I loathe the dentist.  I would rather do just about anything else than to pay a visit to the dentist, including chewing mainly on the left side of my mouth because of the broken tooth on the on the right.  My dislike goes way beyond the rational and is a few steps on the way to being a real phobia. A few years ago I had to really concentrate and talk myself out of having a panic attack while sitting in the waiting room.  I hate everything about it — the smells, the sounds, the tastes, everything. And apparently, I’ve passed this loathing on to at least one of my children.

There have been spurts of time when I was very diligent about getting my kids in for their semi-annual visits and slightly less diligent about getting myself there. My older kids had a fun dentist when they were young, complete with free video games in the waiting room. Occasionally they’d ask when they got to go to the dentist again because it was so much fun (I wonder if they remember asking that!). Then our insurance changed or the office closed or I had more children and became more distracted and less diligent or who knows why and we went less regularly. Moving cross country threw off a lot of things and in the eleven years we’ve been in the Midwest our lives have been in such chaos at times that going to the dentist just wasn’t a priority.

I know my mouth needs work and lots of it. I have all my teeth (except for the wisdom teeth pulled when I was 18) but I’m fairly certain that each tooth has some sort of filling in it. My molars are especially bad with large fillings placed when I was a teenager. I also grind my teeth at night and the added pressure has caused some of my molars to break.

Just in case no one has noticed, I’m here to inform you that dental work is expensive. The last time I checked (3+ years ago) it would cost me $5,000 plus to get the necessary work done –and that was after insurance paid their part! I simply didn’t have that money to spend so avoided the dentist a little longer.

Today was the day I forced myself to get the process started again. Exam Day. X-Rays. Latex covered fingers poking around in my mouth. Clenched stomach. Deep breaths. Pretending to be calm.

I get a Treatment Plan in a few weeks when I go back for a cleaning. I’ll have to take it slowly because that’s the only way I can afford to finance the work. Hopefully this dentist doesn’t get too frustrated with that and pressure me to get more done than I can manage.  I have two weeks to practise relaxation techniques and figure out how much money I can afford to throw at this right now.

Wish me luck.

I read The Shack this week and, although this may surprise some people, I wasn’t impressed. I feel a bit guilty for that – I’ve heard such great things about it. Friends have raved.  I expected to be moved and really wanted to like it but it left me more annoyed than inspired.

I should explain… I’m not much of a follower. I mean I don’t think I’m anti-social, I like people just fine and have friends, have even been a member of groups, but I’m just not one to watch a movie or read a book simply because it’s the popular thing. In fact, I’m contrary enough that if something is “the thing” then I’m likely to set it aside. Snobbish of me I know, but I just don’t put much faith in bandwagons. This means that I’m often not quite up on the popular culture — and sometimes means that I don’t discover some great things until much, much later because my snobbishness got in the way.  I know there are blockbuster movies that are amazingly wonderful but I think that most blockbusters are simply the newest thing out there. I don’t use Oprah’s Book Club as suggestions for my reading list, but I’ve also read some good books and found out later she had recommended them.

So, The Shack… it seemed that the only thing I heard about this book was praise (well, except for the pastor who preached that no “good Christian” should read it because, gasp, God is portrayed as a woman and that will lead us all down the slippery slope to goddess worship. I wanted to ask him what he though about the verses in Psalms where it says that He covers us with his wings and ask if considering that word picture would lead to chicken worship but I refrained). So I resisted reading The Shack in large part because it was so well loved –  I just wasn’t going to hop on the bandwagon.  Like I said earlier, when I finally decided to read it I expected to be moved. This book is about a person with a deep hurt and, as a result, has a lot of questions for God. Hmmmm, sound familiar? Based on what I’d heard, I wanted to see myself and my relationship with God and experience some kind of catharsis. This is the kind of life-changing reaction to the book that I’d heard from others. Maybe I set myself up to be disappointed.

