The Little Gymnast

My Matthew taught himself to do a headstand when he was barely three years old. He can also almost do the splits. I say almost because, try as he might, he's always suspended about four inches off the ground. Then he falls forward, with his legs back behind him, and declares that he's doing them. I tried explaining to him, just the other day, that he was almost doing them. Before I knew it, he'd stripped all of his clothes off, blaming them for his four-inch-failure. The difference between a fully clothed four-year-old trying to do the splits and a naked four-year-old trying to do the splits is simply that one looks funnier than the other. I'll leave it at that and let your imagines run wild.

Two weeks ago, "The Gabby Douglas Story" aired on Lifetime. I decided to record it and let the boys watch. After all, Matthew is actively attempting to do front handsprings across my family room with no training whatsoever. As a result, my furniture and my walls are taking a real beating. One day, I turned on the movie without giving any explanation as to what it was. Realizing that it was some kind of biography, my oldest repeatedly asked, "What is this? What is this about? Huh? Huh? Tell me, tell me, tell me what we're watching. What is this? What is it?"

"Just watch it," I told him.

She had them with her first flip.

Especially Matthew.

He sat, riveted to the story for the full two hours, devastated when it broke for a commercial.

Later, I was telling my mom how much Matthew had loved it.

"We recorded 'The Gabby Douglas' story," I told her. "And Matthew was just riveted." I finally mentioned something about her doing flips and whatnot.

"OH! GABBY DOUGLAS!" My mom finally said. "The GYMNAST! I was thinking that it was the story of the congresswoman who got shot in Arizona and I couldn't understand why Matthew would be interested in that."

Or why I would let my four-year-old watch a biography about a woman who got shot in the head while doing her job, for that matter.

But, you know, Gabby Giffords/Gabby Douglas, it was an honest mistake.

Now, with all the jumping and flipping involved in so many of the winter Olympic sports, it's a real wonder that my son hasn't broken any bones. Apparently, while unattended two days ago, he was teaching himself to flip--by leaping off the couch.

Maybe gymnastics are in that boy's future.

Or perhaps he'll run for Congress.

Ripple Effect

There is a mountain in my hometown. The hike is difficult but the view from the top is stunning. Last night, in keeping with recent blog themes, I dreamed that I was climbing to the top. Except, instead of doing it the traditional way and using my fully functional legs, I was in a sitting position, balancing with my arms, using my core to hold my legs in a fashion perpendicular to my torso. My legs were suspended several inches above the ground and my arms labored under my full weight. I crept up the mountain inch by inch as I moved each hand back. I didn't climb face forward, in such a way that I could see the twists and turns of the trail. Instead I moved ahead with my back to what was coming, seeing only what had been before.

When the hike was completed, no one applauded my strange victory. In fact, it would seem that everyone pitied me. After all, why would someone with working legs and feet make hiking so much more difficult?

My dreams make no sense.

Usually.

But this one is about how to move forward. Effectively.

I don't have an answer to that question yet.

Troy and Garrett and Matthew and I, we are okay. Our daily life hasn't changed. We love each other more now, perhaps, than ever before. But we find ourselves caught in the ripple effect.

The repercussions of an event or situation experienced far beyond its immediate location. And so we pray for the point of impact, the place where the rock first dropped into the glassy water. We pray for the next ripple, and the next, and the next. We find ourselves swimming toward the center, wishing, with everything we have, that we could pull the rock from the bottom, hurl it back to shore and restore the water to it's original state. But we cannot.

We find ourselves metaphorically climbing a mountain, backward, using arms instead of legs, looking only at the past. Trying to turn our heads so they are at least pointing in the right direction, but struggling against our fatigued muscles to even take the next blind step.

We find ourselves dreaming.

For in the dreaming, we can write the story differently.

The World

These kids. Aside from the joy of my salvation, they are my everything. 

Tonight I just snuggled with my oldest for almost an hour while my husband read to our baby. The Rock Star replayed our Israel trip to me in full detail. All the way down to what we were eating on certain days. My arms were wrapped around his long, lanky torso. He drew pictures for me in the air of what everything looked like.

These boys, these children I wondered if I would ever have, they mean the world to me.  

Puppies

Sometimes life is too much.

Too painful to process.

Too difficult to decipher.

Sometimes there is simply nothing to write about.

So you look at pictures of golden retriever puppies.

Golden retriever puppies make things better.

For a second.

