My Bad

A friend of mine has recently separated from her husband. I called tonight to chat with her, and he answered the phone. She had gone out to a movie, and he was keeping the kids.

We exchanged small talk. It's a little weird; about like you'd expect. I've seen him a few times now since the split, but we don't openly acknowledge it. I mean, how would you, just in passing like that?

"It's nice of you to let her get out," I ventured.

"We don't have a very good connection right now," he confessed.

I was taken aback by his sudden candor, and a little moved. He sounded sad.

"I know," I said, with all the kindness and sympathy I could muster.

Silence.

"No, I mean something's wrong with the telephone."

I'm still blushing.

this post lives all by itself here

You Shouldn't Have

(Click on the chicken to find out why they shouldn't have.)

this post lives all by itself here

Once a King or Queen of Narnia, always a King or Queen of Narnia

"That was the greatest movie of my whole life." -my firstborn, nearly 7.

Stick that on the back of the DVD when it comes out. Within the first five minutes of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, tears were streaming down my cheeks. In part because the opening scene depicts the mother having to send her children away for safekeeping, tearfully telling them to be brave and take care of each other. That isn't fictional. Thousands of English wartime families had that experience, and I expect anywhere there is war, or fatal disease, or other disaster, families are experiencing it today. Even without those immediate kinds of threats, growing up inevitably brings you to the realization that life isn't actually safe, that your parents' ability to protect you only goes far. That's hard enough to swallow as a kid. As a mother, I choke on it constantly. On the one hand, I want my children innoculated against all forms of sorrow and suffering. On the other hand, I want to give them confidence that they can handle whatever life will throw at them, that there is more in them than they know.

The other reason for tearing up was just sheer joy at getting to sit with my nearly-seven year-old son and accompany him into the world of Narnia. Those stories were such a huge part of my childhood, particulary the first one. Being the firstborn myself, I identified so much with the two eldest Pensevie children. My little sister and I spent whole Saturdays in Mom's closet pretending to be Queens Susan and Lucy. Just about the coolest part of having kids is getting to revisit all the high points of your own childhood. Like Christmas morning and trick-or-treating and favorite bedtime stories. It's kind of a secret signing bonus.

My son was excited too. On the way to the cinema, feeling chatty, he told me he wished upon a star. He said he always wishes for something he knows is going to happen for sure, like Christmas coming, or his birthday next week. This one tends to play it safe. I thought for a minute about what I wanted to say. It's important to me that I only tell my children things I truly believe myself. (Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus does fit into that criteria.)

"Oh, honey," I said. "Not every wish you make will come true, but lots of wonderful things you can't even think of wishing for will. Know how I know?"

"How?"

"Because I had you."

Being a grown-up has its high points, too.

Technorati Tags:
narnia, c.s. lewis, world war II, london evacuees, motherhood, wishing on a star, aslan, pensevie, children's movies

this post lives all by itself here

Boxing Day

In between roasting peppers, steaming asparagus, and making chicken soup (a recent Sam's Club spree resulted in a perishable food glut), I have been setting up triage for Cosmo, our black moor goldfish, who has been feeling po'ly the last few days. It's not looking too good. But where there's life there's hope, I say. So I've moved him to a temporary "hospital" bowl in the kitchen, on top of the spice cabinet. He is resting on his side, on the bottom of the bowl. Just when we think he's a flatliner, he'll wave his little fin and gasp. I am researching treatment options on this informative site. Not sure at this point what lengths I am willing to go. A living will would have helped.

In other news, I have been binging on sugar, carbs and caffiene. Cold symptoms aside, I feel crappy. My thinking is all fuzzy, and I don't seem to have any energy or motivation to get up and move or do anything but lie around and wait for the next sugar craving to kick in. Patrick eats like this all the time--is this what he feels like? Ugh. Must normalize blood sugar somehow. Probably need to go out and run five miles.

this post lives all by itself here

The weary world rejoices.

In many ways, this has been a year of letting go, sloughing off the "shoulds", the "oughts", the "can'ts". A year of asking ourselves, whose life are we living, anyhow? It hasn't been comfortable, shrugging off the illusions we thought kept us safe. But it feels real.

So it was perfectly appropriate that, instead of getting gussied up for the big traditional Christmas Eve service at the Cathedral (which I love) we pulled on our hoodies and sneakers and trudged down the street to the plain little chapel where I had recently volunteered to lead evening prayer service, & to which I had a key.

It's more like a cell-block than a chapel; painted concrete brick and a couple of incandescent floor lamps with no shades. Like what you'd imagine the CIA's secret prisons in Eastern Europe to look like. Except with those awful 1950s pretty-boy Jesus posters, you know, like he's a model for Breck. A far cry from the grandeur and goosebumps of the Cathedral, where it would be standing room only tonight.

For us, it was perfect. It was just the five of us, but we lit candles and sniffled and hacked and coughed our way through the whole service, and when it came time for the five-minute "period of silence" as proscribed, we huddled together around the baby--who by this time was nursing in my lap--and sang Silent Night.

Sleep in heavenly peace. Merry Christmas.

this post lives all by itself here

A plague upon our house


There is no misery quite like the state of being sick while attempting to care for a sick baby. Unless it is the state of still being sick after the baby starts to feel much better. Or the state of still being sick after the baby is much better and your husband gets sick on Christmas Eve, when the house is a public health hazard already from the mountains of snotty tissue and you were counting on getting to disinfect everything if he would only take the three regrettably vigorous and Santa-crazed children (who are already bellowing Jingle Bells at 8:25 this morning) out to the park or the zoo for the day and it's raining.

May God have mercy on our souls.

this post lives all by itself here

Contact Me

I thrive on your comments, emails, and even warm fuzzy thoughts. My email is kyranp@gmail.com.

this post lives all by itself here