The Eve of Boot Camp

I was told this isn't sufficient exercise as I had perceived.

Take a gander at the frightening evidence of my poor, neglected figure:

* Me, forbidding any and all pairs of eyes to sneak a peek at my bikini bod before I feverishly wiggle my way out of a cover up and into the pool so as to magically appear a blurry mid-air blip.

*Me, in serious fashion, with serious poise, while giving myself a serious look in the vast expanse of my bathroom mirror, maintaining a steady elevated blow dryer arms stance for a whole three minutes to heroically fight off ever encroaching teacher arms.

* Me, flinging myself onto the bed at the feet of my waking husband, shouting "I. Have. Nothing. To Wear." Under my breath, "That. Fits."

* And me, doing a five minute ab workout on Kinnect. Later that day, marveling at the mystery of my abs feeling like limp string cheese one fatal step away from a collapse. Then, considering the only logical answer: a five minute ab workout on the Kinnect turned my abs into string cheese.

Tomorrow morning I'm meeting my sister in the parking lot of her workplace so early my husband will be in bed thinking my absence is just that of my usual sip coffee, stare into the morning routine.  In that parking lot I will wonder if I missed shaving any spots on my legs as I might encounter a wildly unwarranted close communion of workout intimacy with my lovely brethren of boot camp.

Let's hope this camp is nothing like 4H camp where rats ate through my underwear and I resorted, for the rest of the painfully cheery week, to sleeping on top of very near a friend, who was fortunate enough to have 1st claimed the top bunk. No, I don't ever need to harbor that close of a sleeping relationship with anyone other than my husband, and I definitely don't feel like reuniting with any creatures of the night anytime soon.  One thing's for sure.  I'm guessing, just as palpable as my me-losing-all-sense-of-privacy-as-I-sleep-atop-my-friend-while-I-wait-for-the-rats-to-come-again-tonight-to-peruse-what-they-may-of-my-underthings misery which was nicely paired with an ingratiating happiness only scientifically possible at a camp where parents are not witness to your horror at said unnatural craft toting, song singing, camp counselor joy to stamp out all joys... I will also be in similar misery tomorrow while my body writhes in pain, and I'll look up to see Miss Boot Camp instructor smiling at my contorted, wincing, pain.

Wish me luck as I strive to hold in immature giggles of ineptitude aside my sister [who, mind you, is actually already in shape] and I gather a little enthusiasm, energy, and umph to snap my string cheese abs in half.

I'm Back

I took a break from blogging. I'm back.  

There are five light bulbs in my house which need to be changed, weeds congregating outside the sun room as I type, and thanks to a suicidal bird, a crack in my car window which hasn't been replaced in its five month voyage as fractured.  I've come up for air after a year of teaching so busy I feel I could have lost myself at that rate, continued. 

I didn't start the school year with an intention to work so hard I would be too exhausted to attend to my husband or too overwhelmed to discipline my toddler or just so stinking lazy I couldn't whip up enough energy to climb atop a two foot ladder to change my vanity light bulbs. Good intentions can go awry, and as I look around at the aftermath as evidence of a workaholic mommy, I see a longing in my home, in my family, and in me to be fully present.  

I love the energy of summer. Even without the luxury of teacher leave, we all find ourselves rising earlier. We're eager to play, laugh, and learn voraciously.  Summer beckons us to clean up the garage and pull out those Frisbees for a spontaneous game. Summer tells us to slow down to visit with our neighbor when she's brought over the latest batch of hand-me-down, meals on wheels milk cartons.  Summer urges us to tackle our goals--organizing photos, reclaiming my figure, and furnishing my house with enough decorations to convince people we didn't just move in.  

I would tell you why I quit blogging or why I'm back or why you'll hear from me often now or even what I did while I was "away", but none of that matters.  

I've got a ladder to climb.

A Blackberry Roof

I met up with a friend tonight at a cafe. We sat outside in the cool summer air, sipping on coffee and talking.


