Celebrating New Year's Eve with LW

Little Warrior says goodbye to 2008:


And "Enter, Rejoice, and Come In" to 2009:


And also to you and yours ... Blessed New Year!

Lesson Learned -- Cry, Cry, Cry

There's a reason why some do not recommend porn -- because it is based on something artificial. Well, the same is true with tear-porn. Dunna work. Cheap tears just aren't the solution. You gotta go to the source of your own pain.

Otherwise, you see, you wind up on your way to your parents to drop off Children 3 and 4 for a visit and sobbing the whole way. Which causes great consternation. And advice.

Here's my advice about advice about crying: ignore it. Except, of course, mine.

So, I've cried, cried, cried. I am hopeful that I will wake up tomorrow with swollen eyes but no more tears.

2009 will have tears. Tears of sadness, tears of joy, tears of laughter. Tears of frustration. Heck, tears from onions. But it'll be nice to begin with a drained tank, as it were.

Wishing for a Cry

I woke up this morning needing a good cry.

Odd, I thought. Then I remembered. Last night, leaving The Boy up playing computer games and my two youngest girls asleep (the eldest spending the night with my parents), I slid into bed beside my sleeping spouse, saying, as I usually do, I am so lucky. It's kind of a mantra. And true.

I lay there in that vulnerable time right before falling asleep when suddenly, the worms were there.

It's been a while. The holidays have kept them at bay.

And then I'm thinking about how life was really back to normal when we took her for scans last spring; as we sat in the hospital McDonalds, I told The Husband that I'd gotten to the point where I'd be surprised if something came back on the scans.

Never will say that again, never never never.

And I'm reliving it and I'm thinking that in the blink of an eye it'll be February, and time for scans again.

But somehow, I fell asleep before I could cry.

Well, no time to cry this morning. We're expected at my parents' trailer for hotcakes and to pick up The Princess. While I'm there, The Husband calls. Going to be $1700 for Bo Peep's dentist in January, another $2000 for the hospital and oh, this dentist says that it's not enough for Peep's pediatrician to okay her for dental surgery, we have to go to their doctor.

It's too much. I tear up. I blink them away and complain of allergies to my mother.

After pancakes, I take my mom on a quick errand. As I wait in the car, I check my home messages. The first is from December 17. Oops.

It is a call from a volunteer at Make-a-Wish. They want to schedule a meeting to find out what Little Warrior's wish is.

Make-a-wish isn't for terminally ill children anymore. It's for children fighting a life-threatening disease. And it's not like this is a surprise.

But still, it grabs me.

It's a gift, a wonderful gift, don't get me wrong. I'm a little conflicted. Not about whether to accept it -- Little Warrior deserves it. But whether to accept it now. She's 3 1/2. She'd appreciate it more in a year or so.

But in February, we get scans. And if all goes well, then more scans in May. And every time, our life could change. And I'd rather her be able to enjoy her wish feeling well, than be in treatment.

I come home. I want to just sit and cry, but that's hard, isn't it? Okay, maybe I have some tear-porn on the tivo. Beaches? Steel Magnolias?

No, it's loaded up with Christmas specials. I pick one -- "Noel: a couple, a diner chef, an editor, an orphaned hustler and a former priest find unexpected happiness on the holidays."

Well, that has potential for misery. I turn it on. Susan Sarandon's mother is apparently in a fairly vegetative state. I feel a bit of a tightening in my throat, welling up to my eyes ...

I sneeze.

Okay. Maybe later.

so this is christmas

So ... certainly not a perfect Christmas, but I don't believe in such an animal anyway. We picked up one aquarium and setup for two gerbils (they're very social, or so we've read) on Dec. 23rd. One for The Boy, one for The Princess. Put them back in our closet. My, the black one sure was chasing the brown one. OH MY, there's blood on the walls of the aquarium. By Dec. 24th, it was, OH MYYY, the brown one has bite marks and a giant wound on one hip. Got online to learn how to make them stop fighting. Kept reading "...once blood has been drawn, there will be no reconciliation." Put Blackie in a small cage left over from when we had hermit crabs and called The Husband, who was out running errands. Better get another aquarium and set ups.

