Grace #21 Our New Home

It's quiet right now. In just another hour our little rental home will be descended upon by a team of professionals: people trained in the art of packing a truck like a 3 dimensional puzzle, driving that puzzle carefully down the road, and unpacking it in record time. Their tools of the trade are heavy blankets, furniture dollies, fantastic spatial awareness, and strong backs.

Today is moving day.

Like many new homeowners I have composed, edited, thrown out, and recreated list upon list of all the things I need for my new home. I have taken into account our current possessions, lifestyle, goals for the new house, neighborhood, and checking account. Thousands of things were evaluated, considered, and rejected. I have narrowed it down to the 5 most important things I must have for my new home:

1. Love. We must fill this house with love just as our boxes are filled with packing peanuts. If it's love that takes up all the extra space we won't have to worry about anything getting broken.

2. Peace. Wrapping peace around our lives will act just like those heavy-duty furniture blankets: it will soften all the blows, cushion the times we rub each other the wrong way, and keep our souls from getting knicked.

3. Health. Our boxes are made of triple-layer corrugated cardboard. They have packing suggestions, weight limits, and are meant to be used again and again. This really sounds a lot like my own body. I took really good care of those boxes I purchased when we moved from Toledo. I kept them dry, flat, and away from insects. I didn't let any harmful substances leak into them that would compromise their structure. Every one of those boxes served me well for this move. If I went to all that trouble for a box it seems only right that I could do at least as much for my/my family's health.

4. Faith. Sometimes when a really heavy load or multiple small loads are being carried a hand truck or furniture dolly is used. It makes maneuvering all that weight manageable. It doesn't look like that relatively small tool can move that gigantic sofa ... but it can. Faith is just like that for me: I am always amazed at what a little faith, used properly, can do. It can mend relationships, heal brain tumors, make cross-country moves work out okay, and ease a worried mind. A home filled with faith is automatically filled with hope, dreams, and miracles.

5. Gratitude. Miles and miles of tape went into making, securing, and binding our boxes. I think Gratitude is like that tape: it binds all of our good intentions, positive feelings, and productive emotions into a nice secure structure. We can remove the Gratitude, re-position it as necessary, and it will still stick us together.

I intend to fill my new home with all of these necessities. If you're surprised that I didn't mention new bedding, furniture, lighting, and decorative accessories well don't worry, I'll be sure to add all of those things as well. It's just that for right now. In the quiet. I am able to listen and hear what's really important.

And I am Grateful.

She wants an Itty Bitty Teeny Tiny Hot Pink Flowered Bikini...

My daughter's BFF just bought a new swimsuit. Sigh. Did she buy the standard Land's End Tugless Tankini with privacy liner, you may ask? Nope, she did not. Then she must have bought the LLBean Rash Guard with matching Swim shorts, you may be thinking. Sadly, no, not the rash guard and swim shorts either.

She bought a tiny little hot pink hibiscus flowered bikini with lime green trim, circa Target, 2009.

So guess what my daughter wants now? Yep, you guessed it, she wants to know when she can have a bikini. Now for the record, I am not actually against the bikini. I think there is a fairly wide spectrum of swimwear and I know we can find plenty of 2 piece suits that fall respectably within the bikini part of the spectrum but are still appropriate swimwear. I also know that to forbid the bikini is essentially to throw down the challenge: how frequently can you wear a bikini behind my back and get away with it? I know this because I was forbidden to wear a bikini. When I was 12 we visited my cousins in Kentucky. My aunt dropped us off at the pool where I immediately went into the restroom and changed from my mom's-choice-really-cute-one-piece to my cousin's friend's mom's quite-ugly-but-at-least-it-is-a-bikini abomination from the early '70s. Then when I was 14 I had babysitting money so I simply purchased my own bikinis, wore them underneath my clothes, put my one piece in my bag, was dropped off at the pool and mom was none the wiser. This went on for probably a year or so before I was "found out." My mom was mad at being lied to, mad that I went behind her back, mad that it had been going on for so long, and felt helpless because she realized that there wasn't much point in telling me I couldn't wear something I had been wearing for years.

I'm hoping to avoid that particular fight with my daughter by applying some of what I've learned from own poor behavior and from other friends' stories: I won't forbid the bikini because in forbidding it I set myself up to be lied to and my daughter to be sneaky. I also completely forfeit any say in the style of bikini because my daughter would be choosing it with her friends or (God forbid) her boyfriend and I wouldn't even know she was wearing it.

