Lessons while repossessing my house

Today I have been going through my house, repossessing it.
It’s quieter, emptier.
I miss the chaos, but I don’t miss the drama.
     Since school started we have had a 10 year old dropped off here before school so his mom could go to work early. Love the kid: he pacified the girls and helped E with his reading, even wrestled him every once in a while. But now his family is opening a new chapter in their lives, without their dad and closer to school. Also, for the past month we have had a woman and her daughter staying in the room formerly known as Iris’. As soon as she moved in she told us that she was just offered a job to take care of a child, a mowhawked child nonetheless…in our house, which she did. I have never been in a church ward where I have felt there has been so much need and we have been thrust, and have thrust ourselves, into the middle of the rescue effort. Our backs have been strengthened and I thank my Heavenly Father for that, or else I’m pretty sure we would have buckled. I came close; sent her a text (because I couldn’t face her): “Only family and friends live in this house, ¿me entendiste?” She was more distant after that, perhaps to hide her feelings. But I already miss her daughter’s shrieks of laughter and puppy-dog eyes that got her anything she wanted. I even miss her, a lot (I prayed and fasted for love and understanding), even though I’m quite sure she doesn’t miss me and I know for a fact she’s relieved to be moving to a state where David does not reside.
     I used to wonder why prophets would “water their pillows” because of the sins and hardships of their people. In my egocentrism I thought, let them deal with their own problems. Those people probably didn’t even know the prophets were mourning for them and if they did, they might have laughed and spit in their face. In this moment I’m grateful for a deeper understanding of empathy. It doesn’t always soften those we empathize with, which can be all the more painful. Some people think the world owes them something and when the world pays up, somehow another debt is incurred. But now I truly believe, although I know I will relapse into bad practice, that I can’t judge people even if I do get to walk in their shoes. Thank goodness for an all-wise Creator who is the perfect judge.
One more revelation I had, which I never would have supposed before, is that not everybody has to love me and I can be ok with that.

   And today marks 1 week since David’s trauma that left him with a pretty, pink, princess cast on his left arm. I have been waiting for the legal implications to resolve before I spew my guts on that issue. But don't hold your breath...

Camping and Tonto National Bridge

We went camping last weekend with the church ward. The campground had cabins, but according to David, it’s not camping unless a tent is involved. Outside of an empty cabin with over 10 empty bunkbeds slept 5 ice-cubes on a cold, hard ground in a cold, hard world. And I use the word “slept” loosely since it was synchronized with the howls of coyote packs, the whines of possibly a dying horse, and the screeches of excited birds. Nevertheless, we had a great time. E spent most of the time rolling in dirt, or at least he did a great job of creating that look. C and Iris spent a lot of time on a stage singing and dancing.
Other festivities:
berry picking. Elijah was told he was picking blackberries, but he kept calling them redberries; he said the unripe ones were "spicy."

rock collecting

rocket-making and launching.

flower picking

loving

snake catching

hiking

And then we went to Tonto Natural Bridge. It is believed to be the largest natural travertine bridge in the world. The bridge stands 183 feet high over a 400-foot long tunnel that measures 150 feet at its widest point. The discovery was documented in 1877 by David Gowan, a prospector who stumbled across the bridge as he was chased by Apaches. Gowan hid for two nights and three days in one of several caves that dot the inside of the bridge. Gowan then claimed squatter's rights over the area.

On an unrelated note: this morning Claire woke up with crazy, disheveled hair. She said that last night Elijah styled it with toothpaste, but don’t worry, he did it “so softly.”

Update: You know you want one!

After several of Claire’s tantrums and full days of confinement, I permanently cleaned her room this summer by storing about 85% of her toys. She asks for them rarely and maintains the cleanest bedroom of the house, which truly isn’t saying much.

 

Elijah is still striving to be the class clown, in and out of the classroom. After a good talk I can tell he wants to be repentant, but the grins and approval of the like-minded are too tempting.
Iris, at all hours of the night can be found either raiding the refrigerator, passed out on the tile with her sippy cup, or surrounded by ramen noodles in her bed.
The Unidentified Sleeping Object:

She is girly! On Sunday I tried to put a brown dress on her. She sreamed the whole time and as soon as I gave up, she tore it off, threw it down, and spit on it. And her newest word creation is shoepato, a combination of shoe and zapato. One more thing that I am extremely over-excited about is now that her favorite activity is coloring, we have discovered that IRIS IS LEFT-HANDED! Finally, one of my own kind. This is my greatest victory since convincing my little sister to be left-handed b/c we are just so darn cool.
Proof:

In honor of the judeo-christian ninth month, David is on a Ramadan facebook fast. It has been replaced with increased NFL, Drudge Report, and a new obsession with Western flicks. I usually pledge to stay conscious for the first 5 minutes, but then fall asleep to gunfire and dancing. There is always so much shooting but no blood, a choreographed cadence of hopping then falling dead.
And I was training for a half marathon. I got all the way up to a 12 mile run last week only to find out the race was canceled. I am now looking for meaning in my life.

I enjoy the sunrise most mornings.

Ode to David (this is a little mushy for my taste--you've been warned)

Last V-day David checked the blog frequently in hopes of finding an “Ode to David.” Perhaps I can semi-make up for that failing now, on the eve of his birthday.

Let’s begin as usual, reminiscing.
The first birthday present I can remember giving him, and quite possibly the last (we’ve discussed my gift-giving talents), was for his sweet sixteen (the day his girlfriend flew out of the truck he was driving across the Huey P Long Bridge and the day he got in a fight with a pack of no-gooders…stories for another time). It was a second-hand piggy bank in the form of a punk rocker, the mohawk was a feather and the nose was chipped and then painted over with my blue toe-nail polish. The piece still stands somewhere as a tribute to our young love, ahem, awkwardness which later turned into older love.
And so goes an awkward rambling of my love:
I don't like writing about love because then you have to pick and choose. That’s why there are thousands, maybe millions of stories and poems on love—there are so many angles and manifestations that the description, poem, story is eternally doomed to be inadequate. Romantic love usually starts out with hormonal, giddy sleeplessness and then we really have to learn what love is after cupid withers and we find out that men drink all our milk and use enough Clorox wipes to put us in the poor house (happenstance examples, of course). Love, in all facets is hard work and that’s why it’s wonderful b/c it’s a process of accomplishment. And you learn that you can’t pick and choose things you love about someone since the good and the bad is all rolled up into one, no editing allowed (which takes at least a decade to learn, then re-learn). The strong characteristics bleed into everything: decision-making, relationships, intelligence, career.  And if anything, David is a strong character. David, you always know exactly what you want, you know exactly how you will get it, and then you move forward. I realize this is not a very romantic thing to be in love with like rippling pecs, poetic soliloquies, or dimpled toes. But what better characteristic is there to have than striving to become better, not to the point of excessive humility or pride nor defeatism or gloating, but just the right balance to impulse and steer. And that’s who I married. A working visionary. The dimpled toe and rippling pecs are a bonus.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life;
and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Happy birthday.