Men In Black IV: Die of Cuteness

Aunt Polly and Uncle Will, we want you to know we're taking this job COMPLETELY seriously.



Well, you know, mostly...



Err, perhaps some of us less than others...



Oh, whatever.









sorry about the red-eye, i didn't really have time to edit...


Judah on Brotherhood

Me: "No, Jamie, Judah would never beat you up. He's your big brother-- he protects you!"

Judah: "Well, prolly I would beat him up if I were mad at him, but if a monster tried to eat him, I would defnilly protect him. Defnilly."

The Many Faces of James

It occurred to me that I never really posted an update about Jamie at his second birthday-- we were too pre-occupied with Sofi turning TEN!! (on a side note, can you believe we're only seven years away from a high school graduate???) But as they say, better late than never! I give you James Oliver Forshey, two years old:

















And less we forget, in the midst of all the cute, there is also plenty of MISCHEIF and climbing skillz far beyond his age....

More Narcissistic Self-realization, because this is a blog, after all...

I made my stage debut at the age of four in a four-man family production of Goldilocks and The Three Bears, performed for the local homeschool support group. I remember it like it was yesterday... Especially this one part where Goldilocks rocks and rocks in Little Bear's rocking chair until she "breaks" it. I had to rock and rock and then tip the chair over backwards. It took some nerve, let me tell you. I remember the rising adrenaline, the quickened breath-- gradually rocking further and further back almost not able to let go and then realizing I'd committed, gone past the balance point, no turning back now and over we went-- crash to the ground. It never really hurt. Not really. But the deliberate letting go of safety and launching myself, Me, Elisa, into the momentary reality of Goldilocks... That was terrifying. And exhilarating.

I've spent a lot of time on stage. Not compared to some, but still. Significant. From the age of four through all of college we had two productions every year without fail-- Christmas and Spring. Like clockwork. And like clockwork, my mother swore every year she'd never do another one. But she always did. And then there where twice yearly violin recitals. And when I started teaching violin in high school we added in two recitals of my own each year. And then I got married and J starting directing productions for his school. And then I started an after school drama club. The Stage Me and the Real Me have kind of merged together by now.

My mother was my drama teacher. She taught me how to throw myself into The Role.

It's like a roller coaster, the long slow minutes creeping up up up to the opening curtain, the mounting tension, the rising adrenaline, poised for that split second as the audience gazes on the opened stage-- the characters poised to begin, the moment of truth. Here we are balanced between heaven and earth, between ordinary me and The Role. I can choose to throw my hands up and whoooooeeeeeeeeee down the track, reveling in the energy and the speed-- I can channel that adrenaline-- refuse to flee or fight, but rather BE someone else for an hour or two. It's terrifying. And exhilarating. I actually hate roller coasters. But I love acting.

I've learned over the years how useful that is... to know how to throw oneself into a Role that way. It can be a superpower. It can also be a bad habit. And like any superpower, it can eventually become so much a part of you that you kind of forget what you're like without it. Which is good, and bad. The Stage Me almost forgets the other me. The one who hated crowds, and talking on the phone. The one who had no friends, who got physically ill before every violin lesson and concert. The Me who is still curled up, tiny and almost invisible now, like a scared little child in the middle of my tummy where the sick feeling still sometimes bubbles in those tense moments before the curtain rises, before the intro starts, before the door opens, before the happy greeting is returned, before the handshake is accepted, before I'm sure that I've pulled it off. That they believe me. Before I know that I'm accepted in whatever Role I'm playing-- wife, mother, friend, helper, teacher, confidant, adviser...


This is the secret about extroverts. Most of us are just good actors.

But I'm learning day by day, to trust that I can Be each of those things, not just act them. And I'm learning too, that I'm perhaps not as good an actor as I think. Or maybe just that I don't have to be as good. That there are people all around me who see through that and maybe even see a little glimpse of the almost-invisible-child and still accept me. And that years and years of acting has created something real, too.