So back to the bikini issue, it's not really me that will be the great roadblock in her plans to bare her midriff. It's Steve. Steve cannot imagine any situation in which it will be okay for so much of his daughter's skin to be on display. He cannot fathom why I wouldn't be as adamant about this as he is. Well, I guess it's because I've been there. I've done that. I realize that wearing the bikini is (right now) more about fitting in with friends' cute fashions and not really (yet) about sexuality. There will definitely be a time when the swimsuit choice is all about attracting a mate, showing off what the Good Lord gave her, and trying to be mature and frankly, more than ever, that's when I want to be able to weigh in on the swimsuit choice. I recognize that there will still be times when I will be lied to. When my daughter will sneak around behind my back. When she will see just how much freedom she has or can take. I'm no fool now and I was no angel back then.

But for right now I still have her. She's still mine. She still obeys because she doesn't realize yet that she has a choice. And for these last few precious weeks, months, or years that this is true I want to cultivate as much of a my-mom-is-reasonable-and-can-be-reasoned-with relationship as I can.

'Cause I know this for sure: it's not about the swimsuit. It's never just about the swimsuit.

Grace #19 TiVo and Grace #20 Netflix

I admit it, I am a product of technology. I love my laptop, my cell phone, the internet (all previous Graces you may recall), and now I am here to wax poetic first about TiVo and then about its companion Netflix.

Prior to TiVo I had to watch commercials. I had to watch whatever was on at the network's convenience, rather than my convenience. I had to remember channels and schedules. I had to be aware of when new shows were starting. If I missed an episode of my favorite show then I had to wait several years for the show to go into syndication before I could see the episode I'd missed. I actually planned my daughter's activities to ensure that she could take some "down time" while watching The Berenstain Bears or Clifford the Big Red Dog. If we weren't home between 3-3:30 in the afternoon our only other option was to put in a DVD.

I was living in the dark ages, I tell you!

Now I have none of those concerns. I am blissfully unaware of what networks carry what shows. They can change their schedules weekly and it doesn't affect me. I don't have to watch reruns or commercials.

I initially resisted TiVo coming into our home. I was afraid that having it would make TV more important in our lives. I was completely wrong: the TV became dramatically less important. Knowing that our favorite shows would be available whenever we wanted to watch them enabled us to forget about the TV and do other things. And now that TiVo can stream Netflix movies directly to our TV...well my friends, it nearly brings a tear to my eye.

Netflix is the greatest invention since sliced bread. When I was at home for a day icing my foot, I watched Wedding Crashers. When I was home all week with my sick daughter we watched Beethoven and Air Bud. When Steve and I feel like watching TV and learning something we watch a documentary. Comedies, dramas, children's programming, documentaries, and musicals old and new - Netflix has them all and can stream them instantly and in (almost) perfect format directly to my home.

Hard to believe all this entertainment, freedom, technology, and convenience costs only $9.95 a month isn't it?

Life is good.

This little bowel problem "runs" in the family!

Yes, that was one of the worst puns ever used on this blog, but the truth of the statement remains: the women in my family have been plagued by irritable bowel syndrome, spastic colons, and the wicked twisties for generations. So today, when my daughter had to have us pull over at the nearest McDonald's because she couldn't wait the 12 minutes it would have taken us to get home, I understood. I've been there. Many, many times. As she emerged from McDonald's restroom pale, shaky, with chills, and embarrassed I told her that she was merely a product of her genetic heritage. I told her that it just as easily could have been me 30 years ago, begging my parents to pull over, terrified that I wouldn't make it, and trying to explain to my mostly baffled father and my amused brothers that I really couldn't wait just 10 minutes!

I carried this little problem with me for years: taking it to camp when I was 7 and I asked the counselor if I could go to the bathroom and she told me we'd all go together after dinner. Perhaps the other campers waited but I couldn't so my adorable blue/white seersucker shorts were used poorly that day. I then stuffed those shorts into my duffel, forgot about them, and only remembered a week or so later when my mom screamed when emptying my camp duffel in the laundry room. Oh yea, mom, I had a little problem during dinner one day at camp...

I brought the problem with me to high school where I handled it by simply not eating. If I was going on a date, going to a concert, going to a party I simply did not eat. I was very, very thin in high school.

Of course the problem went with me to college where, just to make things interesting, for 3 years I had about an hour commute each way to school. I was also very thin in college.