Oceans

Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand
Will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You've never failed and You won't start now

So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

There are moments and sometimes days and weeks that we know we will never forget. Split seconds where everything we thought we knew is redefined. In those minutes and hours, we know only that we are His and He is ours.

And that might be the only thing worth knowing.

Nighttime Is Getting Weird Around Here

Maybe I'll just write an entire series on my dreams. Because that, right there, would fill up this blog and then some. Also, why does my mother keep playing such an integral role in my subconscious? A few nights ago she wouldn't leave my bedside but last night I was getting ready for my wedding and she was off doing who-knows-what but certainly not ATTENDING TO MY EVERY NEED.

I do not know where these dreams are coming from. First, I'm doing absolutely nothing but dying of meningitis. Then, I'm running around like an insane chicken with mange trying to walk down the aisle.

My wedding was supposed to happen like RIGHT THAT MINUTE and y'all, I was NOT ready. I had done my own hair which, let's just face it, should have tipped me off that I was dreaming because, JUST NO. I mean, I am all for other people doing their own hair for their wedding but I am not one of those girls. I am definitely a sit down and get 'er done by someone who knows what she is doing kind of girl. So my hair was longer than it is and blonde and gorgeous. Like, seriously. I'd a hair transplant, apparently. I'd curled it into beautiful waves--well beyond my own hair expertise--and it was going to be the talk of the reception, I kid you not.

"Wow, did you see her hair?" one would stammer.

"Stunning," another would reply.

Except that, then, there was a tiara involved. Apparently, there was no veil. Unlike your average, every day, run of the mill tiaras, however, this one clasped together in the back to make it look like a crown.

Do I subconsciously think I'm the queen of the world?

And I could NOT figure out what to do. Was I supposed to pull my hair out and have it clasp underneath my hair, at the nape of my neck? Was I actually supposed to sport it like a crown? Why had I not done a trial run before that very moment?

THEN, the wedding coordinator started sending people down the aisle. Kids, I was NOT EVEN IN MY DRESS.

Thankfully, my bridesmaids, none of which was helping me with my hair or my dress or at managing my life, must have crept down the aisle at snail speed because A LOT transpired between the hair crisis and the moment when I blessedly woke up really having to use the bathroom.

So, off went my bridesmaids and I was alone.

Here's the part where I remind you that my mother was SITTING VIGIL AT MY DEATHBED IN MY LAST MEMORABLE DREAM. Because I do not know what was going on with her in this particular nighttime reverie. "There you are," she exclaimed as she waltzed into the room. It wasn't weird in the dream but now that I am awake and coherent, where the heck else would I have been?

"Oh, you made it," I said. All chill and nonchalant like. Oh, you came. Meh. It's cool either way. I mean you're my mom and I'm your only daughter but if you hadn't come it would have been fine. Now that you're here, how's my hair?

I had finally managed to get my hair somewhat acceptable with the tiara-crown but she started playing with it and it fell down and we had to start over which, of course we had time for because there were still four bridesmaids in the hallway, yet to walk down the aisle. I tried not to cry as she worked on my hair but my eyes were misty and my mascara started to run anyway. "Stop," she told me. "Or you'll have to fix your makeup."

"Hurry!" I kept telling her. As though MY wedding was going to happen without ME.

She got my hair back to being gorgeous even with the giant, sparkly crown. Then we got me into the dress. The dress stopped at my mid calf for reasons unknown to me because I would not wear a wedding dress that stopped above my feet. Not because there is anything wrong with that but because, personal preference. All of this to say, I had to wear shoes. There was no not wearing shoes because everyone could see my feet.

AND MY SHOES WERE NO WHERE! NO WHERE.

And the last bridesmaid was down the aisle.

For some reason, there were countless boxes of shoes but none of them were the right shoes. I pulled out bright blue sandals. I threw the lids off of Nike running shoes. I found black Reef flip flops. But the silvery heels that I was supposed to be wearing were no where in sight. (Who was I marrying anyway? Because I would not have worn heels to marry my Hobbit.)

I was PANICKING, people. I mean it. I could hear the crowd getting restless. I was all emotions and craziness and WHERE ARE MY SHOES? My mom was on the other side of the room throwing lids off of more boxes. "Are these them?" she'd ask, showing me slippers and loafers and snow boots. I think that maybe, in this dream, she was three sheets to the wind or something because SNOW BOOTS? With a wedding dress?

And as my level of panic continued to rise, I suddenly woke up.