I suppose if one plays a role long enough, one eventually becomes that thing.







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More about my Pop-pop

I wrote this about my Pop-pop in 1998... It might not seem like it was about him on first glance, but it was Pop-pop and Grandmom that I was thinking of as I pondered the importance of deep roots "in the pattern of things". I have been blessed to grow up in a family full of traditions and an order of life. I know many would envy me that security and I have never taken it for granted.

They Have Roots

Tall fir trees
Standing sentinel by the lake
They, all dressed in golden touches of the dying sun,
Stand faithful
In their duties for a hundred years;
Guarding my
Past and present from the future.
They have roots
Firm deep in the pattern of things.
So seeing
I go on my way a little
Comforted.

November 23, 1998

He's the only one who ever called me "Lisa"

I feel like the roof is coming off my Life House-- so many of the spiritual and familial pillars of my world have left this life this past year. There's left only my parents, one now seemingly fragile layer left between me and eternity.

Goodby for now, Pop-pop. I've been missing you for along time, I think. Although, to be fair, I did the first leaving. In my mind I can hear your gruff voice in prayer, feel that mighty grip-- such agony for the short seconds of a meal's grace-- you did that on purpose, didn't you?. I can hear the teasing, "What-what??", "Hello, Lemuel!", and the head-tilted, sideways grin, waiting to see what did I think of that?? I so much remember your hands. So much. Gnarled and knotted-- strong as a tree, gripping the fabric and stretching it tight, tacks in the corner of your mouth. Tap the hammer to your lips to spit a tack on the tip and tap-whack, fasten the fabric tight to the frame.

"My Pop-pop made that."

I loved to say those words. And still, the men who make me things are the men I love the most.

The smell of glue and fabric and wood dust, Postum with lots of cream, ice cream. Oh how that man loves ice cream! Chocolate, right? Rich chocolate ice cream. Rich as your life.

Oh the richness of the life you led! Oh what you've left me in stories and knowing and history and belonging to something safe and big and strong! I will tell my stories of you all my life and even though they never knew you, they will know of you.

The rocks you dug up from the corn field and laid for the foundation of the house you built for your bride, where my mother was born, where I was raised, where my brother and sister were born and where you didn't die, but left behind to come away in your old age to start again-- so hard, so brave, a little unhappy, but we loved having you.

The camping-- oh! the camping trip stories I have told... Remember the hurricane? Remember the frogs turned loose? Remember all the fish I never caught? And ice skating? And snowball fights?

The dogs... Remember the long noble line of beagles? Remember burying them behind the chicken coop? Remember the chickens? And the grape arbor? Do you remember Grandmom yodeling? Does she remember how? Does she play the fiddle for you? Do you dance?

I play the fiddle, Pop-pop. And I hold my tacks and pins in my mouth like you, and I squeeze my children's hands when we pray and I kind of love the smell of glue, and I suppose one day I"ll have to take them camping.

I miss you. See you soon....

This week's PSA

Have you tried Ziplist yet? You should.

I posted on FB last week that I was looking for a way to do menu plans and grocery lists online. Someone suggested Ziplist and I'm giving it a try. So far I love it. My favorite features so far...

• My top favorite feature is the toolbar button that works a little like the Pinterest button. When you see a recipe on a website or blog, you click your "Recipe Clipper" button and it finds and stores the recipe for you on your Ziplist account. 

• I can make my grocery list and organize it my either the categories (departments in the grocery store) or the stores I'm buying each item at. This is key for me, as I shop at several different stores each week to get the best deals. It's nice to have a separate list for each store

• I can make a weekly menu plan by selecting recipes I've stored or by entering recipe links, and entering them into the week's calender. Then I can add each recipe to my grocery list (it does it for me, actually) and deselect items I already have on hand.