The little cold I had seemed to jump full force into a big cold on Christmas morning. Afrin 12 hour, Sudafed 12 hour, and coffee and mimosas all fought for dominance in my head. It was not unlike the feeling of two gerbils racing around and around ...

Dec. 26, I realized the gig was up. The cold had won and I wasn't going to fake it out. My sister-in-law, GlamourGirl had arrived, so she and The Husband took out the crew to the mall and to a movie while I swigged Nyquil and went back to bed. Today, they're out bowling, while I stay home, detoxing from medication to see what's the cold and what's fuzzy-drugs, and watching sappy holiday movies I tivoed.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being disappointed. But it's an ordinary disappointment, getting a cold. And ordinary disappointments still happen, even after Great Big Things like cancer. Paper cuts still hurt, even if they happen after winning the lottery, I imagine.

And ... if I have to be sick, this is the way. House to myself, don't have to take care of anyone but me.

And even if it wasn't the perfect Christmas for me, I think several folks in my house feel it was pretty darn perfect for them. Like two kids with their own gerbils, that they can keep in their own rooms. "It's the best gift Santa ever brought me," says The Princess. And Bo Peep with her chef set. And Little Warrior, who doesn't remember other Christmases, but still says, this was the BEST one in her Whole Entire Life.

Which, in a way, makes it mine, too.

Christmas Time's a Comin'

Well ... I'm fighting a cold that chose today to make an appearance and I just realized today that though I have the play kitchen for Bo Peep and Little Warrior, I, um, forget any pots and pans. Kind of hard to play with a play kitchen without any play pots and pans. And I need to pay bills and my Christmas cards are going to be New Year's cards and Christmas is day after tomorrow and I just haven't had enough Christmas Season to suit me.

But day after tomorrow, my parents, my husband, and all four of my children will be in my living room, together.

Someday, I might look back on this and see it as a precious gift.

You know what? I think I'll realize it as a precious gift right now.

EVERY time I see one of those St. Jude commercials

Hey, she looks like Little Warrior. Aww, that's a nice commercial.

"Give thanks for the healthy kids in your life, and give to those who are not."

Yeah, it's bad to have an unhealthy kid. And of course, they're not talking about just a "sick" kid, they're talking about cancer, about a child having CANCER, that big scary thing that old people get, that people can DIE from, isn't that horrible?

pause.

HOLY SHIT. LITTLE WARRIOR HAD CANCER.

Every single time.

Sweet tenderness

My parents arrived today. They had gone back home right before Little Warrior's last chemo, confident that we were covered. But they're back for the holidays and happy to see all of us, but especially Little Warrior. They were starved for her.

It's been a month and a half since they've seen her. To me, the difference is her appearance is big, and I see her everyday. To them, it is huge. Plump, pink cheeks. Eyebrows growing back. HAIR growing back.

It is a visible amount of fuzz now, and feels like velvet. She is very tolerant of our caresses, as we all find that fuzz-head irresistible. I encouraged my dad to stroke her head. He was tentative. He voiced his concern that he was afraid of rubbing it off. LW and I both laughed at him and assured him that her hair is securely attached.

I imagine his concern isn't that much about her hair. It's the concern we all have, that somehow we'll "rub off" her health.

But it was still really sweet, seeing the tenderness of the gruff 79 year old man as he carefully ran his hand over the top of her head.

I found it, I found it!!!!

I have spent way too much time searching for this ... an SNL Tv Funhouse of Jesus and the real meaning of Christmas.

I Believe in Father Christmas

I love Christmas. No, more than that. I believe in Christmas.

What makes someone a Christmas person and another person, not? I don't know. Perhaps it is something just in you, like whether you're a cat or a dog person.