I'm back home and was in bed tossing and turning. My mind can't turn off. I blame both the coffee and my friend. We always talk our way through a maze of subjects. Often my body is walking to my car, key in hand, while my mind is still in that maze: hedges of psychoanalysis, bricks of book reviews, roses of inspiration.  But mainly I blame my brain blitz [and the elusive sleepiness] on the coffee.


Tossing and turning in my bed, I replayed the events of the day and came to a dead halt at the blackberry roof...


My neighbor came to visit today, again. Thomas played reign over the yard in my peripheral, yacking at birds and plants to be watered, as I listened with intentional attention, to my neighbor talk about nuances in neighborhood history. 


But as she spoke of neighbors past or ordinances or the probable price of the pool's seasonal pass for those of us who actually live in the neighborhood, my mind was staring quite fixedly on one point both visually and mentally: the roof. 


The conversation started when she came over to essentially let me know that they were replacing their roof with a metal one. I became more nervous about the endeavor with each question I asked and each answer I received.  The roof will last 50 years. And it was baked to be one color. The roof won't be repainted because it can't be. The roof was very expensive. The roof was baked in the color of blackberry. Purple. All I could think during the complicated list of neighbors' names and relationships I was trying to keep track of in the conversation was... I am going to be living next to a house that has a purple roof. 


I live in a sought after neighborhood. Just like my neighbor who was visiting me today, the neighborhood is full of history, pride, loyalty, and beauty.  So, yes, I was a little flabbergasted, shocked, speechless today in this conversation. I am slow in processing information. I'm often not quick in discourse. But I felt I understood this situation immediately upon hearing the words lasts 50 years and a beautiful purple, blackberry actually in the same sentence. This, this is bad, and there's no way around it. 


I am a coward to write those words here but not utter them politely to her.  And what would I do if the one in a million chance were to rain upon me and my neighbor would find this post that spells out my anxiety in awaiting her decidedly different choice in roofing. Well, I would want her to read the rest of my words. 


I'm frightened of what may come next Spring when the roofers will arrive to affix those purple tiles. I will be wearing sheepish smiles. My reaction will be unhidden, unmasked. That is who I am. 


But here is more importantly who I am. I am someone who cares most about the people around me. I may not always first feel this, but I always return to it. 


One day, the roof will be the new normal, and I'll be glad for it [I really hope]. I'll see purple trim and peony bushes, and I will think of my neighbor and the sort of position of royalty she assumes.  That blazing purple will be my inadvertent reminder to relax, not take things so gravely, and to look instead to the people in my life, not the things: the joy of a child, the love of a spouse, or the loneliness of a neighbor. 


People are more striking, and all the more beautiful... than things. I might look to the roof, but I'll be seeing my neighbor and all the good and bold traits she possesses:  loyalty, dedication, pride and confidence. Those impressions through acts of kindness she will have/has bestowed on me and my family will have permeated beyond any kind of glare a metal roof might have. 


People aren't baked in one color and forever set in place, unmovable. They mold, adapt, learn, grow. That's what I'll remember, with a small, sheepish smile on my face, next Spring.


Hopefully, for now, my neighbor is not looking at my dead, bare azalea bushes sitting not-so-stately around my front yard tree. I'm hoping her eyes don't focus there but shift, and see me.

The Barricade

Today is snow day #10. I would like to think I know a little bit about barricading oneself in from the elements outside.

My husband could not make it into work two [or was it three] days last week when the Blizzard of 2011 hit. In fact, management informed the company Do not come in to work! And we echoed back O---K---!! 


Paul is a programmer, a computer guy, a translator of weird numbers and symbols --if you ask me. In our home there is no space for an office. There is just "the space". To put it nicely, the foyer welcomes you to the living room and the living room welcomes you to the dining area and the dining area welcomes you to the kitchen. And in that space of our home laundry is sorted, bread is made, the baby is wrestled, dancing show-downs go down, and ... conference calls are made.  Last week, when Paul would ahem us out of the room, Thomas and I scooted ourselves into his bedroom and barricaded ourselves from daddy's work.