The site also searches for online deals on the items I have on my grocery list. It keeps a log of the items I put on my list each week (including the store where I purchase them), so each week's suggested list gets "smarter". Ie; I don't have to re-enter each item every time I make a new list.

I haven't explored the site fully yet, but it appears to have other home organization helps beside menu/grocery stuff. I recommend you check it out!



Do you have any favorite online home-maker helps? Have you tried Ziplist before? What other things should I try out?

This I know.

I know one thing about mothering. One thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. It is this:

My Words Have Power.

The words I speak to my children create reality for them. I can tear down or build up with my words. That's my job. Everyday I must selectively demolish and build. Demolish the bad-- harmful habits, hurtful words, disrespectful patterns of speech and behavior. Build the good-- diligence, bravery, perseverance, kindness in speech and actions, faithfulness in the little things and self-control. I build these things largely by talking about them, teaching them, praising their first timid appearances in my children's characters.

So I know this. The problem is, sometimes the demolition seems to take up all my energy, all my time and emotional resources. Sometimes the bad and ugly seem to rise far, far above my puny little wrecking balls and loom over my head with promises of visiting my children in juvie one day soon... the little delinquents.

Today I woke up remembering that demolition is only half of my job. If I tear down and neglect to build in it's place, then I create a vacuum, and we all know how nature feels about that. If I spend all my time disciplining, training, giving out consequences and negatively reinforcing, and then collapse in exhaustion on the couch, my household momentarily bullied into a semblance of peace, then I've missed it. Because while I rest and recuperate, slowly at first and building to a tempest, comes in all manner of  horrible things pouring into the vacuum created by my unfinished work.

Today I woke up determined to do some Rebuilding. I had to slow down first. As always. It always starts there. Giving up my right to Accomplish Many Things. So we started slooooow. We did our chores. We went for a looooong slooooow walk.

We ate lunch.

We read books.

We drew pictures.

That's it. That's all I did today. At least, on the surface. But down deep in Judah's heart I was building all day. Laying the foundation of the man he's going to become one day-- by God's Grace. I praised his bike-riding. His strength. His endurance (he biked nearly four miles while I ran with Jamie in the stroller). I told him about scientists and their keen powers of observation when he noticed a funny kind of grass growing beside the path. "Hooray! I'm going to be a scientist one day!!"

And all the rest of the ride he noticed. Everything. I mean it. Ev. Erything. I was interested in him all day. I taught him that he is important to me, that I care about what he has to say, that I enjoy talking to him and listening. (I'm writing this post in 45 sec bursts, in between helping him with his snapping turtle play-do sculpture).

I know my work is not done because we had one good day. I know there will be plenty to knock down and tear out tomorrow, but I've been encouraged in my determination to Speak Truth into my children's lives. Partly because because I can see it working....




"Mom, sin is really tough to fight. When we try to fight it, we lose... but if we relax... if we relax down in... God can get up and fight it away for us. It's like a big wall in front and we relax down behind and God can *swooosh* fight off Satan for us.You know how in church? In Church we say dat when we sing and pray... Satan TREMBLES? You know dat? It's jist like dat."

Jamie's Penchant for Mischief reaches New Heights

No really. I mean it. See?


WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE????




BUSTED!!



Young man, how in the world did you get up there???

"Kime Dat!"




He actually did "kime" right up the front of the dresser. Like Spiderman.

Lord have mercy.

The Liturgy of Laundry

One of the hardest things about being a mother is the sheer monotony of the vocation. I've blogged about this before, but it bears repeating. The work that we do every day is undone almost immediately. The larger spiritual goals to which we attain are very long term and it may be decades before we see our ideals for our children come to full fruition. I far too often find myself replacing my daily responsibilities for home and hearth with lesser, more easily attainable and more apparently "productive" tasks. Even "good" things, when elevated above the Best become little more than idols. Fellowship with other moms is a good and godly desire, but leaving dirty dishes in the sink to pack my children, in their unwashed clothes, off to a playdate is probably less often a Best thing than I would like to imagine, however refreshed it might make me feel in the short term. Staying up too late reading inspirational blog posts?... ditto.

