To Close the Chapter

A year is a big cup of time, from first sip in January to the last drops of December. There could be many various flavors within, from sweet to bitter and flat and spicy, and others indescribable.

 

For us, 2011 had moments with us clawing at our throats with the acrid taste of grief and sadness, as well as times of licking our lips to savour the fading beauty of something ending.  It was a dark beginning this time last year, and we seemed to be alone in a storm without direction or shelter. 
This year, only two weeks old, has started off with what the previous one had lacked:  hope.

After coming dangerously close to foreclosure this spring, we got an offer on our house this summer.  The buyer, we were told, was a young single guy, a vet, and had a wad of cash in his pocket.  We of course were jubilant that there was one final ditch effort to short sale our home, all the while we waited for the other shoe to drop.  The bank finally reviewed his offer, which was 8K more than the box was worth, and recounted with a demand to increase it by 15K.  We expected the guy to walk, but (because he really loved our house) accepted and raised his offer to this outrageous price.  The appraisal went in even 5K more than what the bank was offering, and so the buyer (elated that he was getting it below market value) signed to owner.

We picked Aaron up early to make our appointment at Stewart Title, but traffic today was amazingly slow and congested.  Abnormally so.  We were late ten minutes, but greeted by a very nice underwriter who guided us through the volume of documents we had to sign or initial.  Towards the end, she smiled expectantly and with long manicured fingernails tapped an amount in one of the boxes.  It was a lot of money for us, perhaps not for others, but too us it was impressive, and intimidating.  We cocked our brows while the thought crossed both our minds that perhaps this was some unwarned closing cost we had to come up with on the sudden. 
"You received the incentive from your bank," she said.  I studied her face, translating the words in my head from what I had expected (this is the amount you're responsible for) to what she was actually saying (this is what you get).  A wildly unexpected blessing on top of a miracle.
After fourteen months of facing the unknown, confusion about whether we were doing the right thing or not, grief and sadness and a profound sense of failure and dissapointment, we finally closed the sale. 

Words can't express the relief we feel.  That great money-pit of a house is finally off our backs, and now it seems in the capable hands of another. 

The house was such a symbol to us of who we were over the 8 years we lived there.  It was where we felt the euphoria of being homeowners for the first time.  Where we experienced the deepest grief in loss of loved ones.  Where we, with the help from family who loved us, created careful cozy nests for our precious new baby boys, and made it our babies' home, too.  Where the Pumpkin Carving parties, Christmas Eve dinners, birthday parties, and music, always music, are all somehow absorbed in the carpet, in the leaves of grass in the back yard, in the raspberries, or in every room in that house, every pore of the cement on the patio.  There remains the invisible essence of the love we enjoyed during our time there. 

After we moved out in July and visited to clean and the boys were in the back yard playing and eating raspberries, I walked through the rooms one by one, remembering the corner in the nursery where I rocked AJ as he suckled, a tiny baby and I a new, tired mom.  Or the kitchen were we relished great company with family and friends, good food, and orbs of red wine. This is where AJ sang his Superman theme song.  This is where he first walked.  This is where R slept, in this room beside us in bed.  This is where Aaron and I crumbled on the floor and cried in each others arms after an especially painful event.  This is where Andres stood at my side in the kitchen as we made cookies, or pizza.  This is the mantel we made over the fireplace, where Aaron lit candles every night to recline with his glass of Merlot on the floor. 
Eight years is a long time.  It's the longest we have ever lived in one place.  And though we sigh and walk away from that house, we take it with us, because it's of us now, a chapter in our story.

Our first garden in 2004.

Our monthly photos during our pregnancy with AJ started with this one at 6 weeks along, standing between our beloved Japanese maple and white rhododendron trees.

The nursery was the sweetest room in the house by the time AJ was born.

When he was born, he loved his Papa.  And swings...

...and pools in the grass...

...and the playhouse by the cemilia tree...

...and the parties!  The parties we had!

Where he met his brother, baby R.

...and our nest adjusted to another little body.

The house taught us that we loath remodeling projects.

Aaron worked hard in the yard to make it as beautiful as it was when we left, and he was so proud of this path he created from river rocks we smuggled from the mountain creeks on our summer hikes.

I'll miss this special hydrangea bush in the back.  I believe angels dwell there.

Making Use of What We Have

Ah, Mondays.

They have their own way of yanking us back to the real world, sometimes with trumpets, at other times with what feels like a slap. 

Today is the first Monday of really starting the New Year.  The holidays are over.  The tree is down.  Aaron started back to school today, beginning one of many 13 to 15 hour days with him working full time and grad school part time.  And me home with the boys all. day. long.  A blessing, but still work.  Especially on cold, dank days like this with all three of us inside at close quarters, we get under each others' skin easily and often. 

So with Cranky R put down for his nap, AJ wanted to craft.  I've been battling a migraine all morning and just wanted to collapse, but I know that I have only nine months left of these afternoon crafts with him before he sets off for Kindergarten in September.