I gentled rocked with a book aimed in line of Thomas playing. I set my red mug of cold coffee on his window ledge where just outside large snowflakes fell into the mass of white.

Pure in his play time, I sat there watching him undisturbed, unbroken. Sometimes, I don't want to muddle it. Wrapped in my white blanket, knees brought to my chest, I watched his inquisitiveness trail behind him as he moved from toy to toy.  His questions, spelled upon his furrowed brow, tumble forth like waves crashing on the shore. He laughs at himself when he gets it right and tries again if he doesn't.

When time called me to uncoil myself from that comfortable spot of seeing my child unspoiled like the landscape of generous new snow, I got to his level and tried my best to not think, not dream-- just be. We chased each other around his plastic hand-me-down zoo contraption. I would pop my head above the yellow and yell the ever cliche phrase I'm gonna get you! He would squeal and shake, clap his hands, sit up and open his eyes wide in realizing it was his time to crawl like his little potbelly's life depended on it.

With trails of coding conversations seeping beneath the door, we continued to read our letter books, tear apart blocks, and sing silly rap songs which induced this Momma to laughing at her hilarious ineptitude. Ah, he doesn't know; I'm his everything when he's looking up at me... [making a crazy fool of myself!]

Typically, I'm running around my house, finishing dishes and laundry and feeling kinda crazed about all there is to do. And typically, my adorable, big-eyed baby is grasping my yoga pants [which he in record time used as his means to capitilize on his height] and staring up at me with a plea of sorts in an octave of mmm or bbbb or  ddd shs gggbb. You would think, at every moment, I would stop, scoop and do the above, but I don't. I look at him with a "Can't you see your Momma's got a million things to do?" look. Ok, well, sometimes.

I'm glad for those moments where I'm forced to slow down, even stop. I'll be welcoming the barricade, or even creating my own from time to time.

Letting God be First

The first two years of marriage were difficult. The first year of marriage was very difficult. I can say that with ease because our marriage is quite the opposite now, and it isn't because of books read or the sweet baby I just put down for nap time.

Fights have turned to a fuzzy remembrance in my mind now. Difficulties which seemed impossible to overcome now are daily gains of strength which draw Paul and I closer together. So, in reflecting on 2010 and all our/my blessings I couldn't help but think: Why? What changed in Paul and I? What clicked?

I've talked to friends on the phone or in person who, when asked about their marriage, claim some unruly beauty and peace in their home, some kind of magic happily ever after.  They effortlessly obliterate my lingering belief that, to some extent, newlyweds face the same struggles Paul and I did. When I listen to their honeymoon bliss of past or present my initial infantile reaction is You're just full of it!, and after I check my attitude exclaim some robotic, "Well, that's just great to hear!"  And, it is. I would never wish marital stress on anyone. For, marriage is almost always the greatest secret -- all around us people walk with a great secret living in their heart. Secrets of pure bliss. And some, unfortunately, of a great sense of hellish torment for marrying who they thought guaranteed that happily ever after.

My sister, Andrea, and my sister-in-law, Margery, will walk down the aisle next year to those men which make them feel down to their toes tingly with love. I can attest to the love and growth I see in both of these relationships. With great gratitude I will sit in the pew with my cuddly Thomas and my Paul and sing praises to God for pairing these couples together. What a grace it is to find someone to share the rest of your life with! What a blessing to marry that man who edifies and heals, loves, protects and provides.

But there's a very good reason we kneel throughout the Mass which unites us in marriage.  We kneel in reverence to the presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist because He is first. We kneel in awe and gratitude for his abundant love which allows for our spouses to be what they need to be [in loving, protecting, providing] within the vocation of marriage. We kneel in humility because we know we can't be all to each other. We kneel in saying, God, you are always first.