And the problem followed me into the workplace where it attacked one day after a work luncheon when I was carpooling with 3 co-workers and we had a 40 minute drive back to the office. I had broken my own rule to never eat and I was paying for it. That little incident found me huddled under an overpass in the middle of December while truckers honked and my co-workers (believing I was throwing up) took bets on whether or not I was pregnant. I never carpooled to lunch again.

I learned.

I was 32 years old before I realized I was allergic to dairy and my life completely changed. My hay fever decreased, my skin cleared up and my intestines breathed a sigh of relief. For the first time ever I was able to carpool without fear, eat without wondering if I was going to pay for it later, and not cringe upon hearing my husband shout "Road trip!" I noticed the signs early in my daughter and have been pretty successful in keeping her diet pristine, but she's getting older now, making some of her own food choices, and today that free cup of cookie dough ice cream just looked a little too tempting for her to pass it up.

She learned.

"Me" Time

Today is the last day for uninterrupted, at my own leisure, on my own schedule "me" time. Tomorrow school is over at 11 a.m. and my real job revs up from 11:01 a.m. on June 19 to 8:29 a.m. on August 26th. I am ready for this school year to be over. This has been a year of ups and downs, excitement and sheer terror, sadness and loss coupled with wonder and gain.

I think 4th grade is a hard year no matter if you move 800 miles and start a new school or not. I know my 4th grade experience was terrible: I was extremely awkward looking, my parents were having a lot of marital problems, my best friend Maria didn't want to be best friends anymore as she discovered her 'inner jock' and I discovered loneliness. My homeroom teacher Mrs. Gatchell had favorites and I was not among them. My math/science/gym teach Ms. Toby was scary beyond all reason. I was struggling academically, emotionally, and socially. I had absolutely no one to turn to at home but school was also a battleground of loneliness, isolation, being excluded, and feeling baffled about how it had all gone so wrong so quickly.

Needless to say I am glad that's over.

Now the dreaded 4th grade year is ending for my daughter. Our "newness" in Massachusetts is wearing off. Our closing date on our house is approaching. I am consuming a little too much sugar, exercising too little, and worrying a lot but I know it's all symptoms of stress and that too will soon end as soon as the moving truck arrives. A new kind of stress will take its place: the stress of full-time parenting. Decorating. Not enough time for myself. Too much time with the neighbors. The good kind of stress. The kind of stress on which I thrive.

Needless to say I can't wait for it to begin.

Well, she ain't Martha Stewart...

We just had house guests. Just saying those words can strike fear into hearts. Just about everybody has a fantastically funny/horrific story about house guests. I am no exception. I have a love/hate relationship with having guests to stay: on the love side I love being with family and friends. I love entertaining. I love sharing my space with those I love and who love me. I love sharing my new spot in the world. I love having casual chats, eating together, sharing unexpected laughs, and learning new things about the people in my life. On the hate side I hate my tendency to worry that everything is not perfect. I hate my struggles to let go of the Martha Stewart Entertaining Guide that runs like a ticker tape through my head as I measure my dinners up against impossible standards. I hate that I care about things that aren't important and then hate that I worry that I spent so much time caring about unimportant stuff that I missed important stuff along the way. Let's face it, I'm no Martha Stewart.
Sigh.

My BF Chellie and her family just left this morning. They were only with us a short time: barely 3 days. I felt like it was a really great visit. That is, I felt that way until they left, then I began to worry:
should I have stayed up later chatting instead of sticking to my routine? Why didn't I make it a priority to make Sangrias? Did I spend too much time hurrying the kids from activity to activity thus killing the natural-vacation-timeless-quality that inspires wonderful memories? Why didn't I pull my daughter out of school for 2 days, what's the big deal? Why didn't I make an apple pie like I'd originally planned? Why didn't I plan crock-pot meals so I didn't have to rush off to cook dinner? Did I spend enough one-on-one time with the kids? Why didn't we plan when we'd get together again?


Okay, (breathe), I feel better now. That's the ticker tape that starts to play for me. I don't think I'm the only one who has thoughts like these, thoughts that are a mixture of insecurity, guilt, regret, worry, and underneath it all: love. I love this family and I want their visit to be perfect. I want their visit to feel like a vacation. I want them to want to come back. I want their children to shout for joy at the prospect of spending 14 hours in a car if it means they get to stay at my house. I want Chellie's husband to beg to vacation each year in Massachusetts.