I padded my way into the bathroom, flipped on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. Then, I audibly said, "What kind of tiara fastens in the back?" The important questions in life always confront me in my sleep.

What Does It Mean?

If you know me in real life or have spent more than a minute on this blog, you know that I have incredibly vivid dreams.

Often.

Explain to me why, two nights ago, I had a detailed dream involving me dying of meningitis. Except I don't think I actually had meningitis symptoms. I just had a fever and I didn't want to move and I was in the hospital and the whole world was very concerned. Except my husband and children because, if they existed in Lori's Land o' Dreams, they were absent without leave. I also think I might have been considerably younger than I am. This is based on the fact that the only person I actually knew in my dream was my mother who refused to leave my bedside. Although, maybe if I was actually dying of meningitis, she would be refusing to leave my bedside? Even in my current state of, well, 32.

Oh no.

Wait.

I did have a husband in the dream because, at one point, I was lamenting how much of all it was costing. Just then, the doctor came in and said, "I've been reviewing your finances." (Full service doctor, right there). As I laid there and wallowed in my illness, she continued, "You really don't have much to speak of, do you?"

And even in my state of extreme sickness, I managed to be very irritated.

So maybe my husband was busy working so that he could keep paying the hospital to keep me? I know that I kept telling my mom to let me go to save the finances. Except I just don't think death was imminent. I think I had a fever and felt like crap. These are not really reasons to justify euthanasia. I think, maybe it wasn't meningitis, even. I think my doctor would have been better off being an accountant and not diagnosing me with a terrible disease.

My dreams are weird.

Three Parks

I grew up going to Disneyland. Once a year, if I was very lucky. It's never lost it's magic. Main street is still made of memories, dreams, and ice cream. Adventure Land is still adventurous. And the first part of Pirates of the Caribbean is still one of my favorite places on earth.

Sharing this place with my children is just icing on the cake.

My oldest is tall enough for everything now. We're not entirely sure what my father was doing in this picture. Attempting to freak his grandson out by breathing dramatically, probably.

I'm still bitter that this isn't called The Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse anymore. But I'm dealing with it...

My oldest has been dying to do the Jedi Training for at least two years now. His chance came. He got to fight Darth Vader and everything.

We also went to Knotts.

We played with Snoopy and Woodstock.

                                                          

Garrett stole the show in a Cowboy Antics fight. The actor put his hat on Garrett and my child saw fit to chase the bad guy, throw the hat at him, and generally insert himself into the show. But it wasn't pretentious or obnoxious. It was dramatic.

We had a great time.

Two days at Disneyland. One day at Knotts. Giant corn dogs in New Orleans square. Popcorn. Rainforest Cafe. Rides. Hours and hours at three amusement parks. Two hotels. Countless memories. Fun. Fun. Fun.

Bubbles

Matthew, the stubborn light of my life, kept getting up off the bench where he was eating his lunch yesterday. "Finish your food and don't get up again or I'm going to glue your bum to that bench," I said. Or, at least, something very like that.

My brother was sitting next to him and, apparently, Matthew said that he was going to glue my bum to the chair I was sitting in. My sister-in-law asked who would take him home if I was glued to a chair.

"Myself," he replied. "And bubble gum."

In the musical Wicked, Glinda informs the Ozians and the audience that, "We can't all travel by bubble." But, apparently, Matthew can.

Three Day Theme Park Extravaganza

We went to Disneyland.

And California Adventure.

And Knotts Berry Farm.

My two boys are sleeping soundly tonight.

There is nothing that my seven-year-old won't ride. Also, somehow, during the past six months or so, he turned into a big boy.

My four-year-old was afraid of the Haunted Mansion. Until he began using his finger and thumb as a pistol to shoot the ghosts. Now he loves it.

There will be pictures eventually. But not now. Because I am going to sleep for a day and a half. Or until my children wake up. Whichever comes first.

Frand

Yesterday I was with kinders.

They seemed so mature to me last year. Now that my own child is in first grade and has a head full of adult teeth, the kindergartners seem a little like babies. One of them sucks her thumb non stop and can't recognize the letter O.

But, in any case, they are still hilarious.

"Can you tell me some words that rhyme with and?" I asked them.

"Band!"

"Sand!"

"Man!"

"Well, man doesn't rhyme with and. It has the same vowel sound but it doesn't end in the same sound. Let's try again."

"FRAND!" One girl shouted, very proud.

"Well, okay. Frand does rhyme with and but...is frand a word?"