Nature, nurture. Like most things, you can point to definitive reasons why someone who is not a Christmas person is not ... like one of my friends, for whom Christmas was a time of more abuse, a scary uncle to stay away from. But then there are those who have all the reason in the world to turn away from the holiday, but instead embrace it. And those who had idyllic Christmastimes, but it just never struck a chord. They'd rather be off on a warm beach, drinking a Mai Tai.

I enjoy the story of a very special child being born in rude circumstances ... in fact, I was marveling on that this week, the choice to have Him born poor. The kings, the shepherds -- lovely.

But it is not the center of my celebration.

I guess, if I had to put a word to it, it'd be that over-used, overworked, but still plugging away word, Love. Even if there were no mention of Jesus, Christmas would still be the holiday I would celebrate. Because it's not a celebration of the solstice to me, it's a celebration of love in its many forms.

The holiday of Christmas, even without a virgin birth, is filled with meaning and history. Yes, there's traffic and grumpy people, but there are also so many people wanting to reach out, to show love to their families, their friends, and to complete strangers. They take a gift list off the mall tree to buy a little girl they've never met a Barbie and a Hannah Montana tshirt. They are more generous with their charity dollars. They sing carols at the old folks' home, they dish up soup at a shelter, they do art projects at a children's hospital. They smile at others in line. In their hearts, they really do want everyone to be happy on Christmas.

The eternal lament is, why can't they be that way all year? Well, as someone once said, I am thankful that thorns have roses.

The stories of Christmas fill my heart, fiction and non. The Christmas ceasefire. Della and Jim. Scrooge.

Oh, Scrooge! Scrooge, I love him so, because he embodies my deepest, hopeful-est belief in personal transformation. That one can wake up, literally and figuratively, and decide to be different. And be "as good as his word."

Santa.

I could write a book (actually, I am, but that's another story for another time) on Santa. I do have children, but even if I didn't, I would still believe in Santa Claus. When it gets to that scene in Elf where everyone starts singing, "... I'm telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town!" I just tear up, same as I do in the remake of Miracle on 34th Street where people all across New York hang out signs saying, "I Believe."

... just as I do every Christmas Eve, when we pull up NoradSanta.com to track Santa's progress around the globe. Because just as Scrooge symbolizes the possibility of transformation for me, NoradSanta symbolizes all the love and work that goes into Santa.

You know the story, right? A simple misprint in 1955, and all these years later, they still do all this work to bring information to children about Santa's journey.

On Christmas Eve, children all around the world get on NoradSanta.com, click on their language, and watch Santa's trip.

On Christmas Eve, people all over the world conspire to bring magic to children.

I think I may feel more strongly about what Santa does for adults than I do even his magical effects on children. Santa is the penultimate example of non-reciprocal, anonymous giving. (My vocab peeps out there, yes, I mean the correct definition of penultimate, one shy of ultimate. I think that the ultimate is doing all that for someone you don't know.)

Parents who would never let their children see them giving such bounty -- goodness, such largess, it's unseemly! -- glow with love as their children exclaim over the gifts from Santa. Willingly, they watch as Santa takes the credit for the bicycle, as they get kisses later for the board game.

Santa is magic, both for being so inaccessible and for being completely accessible. Anyone with the spirit to do so can be Santa. A present left on an elderly neighbor's front porch, a gift card in the mail ... signed, Love, Santa. What power!

I do not seek to convert nor take away from anyone their feelings about Christmas. To those on the beach, Mele Kalikimaka, Dudes. To those for whom Christmas is a deeply religious holiday, a time of spiritual reflection, Good Holy-days to you, and may the blessings of the Christ child be in your heart. My friends round the solstice fire, I'll probably join you as we call the quarters.

But then, I will get back to my house and my family, to bake more cookies, wrap more presents, watch more Christmas shows, and play Christmas songs til my fingers are puffy and sore.