I recognize the truth in my desire to be a good hostess for my guests. I also recognize the narcissm. I want to be the hostest with the mostest. I want visits to my home to enter family lore as dream vacation destinations. I am not entirely confidant in my roles as chef, entertainment director, maitre'd, concierge, and tour guide. Really the only role in which I feel totally comfortable is that of friend. Perhaps that is the lesson I should take away from this experience: concentrate on being a good friend and let everything else fall into place.

Being a good friend...hmm...being open, honest, caring, loving, altruistic, kind, and patient. That sounds to me like everything I could ever want in a host.

So thank you for coming to my home Chel. Thank you for getting a pet sitter, packing up the house, the car, the kids, and the husband and hauling everyone 850 miles northeast. Thank you for understanding my limits as hostess and as a friend and for loving me anyway. I miss you already.

Come back soon.

Grace #18 Organic Mineral Makeup

There is so much discussion these days about toxins: toxins in our water bottles, our food, our clothing, our furniture, our air, our homes, and our personal care products that it is overwhelming to me sometimes. Especially with a propensity toward hypochondria, I have to remind myself that I do what I can, do the best I can to reduce my exposure, and that is all anyone can do.

So I have stainless steel water bottles, and I buy organic food when I can, and I open the windows in my car and home and I feel virtuous, a little safer, and a lot more in control of my exposure to toxins.

But most importantly, I have changed my personal care products. You know, the stuff you rub into your skin everyday: the lotions, deodorants, moisturizers, foundations, powders, and lip balms and lipsticks. The stuff that goes directly into the bloodstream through the skin, into the lymph nodes on my neck and underarms, into my mouth via my lips.

It was all toxic.

I was so surprised when I first read and understood the ingredients used in these products. I just assumed that someone had checked the safety of these products and that someone had deemed them safe because of course no one would market, produce, and distribute a product that was harmful, right? (Yes, my naivete knows no bounds, it's like I'd never heard of a cigarette, isn't it?) When I first learned of the toxic chemicals in my makeup it was a no-win situation because more natural options were not available or not available in my price range: should I not wear any makeup, which, with my skin wasn't really an option; or use the toxic stuff knowing what I was rubbing into my skin. I couldn't decide if my vanity would win out against my health concerns and it was a moral dilemma every morning. I spent several years using less makeup, or not using any foundation if it was a particularly good skin day, but I never felt good about my decisions either way.

Then, one day while browsing through Costco, a beam of fluorescent light shown down upon a new product: Physician's Formula Organic Mineral Makeup. I could even hear the faint sound of angels' trumpets over the Muzak as I picked up the product, read the ingredients, and purchased this little miracle of science and nature. It was a good day my friends, a good day.

Now my skin is glowing with good health (and mineral sheen), my conscience is clear, and my bank account is happy.

Mineral makeup: it's a good thing.

(For more information about toxins and potential toxins in your makeup go to http://www.cosmeticsinfo.org/)

Grace #17 Seinfeld

I've never argued the fact that I am stuck in the late '80s/early '90s when it comes to television. I still love Seinfeld. Sure, the earlier episodes, before they found their rhythm, aren't nearly as funny as the later stuff, but I love it all anyway. I am not an aficionado. I will never win any Seinfeld Trivia Contests, nor will I ever write a fan letter. I am not that kind of fan. I am the kind of fan who, at 10:30 at night, after a really bad day, will sit down to 22 minutes (after fast-forwarding through all the commercials) of a show about nothing and will feel all of the stresses of the day start to dissolve.

I can relate all sorts of Seinfeld-ish dilemmas to my own life and they always make me smile:

Steve is Sponge-worthy.

For all race-related issues I "look to the cookie."

I frequently yada-yada the details.

My daughter is a sidler.

My dad is a close-talker.

My mom is a low-talker.

Steve buys lunch most days from a Greek version of the 'Soup Nazi'.

I was sad when the show went off the air. Life was just a little less funny for me after that. For awhile I was able to placate myself with the higher-brow humor of Boston Legal, but even that is taken from me now.

Having a sick sense of humor and very little moral conscience, I laughed uproariously at It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and am hoping for new episodes in the fall. I know that as old shows go, new shows come and replace them. I miss the old, but I'm all right.

You might even say that I'm Even Steven.

Survival of the Fittest

We have a war going on in our house right now: a war between human and insect. Currently both sides have taken heavy casualties, but the humans are few (though large) and the insects are many (and not really that much smaller) so it is only a matter of time before the insects win. We can only hope we have moved out before they fully take over.