I have been helped recently by a book (it is so often a book of one sort or another, isn't it?) by Kathleen Norris, "Acedia and Me". While written from the perspective of a childless widow, and with a much deeper exploration of the topic and far more inspired applications, I have found in it a nugget that I find quite profound for the circumstances in which I find myself-- homemaker, mother-of-three, impatient servant. That is, to seek to become aware of  a Sacramental quality in my daily work. A liturgical parallel, if you will. The daily-ness, the repetition, the lack of immediate and visible result-- all those things can be said of many of the rythms and repetitions of the church's worship.

And in the same sense, my daily routines, if attended to with a reverential and sacrificial heart (in the sense that I offer them to the Lord as a sacrifice and an act of worship) becomes my Liturgy of the Hours, in a very real sense. And with this emphasis I can rightly order my goals; shifting from an expectation of Results, Product and Effect in my environment (my children are clean and well-mannered at all times, my house is spotless, my laundry stays cleaned and folded in the drawers, the weeds never regenerate, etc) to a desire to see change in myself-- in my attitudes, affections, endurance and perseverance, as well as a deepening relationship with Christ. This shift in perspective, in expectations, will I think cause me to be less impatient towards, less critical of, less dissatisfied with my children and husband. I will be concentrating more on the log in my own eye and less on the specks in theirs.

1 Timothy 2:15
Yet she will be saved through childbearing—if they continue in faith and love and holiness, with self-control.

linking up...

Merbaby

(this is the fourth in a series of posts I'm writing about my Water Babies. you might want to read part one, part two and part three,

James in the pool is the most improbable. Guests watch incredulously his tiny body launching from the deck, arching dragon-fly-like, wings extended back, as he splashes belly-first (every time) and then hangs almost motionless, face-down in a deadman's float for a moment, as mother-eyes watch to see if a panicked rescue is in order...

But no, he's merely taking stock of his domain. He jack-knifes underwater, touching his toes and then straightening out to kick his way to the other side. This child swims a good eight to ten feet without a breath. I hold mine while I watch... just to see... so I know when he's running low, when he's about to have to breathe or drown. He swims one-sided. His right arm takes comically vigorous strokes, while his left plasters to his side, his legs thrashing the water determinedly.

On the longest jaunt-- 20 feet, clear across the pool-- he has to flip to his back to breathe. He waits for a moment, white-knuckling the edge of the deck, grins up at me "Wha wide, Mama?" ("other side?"), then pushes off with his toes, sideways, face down, kick-rightstroke-kick-rightstroke, then swoosh he flips to his back, tiny ohsotiny face floating high in the deep blue water, utterly isolated, utterly serene, calm, self-confident.

A baby island in the deep end. 

Kick, kick, kick. Flip under, eyes wide to find the direction, re-orient, float again, kick kick kick to the edge.

Goal achieved.

Destination reached.

He elbows up over the edge, toddler pot belly resting on the deck and arm-over-arm, knees up onto solid ground. But only briefly. This solid ground is not for him. He prefers the world where he is the equal of all, where he is the master of all he sees...

Merman

 (this is the third in a series of posts I'm writing about my Water Babies. you might want to read part one, part two and part four)

Judah... Judah in the pool.

Oh my heart.

Of all our children, he is the one we most worry over. The one we pray God we don't ruin. He seems so easy to hurt. So hard to Shepherd. So hard to understand.

But in the pool, he is strong, confident, brave. He is happy.

When this child is in the water, he is all. the. way. in. He's the one I rarely see breathing. He often just floats, spread-eagle, face-down. He dives, strong arms, broad shoulders-- so like his daddy's, but so small. He's so thin and light, it's hard work to get to the bottom to fetch a diving stick. But he charges down, dolphin-kicking determinedly.

