Sundays in My City: The Breath of the Wind

Things are good. Back-to-normal kinda good. Joel is back to his old tricks, confounding  fellow toddlers with his death-defying antics.

Of course we were at Panera, and because Panera Bread is the high school cafeteria of Calvert County, we naturally ran into a friend.

This boy is one month older than Joel, and behaves as befits his mature age. He sat in his chair, ate his bread and juice, and as my child attempted to jump into the fireplace, he looked at him and thought, "Kid, what the hell is your problem?"

Like I said, back to normal...

***
Well, almost. While Joel was having his surgery, Owen spent the weekend with his grandparents in Virginia. They actually live in King George County, "The Gateway to the Historic Northern Neck," but we met up with them in Fredericksburg. 

Fredericksburg is ridiculously historic. George Washington was born just a bit south. His mother had a house in town. It is the also the site of a Civil War bloodbath--The Battle of Fredericksburg. Almost 20,000 men lost their lives---and I'm sure it wasn't pretty.

I think of these men (and, especially, the women and babies they left behind) as I walk these streets. I don't dwell, but I recognize their whispers in the slate rooftops and the aged glass windows. The Decemberists song, "Yankee Bayonet" haunts my mind:

But oh my love, though our bodies may be parted
Though our skin may not touch skin
Look for me with the sun-bright sparrow

I will come on the breath of the wind.

There's a lot of sorrow in these streets. Yet, they support my feet and bring much joy.

For this what people do--we create art and absurdity.

We eat and drink, while watching the world do its busy little dance.

We refuse to be smothered. We grow. We improve. We inspire.

 

We will always, in some way, be with the people we love. For we come on the breath of the wind.

Thank you, Unknown Mami, for allowing me to show off my city. Stop by her page to hear other stories.

Easy Peasy

Well, we're home now. Everybody is fine. Your love, your prayers, and your incredible kindness felt like a blanket (with sleeves!) of grace, and I thank you.

We left the house at 6:30, and arrived at the hospital to have the official Johns Hopkins Coffee of Healing:

Then, came the waiting. 

 

There was that strange dichotomy that this is a hospital, a place of repair and healing, but also a place of illness and heartbreak.

The kids didn't care. They laughed and played in their surgical gowns. 

Throughout it all, the doctors and nurses (especially the nurses) were kind, heroic, and skilled.

I heard a doctor say to a patient, "I heard that somebody ate a bird. I need to check to see if it was you."

The little girl, clutching her stuffed hippo, laughed and said, "I didn't eat a bird."

The doctor said, "I just need to check," and listened to her heart with his stethoscope.

"Nope, no birds," he said.

"I told you!" she said, giggling.

I love people that choose pediatrics. 

 

After Paul put on his funny suit, and we posed for awkward, exhausted pictures...

...they took my Joely away.

Everything was taken care of. Problem solved. Easy Peasy.

Another happy ending, another little miracle.

Favor

Do me a favor...

Send some love to this guy tomorrow.

Right around 10:45 Eastern Time, when his surgery starts. (For those not in the know, he's having a hydrocele removed from his left scrotal sack. Sorry to gross out both of my male readers, but that's what it is)


What do I mean by love? Pray, light a candle, send good thoughts....do what it is you do.

Personally, I'll be praying.

Also, if you're feeling generous...

Pray for these guys, too.

We're driving to Baltimore (it's about an hour and a half).

In rush hour traffic.

With a vocal little person.

And his empty stomach.

We'll have to listen to him cry and scream at the injustice of it all.

And provide nothing for him.

But our hopes.

Our prayers.

Our love.

Thanks so much.

Ladybug

After this and this (read: the most over-analyzed and relentlessly anticipated preschool pageant ever), Owen had the Christmas pageant today. I was surprised. Most pleasantly surprised.