We have ants.

I don't mean just your ordinary-run-of-the-mill-picnic-ants, we have ants the size of cats roaming around here. They are big, black, and they bite. They fearlessly stroll along the counter tops, leisurely munch on the cat's food, and while they scurry away when they see Steve coming, they laugh when they see me.

You see, they know my weakness...

...I am unable to kill them. I say this with great shame, not pride. No humanitarian (insectitarian?) award for me folks because I really, really wish I could just smash the little buggers, but I can't. Every time I try to kill a bug at the last second something inside me says "you're bigger, you know better!" and I end up finding a tissue, capturing the bug, and taking it outside. I call it my catch and release program. Steve calls it stupidity. "Just smash those little buggers!" he yells at me as he watches me wrestle one into the tissue. I can't. It makes my stomach hurt to think of deliberately killing anything. Oh I admit, when one was biting me on the leg the other day, I smashed that little guy to kingdom come, but that was a reflex action, not pre-meditated murder. I'd get a lighter sentence for that one or could even claim self defense.

I keep hoping that Princess, our cat, will take over bug patrol. Not used to exerting herself any further than moving to a sunnier patch on the couch, the cat doesn't seem interested in her role as exterminator. I have no problem if the cat kills the ants, that's nature. If I kill the ants, well, that's murder. I don't like it when Steve kills the ants either, but I especially don't like it when he uses one of my shoes! It makes me feel like an accessory with the bug guts all over my soles to prove it.

Now Steve wants to bug-bomb the house. Even if I could get past the mass-murder aspect of this plan I still would refuse on the grounds that I don't wish to breathe, or have my child breathe, bug-bomb-residue-laden air. I like to suck in my pesticides the old fashioned way, through my food.

So here we are: currently at an impasse. I tell the ants that I rescue to get out, stay out, and tell their friends to stay out too. They come in greater and greater waves each day. We move in 24 days. It is a race to the finish line: who will survive the age-old battle between human and nature? I can practically hear their little antennae buzzing as they plan their attack. Up through the dirt floor in the basement. Under the ill-fitting basement door jamb. Once they hold the kitchen, they've taken the house.

I hope I have enough tissues...

Went in for a foot injury, Came out with a breast exam

I don't want to give the impression that my doctor's visit didn't go well...BUT...I did go in for the sole purpose of having a medical professional examine my foot to determine if I have a ? (still no diagnosis, but I'll get to that) pulled tendon? stress fracture? plantar fascitis? Well, we may never know exactly what ails my foot because the medical professional I saw never even looked at my foot!

I should have known that things weren't going to go well for me when, after calling 10 doctors only to be told that they weren't accepting new patients or the first appointment available was in July, this old codger had an opening in just 2 days. There are some reasons an old established doctor is accepting new patients: 1. he is a bad doctor and most of his patients die; 2. he is a bad doctor and most of his new patients don't ever come back; 3. he is a bad doctor and only very old and very desperate people will go to him (see #1); or 4. he is a bad doctor and those "in the know" know it and won't go to him.

This wasn't a young guy, or a doctor new in the area, this was an old guy who'd been practicing in Massachusetts for 40 years. All of these things should have been clues. Needless to say, I was clueless.

I get to the office early: I know the drill, I'll be filling out 3-4 pages of medical history dating back to my maternal great-great-grandmother. But wait, no medical history, no HIPAA form, just a benign little one-page (in LARGE type) sheet for name, address, and insurance info. Hmmmm, curious...

Next I go in with the nurse who asks me to completely disrobe and put on a gown open in the back. For a foot issue? I'm supposed to get completely undressed so he can look at my foot?? She informs me that the doctor won't see any new patients without having a baseline physical on them. OOOOOOOkay. I disrobe. Then she hooks up electrodes to me and gives me an EKG. She says its routine for all patients over 30. OOOOOOkay. Then she draws some blood, gets my blood pressure, and leaves the room.

In comes the doctor. He spends a very long time asking all of the detailed medical history questions that are usually asked on a form. He seems a little disappointed that I don't have any genetic abnormalities (well, medical abnormalities), and asks me why I'm there. I point to my taped and braced foot. I explain the problem. He essentially blows that off and says to keep doing what I'm doing and if it gets worse after a week or two, call his office and schedule an X-ray. Then he says he'll finish the rest of my new patient physical. He listens to my heart.

