Farewell to Summer Break

As summer vacation winds down and I am forced to think upon things more academic and related to my bi-monthly paycheck, I have been thinking about things accomplished and things left undone these last two months. To be honest, I have spent too much time in my pajamas re-watching favorite episodes of The Office and my favorite YouTube channel, React. When I do dress in real-people clothes and venture out into the ridiculously hot summer hell (there just is no other word for it), I hang out with friends over ridiculously long lunches where none of the problems of the world are solved, but we have a lot of fun trading stories about our grown kids.

It's just what moms do.

I look around my house from the seat I have occupied for most of this summer and am thoroughly satisfied. Cats are napping. Fans are humming. Ice from the machine in the freezer pops from time to time. I hear the sound of the motorcycle of the oldest as he makes his way in from work knowing that the other two men in the family will shortly follow. They come in hot (not a one has a/c) and typically with a work story or two to tell. I look forward to this end of the workday routine.

I've not been to the beach or lake and only momentarily dipped my feet into a pool. No great loss there for me. My skin does not handle the sun and my temperament does not handle the heat so we're all good as far as I'm concerned. I've not ridden one roller coaster or visited one museum. I haven't hiked a mountain or bicycled a path or even chased the setting sun riding shotgun next to the husband. I'm telling you, it's just too darn hot and I am just not that motivated.

So this is where I ask myself, what have I done?

Well, lunch, but we already established that.

Mom. I got to spend two wonderful weeks with my mother. We shopped and watched When Calls the Heart and visited the Grand Ole Opry with the youngest.

Papers. I've written quite a few papers. In fact, just yesterday I finished a marvelous piece (sarcasm?) on the State of Illinois Budget for the Fiscal Year 2011. Seriously. I like to party hard around here.

Reading. I've read quite a few books that range from the last (mostly unknown) battles of the Civil War to a fictional work about a horrifying plane crash that left three people stranded on an island for a year and a half. Good stuff.

Netflix. Whether you love it or hate it, I utilize my monthly fee by watching documentary after documentary and again, the aforementioned The Office and When Calls the Heart. If a show makes me smile, I am guaranteed to watch it over and over.

Napping. Well, yeah. Self explanatory.

I could go on, but I am starting to bore myself. Some might look at this and remark at how lazy I really am, but hey, I've never professed to be overly ambitious. I did attend a week-long seminar for my profession and wrote two extremely brutal (as in boring) book reports on the Supreme Court (also necessary for the profession) and have even been planning a lesson or two so I wouldn't say I've been entirely useless.

Just sorta-kinda.

That's my kind of summer vacation.

Grief is an Ocean

This has been a week of me missing my dad. I mean, I always do, but it hit me hard on Monday and has continued throughout the week.

That's what I get for cleaning.

You see, it was the very act of cleaning that triggered the whole thing. My mom had brought me out a set of glasses when she visited during the first two weeks of June and those glasses have sat in the same spot where I set them when we brought in her stuff. Even the white bag they were in was dusty.

Cause that's how I roll.

Apparently something unnatural in the universe sparked a cleaning gene hidden deep within me around noon on Monday. Yes, noon on Monday. I remember it vividly because the husband needed work shirts and other necessities and I gave him my word I would take care of it Monday (promised on Saturday). I didn't want him to come home after work to find me still in my pajamas with nothing accomplished, so around noon on Monday I decided to start laundry.

Oh, the joys of summer break.

It was while I was sorting laundry in the kitchen that I decided maybe I would actually clean the kitchen and as I was putting away glasses from the dishwasher I thought about that bag my mom left me. No time like the present, I thought, and I lifted the bag to the counter to begin unwrapping my mom's serious wrapping job of those glasses.

I knew the glasses were plastic so with the unusual weight of the first one I picked up, I wondered what surprise she had included that I had procrastinated in finding. Even before I uncovered it, though, the realization hit me that it was the very mug that I had asked to keep when I had visited her back in April.

And that's when the wave hit.

Grief is like an ocean. In the beginning, right when my dad's life was ending, the waves were huge, like standing at the edge of the Atlantic on a windy day when the clouds are low and dark and rumbling. There seemed to be no break in the white-capped, rolling waves as they made their way toward land and toward my heart. Time went by and just like the ocean itself, the waves became calmer- always present, but not quite so threatening.

Maybe it was because that blasted Facebook has been reminding me of memories from two years ago:

Dad's first chemo treatment tomorrow. Please pray for a miracle.
Dad's very tired and so is Mom. Thank you for praying for a miracle.
I refuse to believe a report from man. I am expecting a miracle.