The past six months, I have put God first, so that Paul can be what he needs to be for us and for himself. Our marriage is not a holy string of prayer and discussion about faith. It is not complete unity in our adherence to the Catholic Church. It is not a perfection or a lack of sin. I would love it to be this, but it isn't today. But, I do lay down my desires daily as wife and as mother, and I do say, God, you are first. Take my desires and fears. Imbue your will and direct my path. You are the 1st healer, protector, provider.   This is more sufficient than I thought it would be. My heart desires much more, but this, this is good!

Letting God be God, letting Him be first is the liberation a marriage needs. It is the independence we seek and can't find in distorted lies of independence like incremental increases in time apart or money multiplied.

Praise God for the graces He bestows on us when we are ready to accept them!

Post Office Perspective

I was staring at three white envelopes, fearing what those measured wrinkles and ink blots meant. They were definitely in my purse for an unruly length of time. I stood there, in the post office, at one of those chest high plastic stations sticking pine cone decorated stamps on our outgoing business.

I wasn't sending Christmas cards like the lady to my right or mailing gift packages like the lady pressing fifty-odd buttons at the stamp machine [that has a much more complicated name than stamp machine but will be called stamp machine because I don't know any better and all I could think two spots back from the lady with the package was stamps stamps stamps like a greedy addict seeing his fix just up ahead. I guess my fix is sending mail on time. Whatever. ] to create her customized postage.  When it was my turn at this said 'stamp machine', I saw options for 1 booklet of stamps, 2 booklets of stamps, 3 booklets of stamps, 4 booklets of stamps, and 5 booklets of stamps, and immediately thought that it was absolutely inconceivable that they didn't have a choice to purchase 177 booklets of stamps. Honestly, I settled for three.

Back to me breathing a happy goodbye to those piranha of guilt hiding in my purse for the past week... or two.  I could hear my mom's voice in my head remarking on the luck in scoring pretty stamps. These winter beauties are quite a steal of a stamp... I am and was digressing until she showed up.

I can always hear them before I can see them. All you momma's out there know exactly who I'm talking about. Those people who come close and celebrate the cute features of your babies. Those people who make smiley faces and look like their day just turned into a brighter realm all because of a little spittle or some flingings of baby arms and some indistinguishable baby babble. Well, those people are always a-okay in my book. Come one. Come all.  

"Aw. Look at that smile. Your boy is so precious."

"Thank you. That's very kind." Sometimes, those words go on auto-pilot. 

She went on to say more than the usual. There were a string of sweet comments, praising what a happy boy Thomas is. The lady wore a light gray coat, softened by the wear of time. When I looked to her face, I saw softness there too. I felt I didn't have the right words to match hers. 

Gesturing to Thomas she went on, "That is my Christmas wish. I wish so bad I had a baby."

The woman is in her sixties. Gorgeous skin. A glow from someone who's really living. Someone you meet and feel instantly comfortable around like an old friend. Joy in her eyes, and yet... I felt an odd sadness, like she didn't mean a grandkid when she spoke of her Christmas wish. And I was right.

She leaned in real close to me and said hushed, "We were never able to have kids. Oh, I wanted them so bad."

I was speechless.  Such a personal moment in this quintessentially public place. I contained myself. I felt my arms wrap around her and yet stay stiff at my sides. She smiled and said one last thing before going back into the cold.  And this one thing seeped straight into my heart as ink to paper.

"Have a very Merry Christmas with your little angel."

I hope the moment came across the lines here. I hope this really isn't just one of those you had to be there. That woman brought me back to life. I'm always wishing away this working woman gig. But it's not about what we don't have. It's all about what we do. I guess, sometimes with much pain, we have to offer up the rest.

Honestly, I felt a little [A LOT] ashamed of myself and my poor attitude as of late. She's right. At my right hand side, I looked down and saw a living, breathing miracle just crying out for my attention. He is my little Christmas angel. And she might be another angel, too.