That's it. He doesn't look in my throat, my ears, my nose, ask me to follow his finger, test my reflexes or even take my temp. Just a little heart listening. He does however ask me to take down my gown so it barely covers my chest while he "feels around for awhile" for "any lumps or abnormalities." Now I'll admit, this didn't quite creep me out as much at the time as it has upon reflection. It wasn't until hours later that I realized hey, he didn't even check my throat! How dare he go straight for the medical-feel-up without even so much as a quick throat check!? And while I am no stranger to a breast exam, I haven't had one performed without a nurse in the office in probably 20 years!

I think this graduated-last-in-his-class-from-medical-school-pervert just charged my insurance company to feel me up! I think I just paid a $15 copay so some old guy could entertain himself. And again, I cannot boggle enough about this:

He never even looked at my foot!

Metaphysics at work, or just a Sprain?

I am having trouble walking on my right foot. Back in late March, while doing aerobics, I felt a little twinge in my right foot across the top of the foot from toes to ankle. I felt the twinge a couple of more times and thought it was time to get new aerobics shoes. I bought the new shoes. Still occasionally felt the twinge. Then it became an ache. Then it moved on to being a shooting pain. Finally it came to rest as a take-your-breath-away-stabbing-sensation whenever pressure was put on my right foot.

At this point most intelligent beings would go to the doctor. I don't have a Primary Care Physician yet because I haven't been sick and it just seemed like one more thing to have to do, so I opted for the internet diagnosis instead. The internet did a pretty good job. I found out I should be using the RICE Method (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation). If you've been following my entries, you know that I struggle with Patience, so I RICEd for a day and then went back to my usual routine. I was fine for a day. Then the shooting pain began again. I RICEd for a couple of hours. Taped up the foot. Went on with my usual routine. Then I added an ankle brace. Then crutches. Finally I decided that perhaps a medical practitioner should be involved, you know, just for a consult...

Now from a metaphysical perspective this injury would be a sign that I am having trouble moving forward. That's true: I have had some serious doubts that we'll ever get to closing on the new house. I haven't fully found my rhythm, my crowd, my group in Massachusetts. Still, I have the desire to move forward. I have the ability to move forward. I even have an affirmation about moving forward:

I understand clearly and I am willing to change with the times. I am safe.

Grace #15 Patience & Grace #16 Faith

I decided that before I went any further into my Graces I was going to look up the definition for Grace, just to see how Grace is defined.

Grace: (n) unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification. Wow! I had never heard Grace defined quite that way before! Merriam-Webster's first definition is something upon which I will have to ponder, especially the 'unmerited divine assistance' part. Actually though, when I think about it, I guess I always thought of Grace this way. Recently I was leading the Junior Great Books program for 4th graders at my daughter's school. One of the vocabulary words we had was 'sufficient.' I asked the kids if they knew the definition and after many false starts (they were confusing the word 'efficient') we finally settled on the word 'enough.' I asked if anyone could use sufficient in a sentence and my very-own-flesh-and-blood-aren't-I-just-the-proudest-mama-right-now daughter said "God gave us sufficient oxygen, plants, and animals for us to live and grow up." Some people just get it, don't they? All of the oxygen, plants, and animals are unmerited assistance. The amazing friends in my life, they are certainly unmerited assistance. I didn't do anything amazing to earn these friends, this husband, my life... it's all just a Gift.

Now, on to Patience and Faith: I don't know if technically I can claim as Graces these virtues that I am striving to obtain, rather than blessed with in abundance, but I am grateful for them anyway.



Patience: (n) the will or ability to wait or endure without complaint. As I see it, patience should rightly claim its place among the verbs because it is the act of being patient which is most important. The will to be patient, well, let's face it, the will can wax and wane. I get excited about stuff. I throw my whole entire mind, body, and soul into a project and while I am entirely willing to do all the prep work to ensure a successful conclusion, I want that conclusion sooner, not later. I am impatient.

Faith: (n) firm belief for something for which there is no proof. Well if I use this definition then I have absolutely no faith at all because I have received abundant proof that Someone or Something is looking out for my best interest at all times. I have received so much proof, yet I doubt. Perhaps what I suffer from is not a lack of faith but renuo ut recipero testimonium - a refusal to accept the proof.

Perhaps the real Grace is in having the Patience to wait for all the unmerited Divine Assistance to be provided, and the Faith to accept it when it comes.