You get the idea.

So on Monday just shortly after noon when I was holding a mug in my hand that the youngest had presented to my dad as a gift in more hopeful times, an unexpected wave came crashing in while I wasn't looking and just about knocked me off my feet. I fought through the tears as I put away the glasses and cursed the very thought that had me cleaning in the first place. I thought of my mom and my admiration for her grew even more. The size of the waves she has withstood... and is still standing.

I still don't know what to make of this world without my dad in it. I don't know that it will ever feel the same. Even so,  I hear him in the words of my kids and in their laughter and questionable jokes. Some days it's almost the same as having him nearby. Almost, but not quite.  I suppose that is the consequence of having someone who meant so much no longer breathing the same air.

And, as we have learned, the consequence of my deciding to clean on a Monday at noon.

No wonder I'm such a procrastinator.

The Worry Tree

Years ago, when the husband worked in law enforcement, he planted a tree in our front yard. I'm sure he didn't plan it at the time- after all, we just thought the front yard needed a little something extra; but that tree would come to represent him leaving his worries behind before he came into the house. This past week with all of its drama and heartache and nonsense that have flooded every newsfeed known to mankind has caused my thoughts to wander back to the era of the worry tree.

I am pretty sure he got the idea from something he had read. I seem to recall reading or hearing about a similar tale at some point in my life. It doesn't really matter, though, because as we all know, the best ideas are bound to be repeated. This was a good idea.

After he would step out of his patrol car and before he would come into the house, he would pause for the briefest of moments and mentally hang his worries on that tree. Worries that were images, burdens, and thoughts of despair.

In other words, humanity at its worse.

He would hang the unpleasantness of the job on a limb that certainly would have never been able to bear the true weight of such a thing and would proceed to walk inside the house, weary and hungry, and hug each of us one by one. I could not help but to think this week of the wives and children in Dallas who would not be receiving those same kind of hugs ever again and my heart literally broke.

I can remember one particular night during his career when I paced the floor waiting for that man of mine to come home. I had heard tales of a particular call that involved gunfire and even when he personally called me to assure me all was well, I did not believe it until I physically had him within reach. I can distinctly remember him looking at me ever so seriously and quietly saying, "I will always come home."

But we all know that promise does not always end well.

And so I had those memories swirling through my overactive brain as I was watching the events of Dallas unfold the other night. Lives that were cut short because they went to work that day. Families who would forever be changed because of the delusion of one man. Since that night, every talking head in America seems to have a solution on what we should do and what lives matter and what steps we can take to heal our land.  The truth remains that  regulations and protests and hashtags will do nothing to solve the evil in the heart of man.

The husband works no more in law enforcement (although his ears perk up every time he hears a siren and I know in his mind, he is racing toward another call). We have long since moved from that little house in a little town with a little tree out front. To my knowledge, none of our current trees serve to bear his burdens before he comes inside the house to hug each---- well, just me now. We pray for our country as we pray for those who serve to protect, assist, and defend; and we worry what the future holds for our children's children.

I can only think of one tree that can bear that kind of burden.

And it was made into a cross.

Not Finished Yet

Oh my. Thank you for the comments on that last entry. For the THREE of you (my fan base is wide, I know) who are fellow bloggers and therefore have earned my admiration by default, thanks for sharing your comments on the subject. I'm glad to know your thoughts.

And to my MOM, who is my number one fan, I had NO idea that you check this page regularly (did you say DAILY?) for updates. I feel as if I have let you down. You must have wondered if I had run out of things to say.

Never.

Let's start with today. This weekend. Needless to say, I am actually looking forward to Monday and my classroom. From this vantage point, it looks like an oasis. Normal. Organized chaos. A light at the end of the tunnel.

I am exhausted. Yesterday I was drowning in readings on administrative law while waiting for updates on that big brother of mine. There is nothing quite as hard as having family members in a hospital that you have no hope of visiting- that distance gets us every time. I accomplished absolutely nothing around the house. Absolutely nothing (with the exception of the aggravating run to the grocery store that I made for the sole purpose of venting a little steam... those Walmart aisles will rearrange the focus of your anger in a heartbeat).

Today was the birthday of the middle. I love that kid (as I do all, of course). We had a big family lunch, pulled off a fairly awesome birthday surprise, and ended the day with a cake glowing from the light of twenty candles. Granted, it was after nine in the evening by this point and we ran out of ice cream by the time it got to me and three of the twenty candles were the kind that sparked and flared and never did quite go out, but hey, that just served to present the boy with a challenge that he couldn't quite refuse.