The water seems to fuel his imagination as it does Sofi's. He talks to himself continuously, narrating a hundred adventures and ballads. His imaginary friend, "Betend Friend" (B.F.'s been around since Judah first started talking, many moons ago), swims and plays and "talks" with him. He spends a lot of time upside down. He doesn't so much swim, as he just plays.. underwater... He hardly seems to acknowledge the difference between air and water, up and down are equal, there are no limits, no rules, no expectations. Here in the water he doesn't have to worry about spilling things, knocking things over, running into stuff. His absent-minded way of walking through life is totally fine, safe, acceptable-- in the water.

If only he could float, spread-eagle, face-down all through his life, staring off into the deep. I think he could always be this happy.

Mermaid

(this is the second in a series of posts I'm writing about my Water Babies. you might want to read part one, part three, and part four, too)

Sofia is almost ten. She stands poised, as all ten-year-olds do, on the brink of young woman-hood, awkwardly suspended between adult and child. Vacillating between the two, rarely perfectly comfortable in either world-- the grass always green on the other side of the proverbial fence.

But in the water she perfectly straddles those two worlds, my graceful water-girl-woman. She glides and swoops and twists, mistress of herself. She feels, I think, a little safer, a little private, here in the water. She goes back to her imaginative games, elaborate plots and characters played out on the bottom of the deep end. Completely unconscious of any audience, or even any world outside these four concrete walls and 20,000 gallons of blue, she acts out her fantasies, her dreams.

I'm glad she has this place where she feels so Right. I remember all too vividly the wrong-ness that dogs one during those early teen years. A place where one feels one truly belongs is so important. When I watch her dart and glide and dive, I think perhaps we will survive these next eight years without too much heartache. Perhaps here in the pool we will always be friends. Perhaps we can come out and swim together and all the argumentation and conflict will wash away, untangled and smooth...





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Water Babies

(this is the first in a series of posts about my water babies. here's part two, part three and part four)

I'm sitting here on the deck watching my water babies swim....

My children don't swim like others I've seen-- half afraid, excited screams, tentative forays into deeper water followed by squealing retreats to the steps. My children return each day to the pool as into the arms of a lover; or perhaps a world traveler, returning to the country of his birth-- here is their Familiar, this water is their First World.

All three of them were born in the water, their improbably small and impossibly-large-at-the-same-time bodies struggling out into the birthing pool. The harsh but necessary expulsion from their warm, wet cocoon softened, delayed, made more gradual, bearable, by this detour on their way Out. I had the joy of Pharoh's daughter as I Moses-ed each one up into my arms.  
 Welcome to the big dry world, my water child.

I think that those tiny seconds of delay between womb and world has left each of my children some sort of vestigial umbilicus to the world of the Deep.

When they get into the pool, they at first seperate- each to their own corner-- no loud shouts just yet, no games, no splashing. They dive, down down, they swerve and somersault and dart from side to side. Their returns earthside for quick sips of air are so fleeting, so seamless, I sometimes wonder if I'm really seeing it, are they actually stopping to breathe? Or have they somehow grown gills in the night? Are they breathing water, not air? Only the trail of bubbles, all  I see of them as they dive down the deep end till they are merely shadows trailing the bottom...

...only the bubbles tell me there is human life in the pool.

I can see them, sometimes, under the water, eyes wide open, hair floating smooth and silky-- tangle-free for once, no longer daubed with peanut butter, dirt, paint, or any other myriad experiences of the day. Their moods seem to untangle in the water, too. They move oh-so gracefully, a slow languid swoop of arm or torso, or a whole body twists and turns in undulations, dolphin-like. The slow peaceful underwater movement of body somehow unraveling the cares of the Solid and the Dry.