I didn’t hate the book, or think it was a bad story, I was just left a bit flat. Every good story has some underlying message, but the question is, which came first – the story or the message? While reading The Shack, I felt that the author had a message he was trying to proclaim and created the story to show a way to relate to God. I never felt that Mack had taken residence in the author’s mind and he had to put him to paper. Instead I felt that he had been moved considering how God wants to reach out to us at a very personal level and chose to create a story to explain those thoughts. 

There were definitely parts of the story that I liked. I loved the garden – the chaotically, beautiful, fractal mess of the garden and what it represented. The discussion about judgement made me stop and think (and, ironically, I wonder how this post fits in). Forgiveness seemed a bit too easy, although I did appreciate that God said even in the midst of forgiveness there still may be some appropriate, lingering anger. Although it’s been said a zillion times and can easily be cliche, I needed to be reminded that it’s not about rules but about relationship.

I don’t regret that I’ve given a few hours of my life to read The Shack or feel that my time was wasted, I just wasn’t as moved as I expected, and wanted, to be. What was your experience? What did I miss?

I was voluntarily snowed in yesterday. I’m not sure exactly how much snow we received in the past couple days but it was enough to be inconvenient. Eight inches at least, maybe more. The snow plows were busy and I’m guessing the roads passable but I chose to have a slow Saturday at home.

I slept in a little — late enough to feel indulgent but not so late as to feel lazy — and rescheduled my only outside obligation (the hair cut can wait another week). The past few weeks have been so busy, what with the Holidays from Thanksgiving to New Years, and all the other obligations of a busy life, I haven’t had a weekend that was truly my own in a very long time. I suppose this weekend isn’t fully my own either as I need to spend most of today logged into work but yesterday was the Sabbath I needed to recharge my batteries.

Most of the day was spent plopped on the couch. Knitting on  a couple of scarves – finished the scarf that was turning into a chore — boring yarn, simple pattern  (it served it’s purpose as mindless knitting to bring along to Christmas but the last quarter of the scarf turned into obligation rather than fun) and added 6″ to my cheap alternative to the Noro Two Row Scarf. I’m using cheap acrylic yarn but I love it anyway — it’s soft and smooshy, drapes like a dream, and is just plain pretty. I don’t think I’ll be giving this one away.

I worked on the stack of movies on the coffee table — Darjeeling Limited (a bit slow but worth the time), Surviving Christmas (Very funny), Princess Bride (the movie that never gets old no matter how many times I watch it) — and watched the food shows on PBS (I love Jaques Pepin). I didn’t even know the football playoffs would be on Saturday. I didn’t have a favorite so could cheer for both teams.

I didn’t cook much. The resident Teen Boy cooked bacon and I added omeletes about 3:00 and that was it. The rest of the day was spent grazing (although I did get all the dishes washed and found there actually is a counter in the kitchen)

The day ended at a reasonable hour curled in bed with The Gun Seller. Boy am I glad my kids recommended this book!

Today is not so free and I should already be attacking my ever-growing to-do list. The laundry has been started (yeah! no one else in the apartment building had already snagged the washer and dryer). The next thing on the list is to pull out the crockpot and start a batch of “clean the fridge soup” with the starring role in the mix going to some salsa-ish flavored turkey breast. Then comes the work obligation that will steal most of the day (not so much fun but it keeps a roof over our heads).

If I was one to make resolutions I would resolve to carve out more days spent relaxing and refreshing that inner me. I feel so much more ready to face the next few days after a day spent breathing deeply.

I thought I knew what this book was about. I’ve seen the movie Simon Birch and knew it was based on A Prayer for Owen Meany and I figured the book would be a better telling of the story in the movie. After all, isn’t the book always better than the movie?

I was right, of course, the book was better. The book was better in the way that Thanksgiving dinner is better than a turkey sandwich and chips. Now, I happen to like turkey sandwiches, especially one with smoked turkey, sundried tomatoes and havarti cheese, but even the best turkey sandwich isn’t a feast that spreads across the table and onto the counters.

If you liked this movie (or even if you didn’t) read this book. It is so full of coming to grips (or never really coming to grips) with the huge events in ones’ life. Those things that happen to us, or around us, that affect us in such a way that it takes the rest of our lives to fully absorb the impact. It’s about losing faith in God and finding it again. About knowing,  and accepting,  one’s destiny.