Good times.

Today was also the first in the graduation festivities of the youngest. Can someone please tell me when that happened? I told the husband that looking at her in her cap and gown reminded me of her younger years playing dress-up. It was almost as if I felt I should be telling her to take it off, like it didn't quite belong.

But belong on her, it did.

Baccalaureate tonight.
Honors night later this week.
Graduation in under three weeks.

College up next.

May the good Lord see us through.

So apparently I have not posted anything since the last month of the last year. I can promise you that it is not because I have nothing to say. Quite the contrary. It's mostly because I have too much to say...

and a job to keep.

It becomes somewhat of a muddled path when co-workers get mixed in with friends that are already mixed in with family. Sharing my thoughts was so much easier when I was remotely tucked away into the shadowy corners of my own home with no job and no one to please. Now the light of day sometimes blinds me and this annoying precept of attempting to appear nice is excruciating and trust me, appearance and truth are two different things. In my head are those all too familiar words: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all.

Ergo, the reason for the silence on the blog front.

Do I retire this blog, start a new one, or just can it altogether?

Anyone?

Santa, Me, and My Mom As A Seamstress

Ahhhh... Christmas. A fellow blogger posted a black and white photo of himself with the big man and that image stirred up my own memories of childhood holidays.

My mom knew how to make me into one stylin' girl, that's a fact. For as long as I can remember, she made my clothes and even now, my favorite color is pink.

My own daughter, no doubt, will question the length of this dress. Yes, it's short and yes, I still have those same looking knobby knees.

Another beautifully-made dress... I love the apron with this one. Now maybe you understand why I love aprons to this day. It just makes the woman.

Another apron! Score! And yes, I still believe in Santa at this age and yes, this is the same Santa! Gotta love small towns and holiday traditions.

Obviously, I hope, the sophistication of my pantsuit should indicate that this will be the final picture of Santa and me. The man has to be wondering how many more years he will see that redheaded girl. I wonder if he looked for me the next year.



My parents worked hard to keep the dream alive and for that, I am forever thankful. Because of the memories I had, I carried those traditions on to my own family and have often said that the fun of the Christmas season was putting our little ones to bed after they had meticulously set out a plate of cookies and a cup of milk with the big guy in mind. The memories of those joyous squeals in the morning preceded by the pounding of little feet will always bring a smile to my face. My proudest moment, though, would have to be the year the reindeer left remnants of their midnight snack of carrots in the snow in full view of the living room window. Oh my. I can still see those kids, noses pressed to the cold glass, talking among themselves about Santa's reindeer. For me, that memory is equivalent to the year my grandpa told me he had seen the red glow of Rudolph's nose high in the winter sky on a Christmas Eve while he was locking up the doors of the factory. Even now, I remember the excitement and awe I felt as a child.

Those are the kinds of memories that time just cannot touch.
Kind of like the outfits my mom use to make me.

Forever cool.

Wrecked Plans

As I sit in my preferred spot this morning,

I smell two pies baking happily in the oven.
I hear the laundry whishing wearily in the machine.
I feel the steady warmth from the fire before me.

And I fight back the tears.

This week has not gone how I planned. For a month (or better), I planned. I gave notice, worked ahead of the game, dotted all my i's and crossed all the t's. Everything was in place for a much-needed trip home and yet, here I sit. It's been hard not to be ungrateful in a week set aside for thanksgiving.

So,

I have cleaned and decorated and, as aforementioned, am now baking.
I have once again taken up whispered conversations with the cat.
I have been in the same set of pajamas for what is now the third day.

Earlier, I surprised myself and the Lord by opening my Bible. Needless to say, for all my God has a plan talk, I have been slightly irritated with the sudden change in my plan. I was thinking that maybe there was a reason I had to stay behind... maybe something big was going to happen and I would be needed here. And yes, even as I write this I cannot help but notice my ego at play. It really is quite sad how full we humans can get with ourselves; as if something could dare happen if we are not present. We live in a world quite consumed with self-importance.

While reading in Psalms earlier, I was reminded that if I truly remember who I am, my need to understand the whys and hows of life make no sense whatsoever. It really is a waste of time. After this week has passed by, will I look back at wasted days or days well spent? I am choosing the latter. It's a struggle, that's for certain, but the last eight years of this ridiculous distance have been just that. Now that I think about it, my plan has never been the plan. I really should have learned this by now.

So, as this week of thanksgiving continues, I will check on the pies, finish the laundry (current pajamas included), keep my feet by the fire, and I will be thankful for all the resources that allow such luxuries.

Happy Thanksgiving.