Some said no. Some said yes. The girl who supplied the answer shouted, "Yes! It is too a word." Then she put on her very best southern accent and said, "This here's my fraaaaand."

And I could not hide my laughter.

Pop!

So remember that cyst I had awhile back?

It persisted.

Through November.

It persisted.

Through December.

The pain came and went, went and came. I pretty much refused to take pain medication for it because I didn't want stories written about the suburban pastor's wife who spent her very small life's savings on her drug addiction.

Two days ago it hurt bad enough for me to contemplate taking the drugs. It was like I was 21 again and newly in love with Troy and thinking about him 20 hours a day. Except, in this story, Troy was a prescription for Trama-Dol.

Last night I went to bed in pain and this morning I woke up in pain. I got up, made the boys breakfast which consisted of pouring them bowls of cereal and giving them each two mini donuts because MOM OF THE YEAR, RIGHT HERE. Then, I flopped back in bed and made a very loud moan. The moan said, "Husband, who is still asleep, I am in pain and would very much like to go back to bed. I would very, very much like it if you got up and took the boys to school this morning because I feel like getting back out of bed NOT AT ALL." Except, well, my husband doesn't speak Moan. So then I kind of flopped around in the hopes that he would turn to me and say, "Clearly something is wrong, I love you for being a princess and a diva and why don't you sleep for a good, long while and I'll get those strapping young men of ours off to a day of education." Except my flopping was very passive aggressive and my husband also doesn't speak Passive Aggressive. At a later hour of the morning, he assured me that he would have gladly taken them to school had I simply said, "I don't feel very well. Can you take the boys to school?"

Men. Apparently they want to communicate in plain English.

So I took Garrett to first grade and then I took Matthew to preschool and then I came home and started a load of laundry and then we changed the sheets on our bed and then, sometime a half hour or so later, BAM.

Stabbing pain in the area of my right ovary. This was followed by relatively little pain that made me think, "Huh. Well that was intensely weird."

And then THAT was followed by what can only be described as having a hysterosalpingogram that takes next to forever instead of ten minutes. Thankfully I've had a hysterosalpingogram before so this feeling wasn't altogether new. I don't know for absolute certain that the cyst burst but if it didn't then I just spent my morning having a close brush with death for no good reason. So, I'm sure putting my hope in the former.

Once I was finally able to crawl out of the fetal position and into an upright one, I took the blessed Trama-Dol. It took the edge off the pain and the world was a better place.

I'm still in a little pain and I'm strangely very tired. But I did next to nothing all day--a travesty since we're leaving on Friday for San Diego, working all day Thursday, and I have to pack and clean and do a million and two other things before we go. My husband waited on me.

My favorite part of the day was when he asked me if I needed a bell. You know, so that I could summon him whenever I needed to.

I love that man.

Almost as much as Trama-Dol.

The Hill

They're wearing helmets because, well, they're crazy, we're those parents, and there is a metal grate at the bottom of the hill that has already been responsible for one immense goose egg on the skull of one of my children this season. This child.

This one finally treks up to the top of the hill, by himself, without whining and crying about it. Without me having to grab him by the hood of his jacket hand and drag him. But he'd still rather prostrate himself on the ground and eat large quantities of snow. 

He's trying to master his beginner snowboard. It would probably help if he actually stuck his feet all the way into the straps.

The oldest has been "snowboarding" for longer, so he's a little better. Of course, he needs to have his tongue sticking out for ultimate focus.

(He's had the focus tongue since he was a tiny guy.)

The snow can be a pain, the freezing temperatures are undesirable to my thin, sunshiny blood, but it sure is fun to spend the afternoon at the sledding hill.

Unwanted

Last night, before I realized that it was an hour long, I got sucked into an episode of Treehouse Masters. That's why it was all kinds of late when I finally got in bed. BUT. Before I got into bed, I brushed my teeth. I took out my contacts. I pulled out a few stray eyebrow hairs because if I didn't do regular upkeep I'd be borderline Unibrow Woman. With my face all pushed up against the mirror, I surveyed the state of my pores. I turned my head this way and that.

And that's when I saw it. A black hair. A loooong black hair. Growing out of the side of my face. It seemed to be a confused head hair more than a whisker but its location suggested that the world is going to conspire against me and I'm going to get that beard after all.