Comes the time for Christmas
And as you raise your Yuletide flask
There's like this feeling that you carry
As if from every Christmas past
It's as if each year it grows
It's like you feel it in your toes
And on and on your carol goes
Harvesting love among your woes

--Christmas, Blues Traveler

Entertainment Weekly Cheap

And now, a break from deep thinking ... just found a good deal on one of my bargain boards. Get a year's worth of Entertainment Weekly for $10.

If you pay by credit card, then after you sign up, you'll go to a page offering a gift subscription for $5.

So for that relative you just don't know what to buy for ...

Can you talk about God in your church?

Such good stuff on iminister right now. Here's one thing that jumped out at me on Some Recommendations that Caught My Eye:

Enrich our ministries by having conversations about holy experience/transcendence with colleagues. Allow ourselves to be more vulnerable.

Talk about our holy experiences/sense of God in our congregations and with our congregations. Model this so they can do it too.

This is matching up with something that's been tickling around the edges of my brain: are we really more comfortable being open about our beliefs in our UU churches? Or only "some" of those beliefs?

The BFF-DRE and I recently took our children over to a local Methodist church for one of their holiday happenings, a "Walk through Bethlehem." Lovely thing, lots of church volunteers, good spirit, all free for everyone. Wonderful energy at that church but you know, not a theology that reflects my beliefs.

There are probably at least a couple of people who go there whose beliefs don't match up with the theology, but they go anyway for other reasons and keep their thoughts to themselves. At our UU churches, we often say, Here, you don't have to deny part of yourself. You don't have to keep your doubts, your thoughts, to yourself.

But is that really true?

Just a thought, not fully formed ... but I think some of us may feel very comfortable sharing our doubts, but our positive feelings about God -- do we feel comfortable sharing those? Do we feel comfortable saying, "I was really worried about X, but last night, I prayed on it, and I feel better able to face it today." -- ?

I'm not talking about testifying to others, or asking them to take our personal revelation as a message meant for anyone outside ourselves.

But do we feel comfortable being vulnerable? Do we make a place where people can speak aloud those feelings in their hearts about God? Or are they afraid that someone will see them as developmentally lower, quaint, not "evolved"?

Because if not ... then aren't we just like those two people in the Methodist church who keep their doubts to themselves?

A different seminary path

Rev. Christine has been having some fascinating posts about excellence in ministry, which have included questions about the process of becoming a minister.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about a jillion times, "Why didn't I answer the call back when I was 21, with no kids?"

Well, woulda shoulda coulda. One step in another direction, and I might not have my four lump-lumps. So, no regrets.

Still and all, my path to ministry is proving to be long and unique. Not uniqually unique. I think the majority of UU seminarians have unique paths.

Like most, I'd been getting the call for a long time. But I finally received a call I couldn't say No to. I signed up for seminary, with the expectation that I'd soon be getting pregnant for the fourth and last time. But I wanted to at least start, dip my toes in. Deciding where to go wasn't difficult -- I had a husband and three kids. I looked to see what accredited seminaries were in my town. Seminary 1: Catholic. Being both a) female and b) not Catholic, it was easy to cross that one off my list. Seminary 2: An extension program from a well-known seminary about 5 hours away. But in order to graduate, you have to do about a year's work in residence in that town. X.

Seminary 3: Local. Offers evening classes. Interdenominational, meaning "You can be any kind of Christian." Close enough. And I knew a UU minister who had graduated from there. We had a winner.

That first semester was hard, and not just because of morning sickness. I landed in what was called "Intro to Theology" but was taught as Systematic Theology. By a Southern Baptist. Who said, on my first day, "You cannot be a unitarian and be a Christian." (This wasn't directed at me, he didn't know my religion at that point.)

Rough, rough, rough. But a good introduction to seminary. I got an A, though as I grimly joked, I had to sell my soul to Jesus in order to do so.