I started reading this book in tiny bites during my commute on the train and ended up finishing it in great gulps late at night when I should have been sleeping. This will stay on my shelf to be re-read in the future.

It’s the night before the night before Thanksgiving and I’m cooking and cleaning and packing and trying to get too much done. It all adds up to one cranky momma and the first inklings of a pity party. I tend to be a “glass one quarter empty” kindof person. I’m not a true pessimist and I can see the positive side, but I have to work at it. I’m much more likely to say “that’s pretty good, but….” than “Wow! That’s great!”.

So there I was, cleaning the disgusting food out of the fridge (it took some serious thinking to figure out that the “moldy brain” I found was really the scraps of pie crust that got shoved to the back and forgotten), and it occurred to me that I really have nothing to complain about. Yeah, my life isn’t perfect, but oh well. It’s too easy to notice the annoyances and stop there. As I took out the trash I started making a list:

- It’s 27 degrees outside but the wind’s not blowing and I have a coat that keeps me toasty warm.

- Remnants of that inch of snow I woke up yesterday morning are still lingering but I have boots that keep my feet warm (even in the mornings waiting in the cold at the train station)

- No one else is home and the house was just too quiet. The only company available was the TV but when I turned it on the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special was on. Oh I love that show!

- I have a three hour drive ahead of me tomorrow in what could potentially be awful, holiday traffic but I filled up the gas tank for $1.67/ gallon (and I can probably convince my son to do some of the driving).

- I’ve got to pack and hope I remember to bring the right games but my children are all looking forward to some time laughing and playing games and generally enjoying each other.

- There is a lot of cooking ahead of me in the next few days and I’ll be doing it in a small, unfamiliar kitchen but this is all food my family loves and looks forward to each year.

- If I remember to bring my camera and the batteries don’t die on me (and if they do, that’s what stores are for!) then I’ll take lots of pictures to help us remember the time together.

- I have food to eat and enough to share, a warm bed to sleep in and doors that lock at night.

Like I said above, my life is far from perfect but it’s also far from awful. I need to remind myself of that more often. Please, leave a comment sharing some annoyance in your life that reminds you how thankful you really are.

For most of my life I have not ever been really alone. Sometimes it looked like I was alone, but it was an illusion. The children were sleeping and the house was quiet, but my mind was occupied with thoughts of laundry or doctor visits or next weeks’ activities. Even when my family wasn’t physically with me, they filled my conscious thoughts and plans.

In the midst of all this, I often found time to feed my creative side. Reading late at night (or even sometimes all day), cross-stitch or other handwork projects while waiting for music lessons to end, learning alongside my children in our homeschooling adventure. But the time was always carved out and I was never fully alone. Instead, during those times, my life was temporarly paused.

This is not to say that I never felt lonely. Cliche I know, but “alone” and “lonely”, although they may (or may not) occur at the same time, are not the same. It is also possible to feel bone aching lonliness surrounded by others or lying in bed next to the one you have promised ’till death do you part’.

Then came the Year of Changes. A tsunami hit and nothing was recognizable. The marriage was officially over. I was a shell of a mother, functioning on auto-pilot (and not very well at that). Our address changed and then changed again. The younger boys entered public school. The oldest spread his wings and moved away from my nest. I learned to spend my days working in a corporate office. For the most part, whether I was physically alone or not, the only thing I felt was numb and the most creative activity I could think of was sleep.

Gradually, in fits and spurts, we all started to heal. The kids have grown and more have sprouted wings. Most of the time older children do not require the same sort of intense mothering that toddlers and pre-teens do. They spend more time away from home and, although one never really stops thinking of them, worrying on occasion, wondering often what they’re up to, they no longer fill every corner of my thoughts. My plans no longer center solely on their needs and schedule.