2012 Everyman Photo Contest

I'm entering again this year :) Remember that momentous year when I actually won an honorable mention??? So exciting :) Would you help me decide by voting now for you two favs? The categories are people/portrait, nature/landscape, black/white, macro/abstract, and travel/architecture. I think I'll either do two entries into people/portrait, or one there and one in nature/landscape. Thoughts? Keep in mind that this is a contest for amateurs and focuses on "capturing a moment", rather than on technical perfection. No post-production editing allowed, outside of adding a b/w filter or basic cropping.

I'm including the titles I intend to label them with-- titles are important in this contest, so feel free to comment on them as well :)

I think he likes me (I can't tell if there's red-eye problems with this one or not, does it show on your monitor?):



Comedy and Tragedy:



I need to choose ONE of these beach pics:

Looking out to sea:



St Augustine Beach Pier:



St Augustine Beach Pier 2:



Can't decide which of these is the best:

Helping Daddy 1:



Helping Daddy 2:



No Title Yet:



No Title Yet 2:



No Title Yet Here, Either:

Some things from today...

I found an apple in my washer this morning. A whole apple. Or rather, the remains of a whole apple. It was rather... beat up. I took out all the clean, wet laundry and there was this apple rolling around in the bottom of the empty washer. As I wondered at it, I suddenly remembered an incident several days ago...

A clatter of the hamper lid, a thud, a wail from Jamie, "Aaaaapppuh!!"

At the time I'd simply stored it in the back of my mind as more pressing things claimed my attention, but now I stared at the ball of mush at the bottom of the washer and remembered.

The big kids wanted to play without Jamie this morning, so I brought him into the kitchen with me to make muffins. James is a very...er...enthusiastic Kitchen Helper. Afterwards I had to mop batter off the floor, counter, walls...etc....

We're swimming. Every time Jamie launches himself from the side, straight into the deep end, and swims to the steps (arms pressed back against his side, legs propeller-ing-- merman-like), head breaching the surface riiight before I jump in to rescue him, chest heaving, lungs sucking for air, grinning cheekily at worried mama and then racing off to the other side to do it again... it takes ten years off my life.

Jamie peed on me this morning and I haven't changed my pants yet, because it seems to be shaping up to be the kind of day where I probably will get peed on again before lunch.

They tell me that some day I will miss all this...

Jamie says "yes"

Jamie has never said the word "yes" before this week. He says "no!" loud and clear, but his term of ascent has always been a slow, deliberate and distinct  "Uh. Huh."-- often accompanied by vigorous head-nodding. When he first began to respond to instruction with a "yes, ma'am", it usually came out more like "Uh hiiiyee, Mama" And when "yes, sir" began to be required, it was, "Uh hiiyeee, Mama, szzir"

But this week, for the first time, he said, "SZES!"

*sniff*

He's growing up.

Just Writing

When you lose something very dear to you-- a person, an idea, a place, an experience, a faith-- it leaves behind (even after "healing) a narrow, deep chasm that you occasionally fall back into. There's no predicting what might precipitate this. A song, a smell, and turn of phrase, an email, a glimpse of someone you think you know in a crowded mall.... Perhaps even simply a quiet evening where your mind, free for the moment from more pressing and immediate concerns, turns a little aside from the daily routines and begins to wander down unfamiliar paths. And then suddenly you find yourself back There. And you feel the ground drop from under your feet and the memories, despair, disappointment come crowding back and the security of daily life and comforts seems hollow, false. And there you are, fingertips clutching at the brink, James Bond-esque.

You might just hang there for a moment, fingers scrabbling at the edge for the solid ground you know was there just a moment ago. You might breathe deeply, smelling the familiar smells of bed and home. You might slowly get a hand, then an elbow-- one, then the other-- up onto your church, your friends, your husband, your beautiful children, the things you still have-- the More, the Now. Now you're on your hands and knees, looking back. Danger passed. You stand up, shake yourself off, square your shoulders, smile, call someone, write an email or a blog post and on you go.

By God's Grace.
Finish the race.







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