And then, a break to have Little Warrior. When she was 6 months old, I made plans to go back to school.

And then life turned upside down, inside out, and we entered Cancer World.

And I didn't think I'd ever go back to seminary. Didn't think I'd ever be a minister. Didn't think I'd ever have anything to say of value, ever, ever again.

But she got better. And long after she got better, I got better. And I went back to seminary. Different professor, different subject. And I learned how to politely speak my mind at seminary.

During this time, I looked into doing the extension program through M-L. It looked fascinating and wonderful and all that. But I was making friends with fellow students at my local seminary. Practically all were black, living in the inner-city, making plans to minister to low-income communities. And I realized I was learning so much from my classmates. The things they talked about struck a chord in me. And I realized that this seminary offers me advantages that I wouldn't get at many other schools. I am the minority here. And it's like going to France to learn French -- I am learning about anti-racism/anti-oppression through an immersion experience. I am grateful to my fellow students who are my teachers.

(And I like to think that I am offering something unique, such as when I explained that in my religion, the question is not about the ethics of marrying a gay couple, but whether it is ethical to legally marry a straight couple, since our gay congregants do not have that same right. This is a conservative school. A few eyes bugged out that day.)

I did well. Then I signed up for another semester, and also signed up for an online class through Starr-King. Shooting rockets of new experience! Anyone who sees online classes as somehow a weaker sister ... well, they haven't had my experience. Because we wrote our conversations, sharing our thoughts on a private class-only bulletin board, we were able to be more thoughtful than when one is talking off the cuff. My class was Intro to Liberal Religious Education and it opened up a whole world for me, so much so that I wound up designing an RE program that my home church is using this year.

And then, a month away from the end of the semester, we took LW for routine scans. She was a year and 9 months off treatment. We were about to "graduate" to only having scans every 6 months. I even joked (oh, how I cringe now) to a person at my church that hey, if the cancer came back, I'd take it as a sign that God REALLY did NOT want me to be a minister.

They found a spot.

I juggled textbooks and suitcases, working on final papers while staying with LW at the hospital. I managed to turn everything in on time. I did well, school-wise. I'm proud of that.

We found that the spot was Wilms' Tumor and that we had to go back to Cancer World. But this time, it was going to be harder. And it would require hospitalizations every third week. For me, the mama, school wasn't an option. So I sat out the Fall semester.

She is done with treatment. And despite my joke, this time around, there were no real doubts about returning to school. I am signed up for Intro to Pastoral Care at my local seminary, starting in January. LW will have scans twice during the semester -- February and May. Life can change on a dime -- again. But I start yet again. Leap of faith.

I do not get the cloistered, intensive experience of going to seminary full-time at a UU seminary. And I certainly wouldn't recommend the "cancer track" of theological training. And since I won't be going to school full-time until LW is in kindergarten, I'm not eligible for financial aid, other than the Visa and Mastercard Student Loan program. (Really, really not recommended.)

But I think that at the end of this, I can confidently check off the "discernment" aspect. And AR/AO. And studying in a conservative, often fundamentalist, Christian community. And a whole lotta other, to be revealed as I take this journey, step by step ...

Thank you for the magic

The Princess is 9. She believes in Santa Claus, one of a dwindling minority in her class. But I know from prior experience that she is at the age where she'd like a little more proof. It's a tender age, on the way to pre-teendom, but still playing with Barbies and baby dolls.

On Sunday, a dear friend, the children's "annexed" grandma, sent all 6 of us to a special holiday brunch. Delicious food, lovely setting and Santa and Mrs. Claus. A fabulous Santa, gorgeously attired, long fluffy beard, and willing to really sit and talk with each child. We all walked out, pretty certain that the was the Real Santa.

The Princess asked for two things: moon shoes, and snow.

Did I mention that we live somewhere where it NEVER snows? Maybe once every dozen years. Maybe.

But Santa said he'd try.