If we’ve done your job right as a parent, children are supposed to grow up and become independent. Oh, they never stop needing us, but how they need changes.  While there was once a day when we planned their every waking moment, now they make plans without even consulting us. Although it is right and good and The Way Life Should Be, as the children grow, you find yourself spending time alone.

2008 has been the year that I have learned to live alone. Three out of my four children no longer live at home full time and the fourth often spends days at a time away. I spent New Years, the Fourth of July and my birthday alone. I had the apartment totally to myself for weeks at a time. And mostly, I’ve liked it.

There certainly are days when that bone chilling lonliness attaches itself like a leech on my soul, but those days are much fewer and farther between. Instead I’ve learned to appreciate the silence, to listen and begin to remember who I am.  This has been a year of restoration, a time to let the me that has been hidden for so long to begin to bud and bloom.

My mother died in 1974 and my father in 1986 but I wonder what they would think of this election. Voting was important in my family. One of my earliest memories is going to the polls with my mother when I was about 3 or 4. I remeber walking across the street and down the block to a house I hadn’t visited before. I don’t remember many details, but I do know that it was a very important occasion.

In Seventh Grade I remember my History teacher, Mrs. Monticello, asking the class who was Republican and who was Democrat. Then she said something that has stuck with me ever since. I don’t recall the exact words but I remember that she told us we were wrong. That until we were old enough to vote, we weren’t either. We may be identifying with what how our parents aligned themselves, but it wasn’t yet our choice. I think it could be argued that Seventh Grade is not too early to have a thought out opinion, but for the most part she was right. Almost 40 years later and I’m still trying to figure out what I am politically.

My older brother challeneged my parent’s Republican ideology by protesting against Vietnam and for Civil Rights. I was too young (and sheltered) to know how politically active he may have been at the time, but I do remember one story. David was a gifted musician and earned some money as a church organist. One year in the late 60’s/ early 70’s he was fired becasue on his musical choices. On Civil Rights Sunday he choose to play “We Shall Overcome” for the offertory. I guess that even California wasn’t as open as it could have been at the time.

In a few days we will elect either the first African American President or the first woman Vice President. My parents were born only a few years after women were granted the right to vote. I wonder what my parents would think of this historic election. I wonder what political discussions we may have had if my parents had lived into my adulthood. Who would they choose to vote for? What issues would they feel were most important?

How will my children remember my political views? Do they know what I really think, who I support and why?

It’s been quiet here in my little corner of the blogosphere and that’s about to change. I’ve been doing a fair bit of thinking about what this blog means to me and how I want to portray myself to the world. Of course, “the world” in this case means the handful of you that are even aware that this blog exists and the even smaller handful that might read it occasionally.

One of the first rules of writing is to know your audience. Who am I writing for? Who do I think might find it interesting or relevant or even amusing? At the risk of sounding selfish or narcissistic, I write for myself. I write to clear my head, to put to paper (or computer) bits and pieces of the thoughts and emotions rolling around in my brain. I want to believe that something I’ve written may strike a chord with those who may read it and that is what I choose to publish here.

I struggle with the desire to become transparent and the opposite desire to remain anonymous. I want to ask the important questions and share my journey towards answers. I want to share my struggles, worries, joys. I want to write the kinds of things that I like to read. I want to be real.

At the same time, I want to remain hidden. It is important that I keep a certain amount of anonymity. I am careful not to use my full name or my children’s names. Any ‘real life’ friends that know about this blog will know because I shared it with them, not because they googled my name. (Besides, how arrogant is it to think that people I know are so curious about me to take the time to google.)

I know that I’ve missed writing and I have more I want to share.

When I was four and asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I clearly remember saying that I would become a nurse and marry a doctor on the good ship Hope. Here I am 45+ years later and I’m not a nurse and never married a doctor on a ship or otherwise.

Recently I came across a blog from a young woman who is living at least part of my childhood dreams. Ali is a 25 year old pediatric intensive care nurse currently working with Mercy Ships and a gift for sharing her life. This is one of the few blogs where I have wanted to go back and read every post.

Set aside some time to immerse yourself in this young woman’s life and don’t forget to bring the kleenex.