Some things just need a 4 letter word to describe them!

Ahhh the joys of buying a home: the search, the anticipation, the excitement, the tear-your-hair-out-frustration-at-the-sellers-who-can't-seem-to-get-their-heads-out-of-their-&%@! Okay, that was a little cathartic. I have been rather preoccupied of late by the purchase of our new home. We found the home, we put a contract for asking price on the home, we waited. We waited. Finally the sellers deigned to respond to our offer...with a counter offer! How does one counter a full price offer, you may ask? Well, if you're these sellers, you attempt to add in a clause saying that if they don't find a house they want to buy then they get to take their old house back no matter how late into the proceedings we are. Obviously we didn't agree to that clause. We countered with our original offer but extended the closing date for another 31 days. We waited. We waited. We figured they weren't going to respond and began looking for another house. Finally, again, they deign to answer, agreeing to all our terms and wanting the original closing date. Ooooo-kaaaay?

Of course that can't be the end of that, they then want to add a clause to the contract saying that if the home inspection of the property they found to buy doesn't go well, then they can stop the sale of their house. Haven't we been down this road before? Don't we all understand that there is some risk inherent in the process of buying/selling a home? Our realtor keeps reassuring us that they are just 'a little nervous' and we should be patient. Umm...isn't this a Buyer's Market where the patience is all on the Seller's Side?

We finally limp along to a signed contract, but in Massachusetts, that is not enough. Massachusetts has something called the Purchase&Sale agreement. This agreement is essentially another contract where everything you have finally agreed to in the first contract can be renegotiated. The only difference is that it takes place after the home inspection.

We get the house inspected.

We argue over window treatments that were not excluded in the 'Exclusions' section of the listing, not excluded in the 'Exclusions' section of the contract but were suddenly valuable family heirlooms handmade by a now-deceased favorite grandmother. Okay, whatever, I don't want your ugly ol' curtains anyway, can we now move forward to the P&S? Nope, now they want us to get financing in 11 business days so that they have 21 business days to find a mover. Have these folks never read the newspaper? Watched the news on TV? Movers are sitting around twiddling their thumbs hoping for a client! It won't take 21 days to find a mover, it won't even take 2 days! And does anyone see the irony in that they want more time to find a mover than they are allowing us to get an appraisal and loan?

Deep breaths, Beth, deep breaths.

Then they want to change the closing date, pushing it back 17 days. Yes, that's right, you remember correctly, they chose the closing date! Unfortunately when dealing with people with multiple-personality-disorder you have to keep in mind that they cannot be held responsible for what another personality agreed to.

Finally, after much negotiation and a full-out-this-is-not-a-threat-we-will-walk-today conversation with the realtors, we get the P&S. We sign the P&S. Our realtor rushes the P&S to their realtor's office so they can sign the P&S.

They don't sign.

Why didn't they sign? We don't know. We haven't heard. Perhaps a new personality has been discovered and this personality wants us to personally load their boxes on the moving truck for them.

Perhaps they don't really want to sell this house.

Perhaps God is trying to tell us something.

I'm all ears Lord, help me out here. Am I supposed to bail on this deal or am I supposed to learn Good Things Come to all Who Wait?

All I know is that right now 'bail' and 'wait' are not the four letter words I am thinking of for this situation....

Grace #14 Our Adopted Families

I have heard various versions of an expression that goes something like "Sisters are the friends you're born with but friends are the sisters you find along the way." I like expressions like that because they link me to like-minded individuals who have experienced that sometimes, regardless of how much you may want things to be different, your family members may not be your best friends.

My relationship with my family members is distant: geography, age differences, and personality differences have taken their tolls over the years and left me with a slightly nostalgic, benign, and comfortable relationship, but not a close one.

I am, however, blessed with adopted families. Entire families with whom I have connected, Steve has connected (enough) and with whom our daughter feels a cousin-ship. Not having a lot of blood-relation cousins, these adopted cousins are invaluable to us.

It seems I have picked up an adopted family in each city/state in which I have lived. Not unlike people who collect a treasured souvenir of their travels, my adopted families serve to help ground me with the past, nourish me in the present and shepherd me into my future.

You know who you are. I know who you are. And you are all Graces.

Grace #13 The Internet

I don't care whether the internet was created by Al Gore or an MIT thinktank, I think it is the greatest invention of my lifetime. I use the internet daily to find out everything from ways to use baking soda to finding a home. I know there are many issues with internet safety, and as my 10-yr-old gets more adventurous online these things loom larger on my horizon, but I think that used properly, the advantages of the internet far outweigh the disadvantages.