I loped into my office and shuffled through my art supplies, finding a roll of linoleum paper, markers, and left over coffee filters from our snowflakes at Christmas.  Bringing it all down to the kitchen, it dawned on me that I had a stash of wine corks I had been saving for another craft that we could dip into.  And toothpicks!  Why not?

Random stuff that in a collection made AJ twitch with wild excitement for what we could create.  Funny how he sees things like me:  the possibilities are endless, and today will be unique because of the choice I make with these things.  I know he's wild about maps, so I thought it might be fun to mimic one of my favorite artists and create an imaginative land of wonders, with pirate ships and deserted islands inhabited with hungry dinosaurs. 

So we did.  Let me just say that if you haven't already done so, melt up those old broken pieces of crayons in mini muffin tins for what around these parts we call "Color Cookies."  They make coloring a 2' x 3' sheet of paper a whole lot easier.

AJ designed his own sailboat.

AJ had great vision, and new exactly where he wanted the islands.

We're busy coloring the map with our Color Cookies as dinos wait patiently.

He added the Megaladon in the water with teeth, gills, and both dorsal and pectoral fins. 
I added the mermaid singing on a rock.

Look at that face....words can't express the fun he had.

It was sweet being able to play with him, and in our little imagination world, I realized how similar we are in our thinking, as well as our imaginations. 

I have to add here that I confess subscribing to about 35 blogs. 

Yes.  True.  They each have their niche, their focus.  The "crafting with kids" blogs, the "home school your child" encouragement blogs, the "Christian mothering" blogs, the "best wife you can be" blogs, design and DIY blogs, food blogs, entertaining blogs, and my friends' blogs.  They each fill a interest of mine personally, and I unsubscribe when their posts become predictable.  "Here's another light box sensory game," or "Here comes one more post about why Christian moms shouldn't spank," or "why Christian moms should spank," but then as soon as I cut off one blog, I find three more to take its place, a real blog Hydra.  My poor dear husband, fearful of being consumed in 30 blog posts by people he mostly has never heard of, doesn't dare open our email anymore. 

But what I loved about this day was that we didn't need to go out and follow the prescribed shopping list (how much are those bleeping light boxes any way?) we just created with what we had.
 
There are so many challenges to having a gifted child in AJ.  He's sassy, argumentative, acutely creative, overtly energetic, micro-managing, and blunt.  However, the blessings are bountiful.  He's resourceful, thoughtful, contemplative, eager to learn, willing to experiment, analytical, fiercely loyal to those he loves, a protective and tender big brother, and a son who's so sweet he melts my heart.  Many people don't get him.  In fact, most people don't.  Even our closest friends and family are baffled by him, turning away with a shrug because he's unusual.  But to me, as difficult as it is sometimes, as lonely as it is parenting a boy who is so wonderfully rare and poses challenges to which 99% of those wonderfully-scribed blogs can not even relate, I'm blessed beyond measure to be his mom.  He is a gem among stones.

a slow day--they DO exist

So that I remember that this is a slow and easy day at home, I know someday I'll wonder how I spent my time:

7:00
Woke up. 
Made coffee.
Wrote 750 words for Morning pages.
Made AJ breakfast. 
Disemboweled the treadmill in garage to repair.
Made AJ another breakfast.
Checked email.
R woke up, noticed his bed smelled like rank urine. 
Changed his diaper.
Ripped out all his bedding for washing.
Noticed in the laundry room cat urine smell from neglected litter box.
Noticed in the laundry room washer and dryer was full of clothes.
Made R breakfast. 
Changed R's diaper.
Had more java.
Called the treadmill company re:our broken treadmill, left message.
Called new pediatrician for well-child app, and left another message to see if new insurance covers.
Changed R's diaper.
Swept laundry room, shook out rugs.
Swept kitchen.
Put dry clothes in basket to fold, wet clothes in machine to dry, R's dirty linen in washer to clean.
Cleaned rank litter box.
Fed cats.
Pediatrician returned call, insurance not covered.  Will call other clinic tomorrow.
10:30
Got boys dressed and bundled to go to park.
Walked to park.
Played on toys.
Did a lap at middle school track.
Walked home.