Why NFP?

I became familiar with Natural Family Planning at a young age.

My family knew private topics to be public issues. There was no taboo or fear in the subject of sex-- Sex is beautiful. It is holy. It is incredible! [And it could also be widely adulterated, misused, misconstrued and so on!] My parents took the situation of sex most parents feared and turned it on its head. They welcomed conversation, honesty, and forthrightness. I felt privy to an understanding [the glory and goodness of sex] that I strongly felt my peers were missing out on—even when I was literally the one “missing out.”

NFP was a familiar concept: birth control guided by the respect for and understanding of the body in its entirety. A common sense approach updated by the science and research available today.

Due to a medical condition likely caused by an abnormally low body fat percentage [I was a runner. Enough said.], I was enrolled in classes for NFP at the age of seventeen. There was no family-on-the-way of which to be “planning” for. I didn't need NFP as a means to secure a conception or to avoid a pregnancy. [At that age, I likely thought 'yuck' to both.] I needed it to chart my body's needs. NFP did just that.

I took classes in the Creighton method at the local hospital with one of the most gentle Christian women I know to this day. She is a nurse squarely competent instructing her patients in attending to fertility. She was careful with my need for reminders and my frustrating inattention to observances [a skill that's a must when you're in the role of knowing one's body].

Through the classes:

1. I understood my medical situation, but more importantly, the gift of my body: fertility.

2. I also knew that this whole big thing [NFP] would matter much more when I was preparing for marriage and for sex. Both marriage and sex [the greatest of gifts for those called to the vocation of marriage] came at the same time for me. This, only by the supreme grace of God. And only by rejection of Him do I lose His graces!

Much of what I learned in my NFP classes was forgotten between seventeen and the altar. It was buried in the hook-up culture of college. It was lost in my [seemingly endless] years of alone-ness.

So, [deep breath induced by some stingingly fresh humility] when Paul and I entered marriage and 'its reward' [all with the knowledge of two different methods of NFP in tow – (We took classes for the sympto-thermal method pre-marriage as well)], we still had little concept of what NFP was really about. Yes, we successfully used NFP to avoid pregnancy. Vice versa. And then came Thomas. But we didn't really know how to embrace it. NFP isn't a sealant, a fix, a mechanism of control. Natural Family Planning is an approach to the body with a pro-life vantage point and stewardship!

And being “pr0-life”, being pro-NFP, is not about quantity [or lack thereof], as I have seen myself and others confuse, but about quality. It's a much larger picture than a “yes” or “no” to children.

It is about showing reverence to the beautiful breathing miracles all of us are: all ages, aptitudes, and conditions applied! It's about the consuming awe a couple feels for the ability to take part in procreation. It's about the respect a couple shows both in self-sacrifice and in fully giving. It's about saying yes to that great desire each of us pines for inside ourselves– to fully and completely, body and soul, embrace and be embraced with total respect!

Once again I see it -- the great difficulties of marriage are the flip side of those great rewards. The ultimate intimacy is in the ultimate vulnerability. There is not a much more vulnerable situation one can be in than each day re-addressing, re-approaching, re-affirming the thoughts, feelings, and actions stemming from fertility [and infertility too].

And that's why NFP!

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This post was written for several reasons both personal and public. A couple promptings I may mention here:

1. The outpouring of resounding affirmation [and debate] which followed this very well-written post by blogger, Jennifer Fulwiller, who is 'atheist turned Catholic' mother of four.

2. A response to my mother reading Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love and Lose at Both of which I haven't read but am incredibly intrigued due to the overflow of my mother's impassioned reading.
   
   


3. At the core, I needed to answer the question of “Why NFP?” for myself. It's an easy question to answer. It's an incredibly difficult answer to live by!

I welcome any questions/responses on this topic. You don't want anyone to know your business? –-- completely understood! Feel free to email me at Ashers143@gmail.com.