It was one of those holy, transcendent moments. When a ladybug crawls on your hand, you hold still and appreciate the ruby-round perfection. Likewise, when three-year-old boys and girls sing, you hold your breath and soak it all in. Because all too soon, it flies away. 

He wore his costume

He sang the songs and did the hand motions.

(Baby Jesus was born on the 23rd, and her name is Ashton.)

He saw Mommy.

He posed for his adoring public.

He made us proud.

He did the pageant on his terms, and at the exact right time.

Sometimes, we need time to bloom. And when the time is right, we bloom beautifully indeed. 

A little diet help, for you squemish types

A parking lot restored my faith in humanity this morning. More specifically, two people in a parking lot.

I was buckling in the kids, following Joel's pre-op appointment at the pediatrician's office, and I heard the sickening crunch of metal against metal. The woman two cars down had backed into another car. The woman ran out of the car, crying, "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" Even from my respectable distance, I could see her hands trembling.

The other woman said, "Oh honey, it's nothing. Just a scratch."

The first woman sniffed, "Are you sure? I'm so sorry, I'm so---"

"Honey," the other woman said, "Happy New Year. It's fine. I promise." And then---and then!---she gave this woman a hug. As the two strangers embraced, I could see the tension waft away, like smoke from an extinguished candle. I have to admit, I sniffed back a tear or two.

Deep down---people are good.

***
This made me think, of all things, back to 1997, when I traveled to Hong Kong with a group from college. I was a senior, in the midst of my student teaching, grabbing one last adventure before graduation.

Our job was to be conversants for students at a middle school, providing language practice and cultural exposure. I'll freely admit that this was an excuse for my main goal---seeing the world.

Hong Kong reminded me of a British Southern California. Lush and balmy, it smelled of the sea, yet buzzed with the energy of Manhattan. Yet, everywhere hung a pervasive dread, like dark bunting, for the citizens were awaiting the advent of Chinese Communism.

As it turns out, life changed only in minor ways since the changeover in 1997, but at the time, nobody knew. It was a bit like watching the Berlin Wall grow from the ground, brick by soul-crushing brick. What light would be blocked---and for how long?

One of my goals when traveling was to be an adventuresome eater. Some of my fellow Americans were whiny, moaning about their desire for McDonalds or "American Chinese Food." Philistines.

We were in Asia, for God's sake, and I wanted the real deal. We went to a vegetarian restaurant which served chicken and beef flavored tofu dishes, which was odd, but whatever. I used chopsticks militantly, even though they provided forks for the "foreigners." I had dim sum, and yes, I ate this with hearty gusto, and asked for seconds:

Chicken feet: Hells. Yes. 

We went to Guangzhou, China on a one-day visa, and visited a local marketplace. I made children cry with my creepy white skin and saw turtles, bats, dogs, cats, chicken, alligators, fish, tarantulas, mice, rats, possum, jellyfish, and beetles for sale. To eat.

Although I considered eating the beetles, I instead ate two fish eyes.

They looked kinda like this.

In all of this, my stomach did not revolt, churn, or protest. On our final night, the middle school had a "thank-you" banquet, and they served "American" food--including macaroni and cheese, casseroles of various sorts, and hot dogs.

Oh. My. God. It hit me at the downtown marketplace a few hours later. My stomach contracted as it never had before. I said a hasty goodbye to my friends, and took the subway, alone. Hailed a cab, alone. Returned to our dormitory, alone.

I don't speak a word of Chinese.

Once at the dorm, I curled into a ball and threw up in a garbage can. The smell was inhuman, and I vaguely remember putting the can in the hallway.

The next morning, I found myself tucked into bed, a glass of water on the table. I heard scrubbing outside my door, and saw a friend of mine scrubbing away at my vomit. I had not put the garbage can outside. I had dumped the can, and all my hot-doggy puke right in the hallway. I was too sick, I guess, to even care.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I croaked, as the odor of my own puke hit my nostrils.

"Honey," she said. "It's okay. Really." Then, she patted me gently on the back. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm just glad you're feeling better."

