience

Dan and I had no illusions when he started graduate school a year after our wedding. We knew there were no savings accounts in our immediate future, no working fancy cars, and certainly no cushions of wealth to fall on if things grew tight. However, we were excited for his opportunity to get a degree in a field he loved, and his stipend provided for our few needs. There were only two things we could not purchase on our own: a house (mortgage payments would be far more affordable than rent, plus they would be an investment rather than a complete loss) and health insurance. I even took various jobs I hated to help out, but it wasn’t enough. That time was very frightening for us; a new baby was quickly on her way, and we lived in a moldy one-bedroom apartment without the thousands of dollars needed for health insurance.

I cringed the first time I walked into the social services building down the street. Waiting rooms were crowded with regular people, all looking carefully down at their shoes, and I felt embarrassed by my decent clothes. At the same time, I wanted to shout to everyone in the building that I didn’t belong there. Dan and I weren’t poor; we just didn’t have any money. I wanted everyone to know that we both worked, very hard. We weren’t like everyone else in the building.

But of course we were. The more I looked around, the more I noticed young mothers struggling against tears as they asked for food stamps to feed their children. I saw impoverished elderly couples applying for help to pay their outrageous prescription bills. I ran into our next-door neighbor wearing his best suit, hoping to find a better job than his one-car taxi business so he could work his way out of bankruptcy. Not one of us was sitting around thinking Ahh, this is the life; the government takes care of me, and I don’t have to do a thing! We were struggling, all.

The day Natalie was born, she had to have surgery, and the initial bill was $80,000 (not counting the next eleven days she spent in the NICU). Because of Medicare, we did not have to pay a penny of the bill that would have derailed our entire lives. Several months later, we were able to purchase a little three-bedroom house with a closing costs loan from the government (which we have since paid off) and start saving on mortgage, utilities, and transportation. We survived those few years because we were not alone in the world; we received enough help to get us on our feet, and with his graduate degree, my husband is able to have a good job that he enjoys.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard family and friends say that Democratic policy will just lead to rampant laziness and teach people that they can get away with sitting at home all day, mooching off the government. They are outraged that Obama wants to raise taxes on the rich to provide health coverage and better education for the poor. Where did your kindness go? I want to ask them. We used to be some of those poor, and our lives are immensely better for the help we got. Poor does not mean lazy. It does not mean criminal. It simply means “needy,” and why would anyone want to deny help to the ones who need it most? Would you really horde your $250,000 salary if it meant that babies would starve whose parents couldn’t afford college educations to then get good jobs? Would you prevent “socialism” if it meant that people could not pay for emergency room visits or medicine? Would you deny help to “the least of these” in order to teach them an irrelevant lesson about responsibility?

I voted with my conscience this election, and I’m deeply grateful that our future president and his lovely wife understand the power of kindness. Wealth and foreign control pale in comparison to the worth of people, and the hope this election has brought is not to be taken lightly. Even on the blazing-hot abortion issue, I am supporting Obama, who not only has a plan to decrease abortions by 95% but (more importantly) will be increasing the government’s humanitarian work to prevent countless unwanted pregnancies in the first place.

People matter more than money. Kindness matters more than fairness. Opportunity matters more than tradition. This is what I believe with all my heart as a mother, a friend, a citizen, a Bible-reader, and an unaffiliated voter, and this is why I am awed by gratefulness for the next president of the United States.

5Nov

Proud

I sniff around cautiously for like minds, for whiffs of celebration rather than defeat. Opening my mouth is a scary prospect after an election this tense, and Facebook statuses give a pretty good indication of most people’s places on the political spectrum. (i.e. – Maybe I should tone down the excitement around “Nicholas says ‘OBAMA IS A LIAR!!!!!!!!!’” eh?) I did not advertise who I was going to vote for, because 1) I didn’t want my suggestion to keep others from making their own decisions, and 2) I’m a chicken. However, I can say today that I’m thrilled. Waking up this morning felt like opening a history book, and I need you all to know this:

I am proud of the people who braved long lines and bad weather to vote.
I am proud that America elected an African American to lead the country.
I am proud of Barack Obama’s courage, ideals, and commitment to hope.
I am proud that John McCain graciously conceded the campaign and urged crowds of booing Republicans to work toward unity.
I am proud that George Bush passed a law giving Obama access to important documents now so he can prepare for his first term.
I am proud of my friends who disagree with Obama but have decided to respect him anyway.
I am proud of my friends who are now celebrating a heartfelt wish come true.
I am even proud of Sarah Palin for taking all the criticism against her with a sense of humor.
But most of all, I am proud today to one of the millions of Americans—Democrat, Republican, or otherwise—who want only the best for their country.