Discouraged the kind elderly and senile gentleman who lives down the road to NOT try to walk the 2 miles to Fred Meyer with nothing but his cane.  This was his second attempt after I gently discouraged him two days ago. 
Changed R's diaper.
Boiled lentils for burritos for lunch.
Organized boy's Christmas books while lentils simmered.
Friend called and asked me to cover for her tonight at work.
Called Aaron to make sure he'd be home in time for me to take the shift.
Changed R's diaper.
Made boy's plates, phone rang--treadmill people calling back.
Instructed boys to eat while I fumbled with the mutilated treadmill in garage as kind girl in Utah on other end tries to give directions on test checking motor for damage. 
After 30 minutes on the phone, and various tests to locate the cause of our sick machine, we realize we need to shoot the horse.
1:00
Call Aaron with bad news about the treadmill.
Changed R's diaper while on the phone with Aaron.
Give R his bottle and put him down for nap of random blankets in crib, his are in the washer.
Hang up with Aaron.
AJ helps clean up kitchen by standing on a chair at the sink he washes dishes and loads in washer.
I fold three mountains of laundry. 
After chores, AJ spills his plans for the craft today, and instructs me to cut this and pin that, and creates a T-Rex that stands up and has moving limbs from scrap cardboard.  He's awesome.
We rest and have some screen time:  Avatar the Last Airbender, Book Three: Fire
3:30
R wakes up.
Changed R's diaper.
Call employer re: upcoming schedule. 
Boys wrestle in living room good-natured brotherly fun.
R needs food.
R needs water.
R wants his Baba.
Give R his water.
R screams and cries for Baba.
Read a book with R.
AJ plays with pirate ship.
R's toenails are jagged shards of glass.
Clip both boys nails. 
They cry and scream in stereo.
5:00
Put both boys in room.
I go to office and write.
I ignore the noises from their room.
I turn up my music on iTunes.
6:00
Aaron comes home.
I warm up lentils have burritos again for dinner.
6:30
Go to work.
9:00
Come home.
Find chocolate.
Peruse Pinterest.
Write.

Brothers...how I pray this friendship lasts.

Showing his loose tooth.

Ready for that glass of pinot.

New

Being the first day of 2012, I woke up tired, yet somewhat giddy for the fresh wonders laid out before my family this year.  Change is happening.  As we process all these changes, grieving some, anticipating others, Aaron and I akin this transitional time we're experiencing to the play of a volleyball game.  First a pass with clutched fists to arch the ball to the next player, then a set which launches the ball for the final, precise move, the spike across the net.  All of these little moves, these subtle changes in position and player align the ball for the score.  We're rolling with lots of little passes and set-ups, but the spike is coming. 

On a whim, I suggested we got the ocean after church, and at first Aaron shook his head, furrowed his brows and shoved his hands in his pockets.  He countered with an idea to visit the pizzaria we adored in the neighborhood we moved from last summer.  Once we got there, we stared at the red CLOSED sign in their window.  We all felt it then sitting in the car, the humming, lulling tidal and lunar pull of the ocean. 

Seaside, Oregon is about an hour and a half drive.  It's a typical little tourist town on the coast with hotels and timeshares crammed onto the sandy beach, the streets cluttered with curiosity shops, ice cream parlors, souvenir stands, and fish-n-chip cafes.  It's quaint and demure.  Surreal.   

We stopped at a little diner for lunch.  AJ had a hot dog, R had the mac and cheese, Aaron had the bacon burger, and I, feeling nautical and nostalgic, had the fish and chips with clam chowder.  It was a feast.   With bellies full and R's curls greased with cheesy sauce, we strolled along the walk past the shop windows bursting with antique decor, paintings of sunsets over the sea, or novelty t-shirts of marine life with Seaside, Oregon emblazoned on them.

It was surprisingly balmy for the first day of January, warmer than what we had left at home, and the sun was glowing above casting long warm shadows over the sidewalk.  We carried R's stroller down the concrete steps from the road to the sand and the magnificent specter of the sea in the winter afternoon sunshine captivated us.  AJ opened at a trot towards the shell and driftwood flotsam littered on the sand from high tide, and R in true baby turtle form burst out at a shocking waddle pace to the foaming, churning waves. 

The ocean always conjures a deep poetry in me, and I know I'm not the first, nor am I alone in this.  It's my favorite place in the world.  I walked with R's chubby hand in mine, trying to contain his uninhibited ambition towards the water, and felt enchanted by the whole-body experience of being at the edge of the ocean as it stretches out towards the coast of Japan.  The briny aroma in the heavy air, the calling of gulls swooping overhead, the crashing waves, the laughter of strangers around us carried on the breeze to our ears, the low pink clouds vieling the setting sun. I thought of my small family, such an island, yet a particle of breath that is cosmic and connected.  Like the sea. 

The ocean is eternal and yet temporary; at once beautiful and horrifying.  It's both titillating and sedating.  Holy and wicked.  The paradoxical being of the ocean speaks to me because the same paradoxes exist in me.  It felt especially true today, the New Year's Day 2012, with my entire world embodied in my five year old, nineteen month old, and my dear husband as our lives linked together undergo upheaval and adjustment, and we hold fast to one another facing the upcoming unknown with the most courage and hope we can muster.

lunch at the little diner we haunt each visit to Seaside

The many faces of R

Sand!

Water!

Our little turtles.

R found a shell in the sand:  treasure.

My guys beachcombing.

The mister looking so handsome, as always.

This smile captures it all-breathless and thrilled to be at the ocean.

Captured a shot of a superhero at the beach.

It was cold, but he could run faster with his shoes off, he said.

The beach on an afternoon in January.

Up, up...

and away!

Serene.

Watching the sunset with Mama.

AJ's little toes in sand.

Tuckered out on the ride home.