People are good. Really, really good. I helped my  friend clean up after me, grateful that somebody was willing to take care of a foolish young girl a long, long way from home.

However---Chinese macaroni and cheese? I'll take a pass on future helpings, thanks.

***

This is my first, incredibly long-winded attempt at Memoir Mondays. Check out the other entries and thanks to Travis for hosting!

Unpacking

I've had difficulty downloading photographs today, which is bothering me well beyond what is a proportionate response. I sit here, staring at the little circle as it goes around and around, waiting.

This is time I could sit down with my Diet Pepsi and read the Post. I could pray or meditate.  I could watch something mindless on TV or write thank-you notes. I could cook up the sausage for tonight's lentil soup. I could nap.

Instead, I sit here, watching a circle go around and round, gritting my teeth.

I get up. If it's this hard to download photographs, I daresay God  is telling me to step away from the computer and do something else.

I decide to mop the floors. Sometimes being productive makes me feel better. Call me Pavlov's dog.  Another biscuit, please.

After mopping the floors, I feel less like Martha Stewart and more like Betty Friedan. It's just drudgery, and it'll have Goldfish crackers and blue play dough on it by six this evening.

Yet, for this moment, as I sit here in my warm kitchen, listening to the wind howl and the soft breath of Joel sleeping on the monitor, my floor is clean. I have this moment to unpack my feelings like little Russian nesting dolls, and figure out what is going on in this spiderweb of a mind.

So let's unpack it, already:
I feel like I should be doing something significant in my life.
I'm worried about Joel's surgery this Friday.
I'm sad that my friends are moving away. 
I'm also sad that we're giving away the high chair and that we already gave away the rocking chairs.
I'm sad that I will never have a daughter.

Mostly, though, I am disappointed that I am unable to download my photographs, thus denying you the opportunity to read "Houseplants I have Loved." Because that, dear friends, was where this post began its circuitous route.

Ah, well. My floors look fantastic. There's that.

Friday Fragments: Truck Stops and Magical Thinking

My mother-in-law returned to our table at Panera Bread and told me, "Owen said he wouldn't use the air hand dryers in the bathroom."

"Nope," I replied, handing Joel another hunk of bread to devour, "He hates 'em."

"Too noisy," Owen agreed. He chewed thoughtfully, and then added, "Except for in truck stops. I LOVE hand dryers in truck stops."

My mother-in-law laughed until she cried, as I shook my head and wondered where the HELL Paul takes my son when I'm not around.

Truck stops? Really, Owen?

***
We had a fantastic New Year's Eve last night. A friend of mine had a party for kids. We started around three, and counted down to the "New Year" around six. My friends have a chair that spins all the way around AND a Hummer truck that sings, "Slow Ride." What else could a boy possibly want?

We did, unfortunately, have to cut Joel off. Too much milk. Makes him crazy.

I laughed with my favorite people in the world, then drove home before the drunks hit the road. We tucked the kids in with enough time to watch Anderson Cooper laugh uncomfortably every time Kathy Griffin asked him about his "safe words."

***
"The flower finally fell down," Paul said. "It was only a matter of time."

My friend had given me a bulb for Christmas, and the thing grew like a sixteen-year-old boy, all floppy and gorgeously awkward. It reached upward as it bloomed, and toppled over its own weight. We leaned it against the hutch as a temporary measure, until moving it into the bathroom, under the skylight. 

Oh, is it ever lovely.  (Does anybody know what it is?)

***
No stranger to magical thinking, Owen continues to ask us to write him lists.  They list his hopes, as well as review his daily activities.

If he wishes enough, perhaps Owen will get a new train table. More likely, though, he will play with Joely, water the Christmas tree, like airplanes and helicopters, and fight the good fight against the evil of Christmas skirts.

Just another day's work.

***

Happy Friday, every body! Thanks to Mrs. 4444 for hosting Friday Fragments!