Meanwhile, I just haven't been feeling it. The Christmas magic. As longtime readers of this blog know, I am a bonafide Christmas lover, bad TV specials, hokey songs and all. But this year ... well, I just wasn't feeling it. Last night, I had a little talk with the Transcending Mystery and mentioned that you know, I don't need it or anything, but I'd love a little Christmas magic.

The Princess is home with a little cold today. I left her at home while Little Warrior and I went and picked Bo Peep up from school. We were driving home through the rain and I noticed the oddest thing. The raindrops seemed to be, I dunno, kind of bouncing on the windshield. And it seemed like I could see them coming at me, but in a slow way, not like rain does and HOLY SMOKES, I THINK THAT'S SNOW!!!! BO PEEP, IT'S SNOWING, IT'S SNOWING!!!

And then it really, REALLY was snowing, great big huge fairy flakes coming down. We got out and ran to the front door calling to The Princess that it was snowing, really, really, snowing!!! She pulled a coat on over her jammies, stepped into shoes and came out.

The girls all danced and pranced, just wild with the wonder of it all. The Husband called because it was snowing at his work. Before he could say a word, I asked, "SO, do you believe in Santa Claus???"

Tonight, there's not a doubt in our minds. He really was the real Santa Claus.

Have a sexy Christmas

No, this isn't a post decrying sexy M&Ms or Santa Baby. No sirree Bob; it's quite the opposite.

There's lots of folks who will tell you that Christmas is for children. And the idea of Christmas being something sexy ... well, that's just wrong. Christmas is about a holy birth, or a completely G-rated Santa delivering dolls and toy trucks to kiddies. And sexy is just commercialization of Christmas.

Well, phhhbt on that, I say.

Even before I knew what "sexy" was, I think I've always had an awareness of how sexy Christmas is, starting with my parents. My parents are utterly, utterly appropriate, very straight-laced, but around Christmas, there'd be a twinkle in their eyes. Dad usually took a week's vacation around Christmas, so he'd be relaxed. He'd be making eggnog or Bahama Mamas, Mom would be playing the Christmas LPs and thanks to an organized personality that I did not inherit, all the shopping would be done. I'd see kisses and pats on the butt, and it gave me a warm glowy feeling.

Newlywed ... is there anything like a newlywed Christmas? Especially when you're still kids yourselves ... I was 21 and The Husband, 22. Our apartment was -- literally -- less than 500 sq ft, total. That fact notwithstanding, we went to the grocery store and purchased an enormous fresh tree. We had trouble opening the front door and we had to send my mom to spend the night with her aunt because we couldn't fold out the hide-a-bed ... but boy, did we have the Christmas spirit. With our meager budget, we were thrilled to find Swiss Colony goodie boxes we could send to everyone. (Boy were our faces red when we saw our gift to my parents at their house and discovered that the boxes of goodies were just like full size, but miniature. A stub of cheese the size of a cocktail sausage. Lesson learned.)

Now we're the parents, complete with secret looks, subtle innuendo, and whispers we don't explain. The other day, watching some holiday show, The Princess asked, "Why do kids complain when their parents kiss?" "I dunno," I answered. "I always kind of liked seeing my parents kiss." The Princess nodded sagely. "It means they love each other."

So ... along with all the fun family activities, spiritual moments of solitude ... throw in a little sexy. Wink, flirt, hug, dance. Twinkle.

Letting the magic in

Two main emotions of this season are playing tennis with my brain. Thwap, thwap, thwap. On one side, the happy mania: my child had cancer and now she doesn't -- how can anything bother me? Merry Christmas! Ho-ho-ho!

And that emotion is real.

On the other side, what creeps in, when I am in the middle of a happy moment, like watching LW deep in conversation with Santa ... What if this is her last Christmas? I am not being melodramatic. I've been a witness to this too many times. A third bout can go very fast.

And that emotion is real.