That is something to be proud of, folks.

31Oct

And a Mushy Halloween To You

I love this girl,

Best hat ever

who turned one stupendous, sugar-coated year old today. Her favorite gifts were: 1) the Duplo elephant holding a yellow umbrella, and 2) the gift wrap, of course. This girl is caught in a time hiccup, running around the house in her black-and-purple Vans* as a big kid but still snuggling up for her morning bottle as a sweet-cheeked baby. She melts my heart, this one. As much as I wish I could stop her from growing a single second older, I can’t wait to see how many kinds of fantastic she develops over the next year. Happy birthday, Sophie Ruth!

* Because we are cool parents, but also because we want her to get mistaken for a boy ALL THE TIME. ::Sigh::

~~~
I love this girl,

Natalie skipping

who burst into our room this morning after discovering Sophie’s birthday balloons** and shrieked, “Look! This balloon has NIPPLES!” (It did.) Her favorite one of Sophie’s gifts was all of them, and when I complimented her on the little animals she had picked out for her sister, she rolled her eyes. “Mommy, I’m pretty sure they’re for me.” She too is straddling the line between big and little—using logic when it suits her, but still skipping the whole way home from school singing, “One, two, three, four, five, six, eleven, eight, nine! NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE!” Our lives are a thousand shades brighter for her smile.

** In our house, the birthday girl always wakes up to a bedroom filled with colorful balloons. Surprise!

~~~
I love this guy,

Quick Daddy hug

who stayed up far too late last night to help his pumpkin be-splattered wife finish making yummy things.*** I can’t say enough how much I appreciate this man. He loves his “girls” (all three of us included) deeply and shows it in little sacrifices all throughout the day… like putting on that annoying kids’ music so the girls can dance, or cooking supper on evenings when I look like Medusa’s tired twin. His heart is what holds our family—our lovely tangle of balloons and breakdowns and skipping and screaming—together the tightest. I think I’d like to keep him awhile.

*** Like these:

Balloon cake pops

(Strawberry balloon cake pops for the birthday girl!)

29Oct

Fairytale Medication

I brought my computer along to the hospital last week, thinking that as Sophie whiled away the hours in dreamland, I would whip out a novel or something. Oh, refreshing naivety. Sophie did much more crying than sleeping, and when I found myself with a spare hour Friday morning, I had the following number of brain cells with which to write my novel: -2. I opted for mindless busy work instead and got to reorganizing my e-mail.

The significance of this completely boring story is that I ran across an e-mail from four months ago that I had never seen before. I suppose my old hard drive destroyed it in a fit of petulance, and oh. Deep breaths. You see, this e-mail was an out-of-the-blue offer for my dreamiest of dream jobs from a company I adore. It was fairytale material, folks; not only did the glass slipper fit, it came with a side of work-from-home and compliments aplenty. After I scraped myself off the hospital ceiling, I wrote back to tell them yes, I love you, yes.

And then I discovered that the person offering me the job is no longer employed by the company. I have since tried to make other contacts, but no luck; this little story seems to have reached The End. I am self-medicating with logic—after all, I was plenty happy before I knew about the offer—but sheer disappointment is still clinging to my week.

I keep hoping that there’s some cosmic purpose in my not finding the e-mail until too late. The two times I was turned away from grad school brought this same heartsick confusion… until pregnancy and then an impending move to Italy gave gentle reassurance that I was already where I needed to be. Both times, Something Better was just around the corner. It’s hard to believe that Something Better than my dream job is in store for the coming months, but experience has taught me that trust is far better medicine than logic is, and perhaps—just perhaps—my fairy godmother is still waiting to make her grand entrance.

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