Now, yesterday, I had a conversation with someone at the bank. I went to Dollar Tree. I had a discussion with not one, and not two, but three of the first grade teachers when I picked Garrett up from school. I conversed with friends. In the flesh. Face to face. Or, as it was, face to whisker. This is not to mention all the people I've seen, up close and personal, in the past several weeks.

If teenage me had known about facial hair, she would have run away screaming. If I could talk to her now. The conversation would go a little something like this.

"You're going to find stray beard hairs coming out of your face."

"Well, Old Lady Self, I'm prepared for that. Few of us age gracefully."

"Um. No, Teenage Self, I don't mean at NINETY. I mean, at age THIRTY TWO you will find stray beard hairs. There will be several locations that you will habitually check and pluck. Two hairs in your chin alone, Girlfriend. But, inevitably, you will miss the one on the side of your face from time to time until it has grown to nearly half an inch in length! Half an inch. HALF AN INCH!"

"Wha? THIRTY TWO? Say it's not so?"

I hate Teenage Self. She was so unaware. So young and naive. And her arms were so toned. So very, very toned. Her stomach--flat as a washboard. And vericose veins, she knew not of these.

So there I was, yanking a half inch dark black hair out of my face. Let me pause here to say, "WHAT? MY HEAD HAIR IS NOT DARK SO HOW IS MY BEARD COMING IN BLACK?" Anyway. I pulled. It came out. I started frantically searching my face--at all angles and with several different lighting options--for other signs that I'm turning into a man. And, would you believe that there, growing out of my CHEEK was another one? Well, if I spoke with you at all yesterday I'm sure you would. I'm sure you saw it. I'm sure you debated how to delicately inform me that I was sporting two wiry facial hairs of substantial length.

I lamented to my husband. "Woe to me! My beard hath beguneth."

He promised that he hadn't noticed them.

I believe him.

Certainly he wouldn't have wanted the wife of his (slightly later than) youth to walk around unknowingly showing off her spectacular beard hairs. He insisted that no one noticed. But I kind of want to retrace my steps and approach anyone I spoke with yesterday. "So, those glaringly obvious hairs I had growing out of my face yesterday, I removed them. In case you were wondering."

What is up with getting older?

What is up with having to add, Remove Unwanted Facial Hair, to my list of things to do?

Please tell me I'm not the only one this happens to.

9,460,800

A post that's making its way around social media recently reminded me that they'll never be this small again.

Tomorrow they will be one day older, slightly taller, and weigh just a little bit more. The youngest one might speak just a bit more clearly. One of these days, his sporadic correct pronunciation of the letter L will turn into always getting it right. Soon, he might even be able to say his R's. The oldest will, eventually, stop saying vitafin. Although, I vow not to have anything to do with telling him.

Tomorrow they will go to second grade and kindergarten.

Tomorrow they will go to the prom.

Tomorrow they will be men.

Here and now, in the daily grind of FINISH YOUR BREAKFAST and GET YOUR BACKPACK WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE and GET YOUR BASKETBALL SHOES OFF THE BATHROOM COUNTER, it seems impossibly far away.

From here, I see what seems like a lifetime of science projects, skinned knees, report cards, vomit, broken hearts, inevitable bad choices, math problems. Endless volumes of math problems stand between now and then.

But, somehow, someway, it's already been seven and a half years. They sleep through the night. They feed themselves. They don't spit up on my clothes--at least not normally. They clean their own playroom when, for years, I thought that particular goal would never, ever, in this lifetime, be accomplished. They read. They're toilet trained. How did all that happen? How was all of that accomplished?

They still want me to snuggle with them at night--a sacred moment or two that will be gone before I know it. Sometimes I just want to kiss them and take a shower. Sometimes I don't want to crawl up onto the top bunk because, one of these days, I might die trying to get back down. Not today. But maybe tomorrow. I remind myself that the oldest is full steam ahead with eight on the horizon and the little one is not so little anymore. So I climb up. I wrap my arms around that warm body--lanky with limbs and life. And sometimes I sing because they still want me to.

"525,600 minutes. 525 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes. How do you measure, measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter in strife."

"Mommy! Are there really that many minutes in a year? Whoa! That is so many!" he exclaimed.

How do so many go so fast? I wonder.

9,460,800. That's roughly how many minutes I get to raise these guys. Nine and a half million minutes. That's so many. What will I do with all those minutes? And why do I know, inexplicably and without a shadow of any doubt, that it will never ever be enough? 

And how many of them will I make worth remembering?

They will never be as small as they are today. Tomorrow, a little less of them will fit into my arms.