A couple of days ago, my next door neighbor (whom I like, but I wouldn't describe us as being soul-sisters), brings over a book she got at the library. She accidentally picked it up, thinking it was something else. It's odd, she says. But she thinks I'd like it.

The Book of Everything by Guus Kuijer.

Last night, she emails me. She just realized she needs to turn it back in, so she'll need it back Monday. Sick with a cold, I take it to bed with me. It's short.

"...And do you know how happiness begins? It begins with no longer being afraid."

I need to let magic back in to my head. The kind of magic that says that my neighbor accidentally getting a book from the library and then inexplicably loaning it to me, and then me being forced by a deadline to read it ... is not an accident, is not random. That, not all of the time, not by command, but every once in a while, what I need ... I'll receive.

Pie Crust Scraps and Family

Today is our tamalada. The DRE-BFF is over here, along with her twin ferrets (aka her high-energy, high-intelligence boys) and we've been churning out pork, chicken mole, and corn-jalapeno-queso-fresca tamales. At some point, the subject of pie crust scraps came up and how you sprinkle them with sugar and cinnamon, bake up 'em up, and fight to get them.

The Husband's mother called them "Stick-ems." Or "Stick-ums." He's not sure which. The DRE-BFF's mother called them "Gnarbles," pronounced with a hard g. Guh-narbles. My mom didn't make pie crust, but when I do, I call them snails, because I roll them up.

Neither The Husband nor the DRE-BFF have any idea why their moms call them by those names. "They don't stick to anything," I ask The Husband. "So why?"

"I dunno."

It's just an accepted family fact. Stick-ems and gnarbles. A tribe shibboleth.

What does your family call them?

Great Moments of the Week

Okay, it's Friday. What were some of the great moments of the week?

• Little Warrior insisting on using shampoo because she has hair now. Even if you need a magnifying glass to see it.
  

• Holding the phone out so my four could sing "Happy Birthday" to my 78 year old mother. And her telling me that it was the best birthday gift.

• Getting our photo Christmas cards back. Lordy, what a motley crew. But I love 'em something awful.

• LW getting really pissed off (sorry, no other term adequately describes it) because she keeps seeing shows where the characters get to ride in Santa's sleigh and "I Have Never Gotten To Ride In His Sleigh!!!!" Yes, I'm laughing at my child's pain.

• Signing up for the spring semester at my seminary. Paying the bill was not so fun, but I'm signed up. I order books today.

What were your great moments from the week? Tell me, tell me.

Three Guys, One Guitar

Something cool for your TGIF.

What it's like

There's this lake I used to swim in, with a beach. I'd get out, where the water was over my head, and just swim, swim, swim, until finally I was tired, and had to go in.

You swim toward the beach, and at some point, you transition from swimming to walking. You don't want to begin walking too soon, because if you begin walking as soon as your feet can touch the bottom, the wall of water is strong against your chest, and you wind up slogging and trying to push through. If you keep swimming too long, you slam your knees into rocks and look silly to the people up on the beach.

Unlike the swimming out in the middle of the lake, it's nothing dramatic, nothing life or death. It's just this little awkwardness, this transition.

That's where I am right now.

Spock Brain

Going through Something Like This, I don't think that being emotional is the worst. I mean, really, it can be a pain in the ass, when every single choir singing, every Hallmark commercial, the Christmas episode of Mork and Mindy for cripes sake, can make me tear up. But it isn't the worst.

The worst is when Spock Brain surfaces. Like Mr. Spock and his Vulcan side, my brain will occasionally go to 100% logical. No human emotion. Just logic. It surprises me ... and as soon as I realize it's happened, I feel physically ill.

Like last night. I was packing up the kids' lunches. We have three Laptop Lunchboxes and I noted that in a Fall 2010, when Little Warrior goes to school, we'll need a fourth. I should probably order one.

Spock Brain, always logical, said, "Better wait and see."

And my head popped up, realizing the thought.

And I felt punched in my stomach. By my own self.