I have recently joined Facebook. I initially joined because a friend in Cincinnati asked me to join so we could catch up on each other's lives without having to schedule phone calls. I don't do very much on Facebook, but I really like the idea that I can find people, if I choose to do so. Friends, distant relatives, estranged family members, old classmates, they're all out there waiting to be found, reconnected with, and remembered.

And the information available on every subject and from every source! Medical problems, recipes, household tips, decorating ideas, online purchasing, and a billion other things: all at the touch of my fingertips whilst I sit comfortably in the privacy of my own home.

Does life get any better than this?

Bicep curls, Tricep curls, squats, and Kegels

Well I am just about as happy as I have ever been. After my incontinence post, my good friend Debbie called me right up and said "Girl, I can help you!" She reminded me that I should be doing my Kegel exercises daily, (something which I'm sure I haven't done since my OB said to them before my daughter was born), but then added the most wonderful piece of trivia I have ever heard: "you know Beth, there are weights you can use to strengthen those muscles..."

What? Kegel weights? How could I not have known about this???

While I haven't actually worked up the courage to purchase, insert, and lift said weights, just knowing that there are women out there who are using them has made me happy. You know that very distracted looking saleslady who just blew you off at the checkout?...well maybe she was distracted because she was, at that very moment, lifting her Kegel weights! How about that woman who always has the slight smile on her face everytime you see her? Yep, probably Kegel weights. How about that woman who is not at all attractive, not very friendly, and has no personality to speak of who is married to that hot, rich guy and you could never understand what he saw in her? Now you know that woman is probably up to 10-15 pounds of Kegel weight and is able to make change with those muscles!

I feel obligated to get these weights. Sure, yeah, the jumping-and-feeling-like-I-have-to-pee thing, but more importantly, I will never stand in a long at the post office again and feel that my time is being wasted. I will no longer sit through the PTO meeting just doodling on my agenda sheet. I will no longer have to worry about having an interesting answer to the question "so, what are you doing today?" "Why, I'm lifting my Kegel weights, thank you for asking!"

And Steve, well, well, well, my friends, Steve is really in for some surprises, if I do say so myself...

Is Peeing Your Pants a Social Taboo?

I have been diligently attending all of my aerobics, weight lifting, and stretching classes. No matter how I feel each morning, I pull on the spandex, lace up the gourmet Asics running shoes, and head off to the gym. I am dedicated. I am also a woman who has given birth. Things in the bladder department are perhaps not as toned as they once were and frankly, all of this bouncing is starting to take its toll. Today as I was bouncing around during my intense 30 minute Cardio Quick class, I felt as though I was going to pee my pants right there on the studio floor. I had gone to the bathroom immediately before the class started. I had limited my water intake to only what I had to drink to survive. I even tried to keep my bouncing to a minimum, which is not an easy feat considering that the class consists of jumping jacks, kicks, knee lifts, and various and sundry other bouncy moves.

Nothing helped. I still felt like I really really really had to pee.

I hadn't felt that way all through my BodyPump class which I had just taken the hour before. I had just gone to the restroom, so I decided to "tough it out." Well let me tell you, clenching your ureter shut is not an easy thing to do while doing jumping jacks, no ma'am, not easy at all. However, I was successful, I did not pee my pants in the gym.

I did however have chills, a lot of panic, a couple of near misses, and a sprint to the restroom the second class was over. I get to the restroom. I am in the stall. I am ready, bring on the gallon of pee that must be lurking in my bladder to have caused such massive discomfort throughout the class....nothing. Oh sure, there were a few anticlimatic drops, but considering how bad I had to go, it was nothing! Now what I want to know is: what's going on here? Why would my body sabotage my efforts for cardio fitness? Am I now going to have to join June Allyson and wear "female bladder protection" during my workouts? I know I'm not the only one sprinting to the stalls once the music ends, I have been elbowed and kneed several times by older ladies as they attempt to be first in the 'good stall' (you know, the one with toilet paper actually loaded in the dispenser and the door that locks). I just thought I had oh, 2, 3, 4 more decades or so before I was the one unable to bounce. I don't really like using public restrooms anyway (this goes along with the public shower phobia).

Then again, considering how small the amount was, I could probably pass it off as just sweat on the gym floor...you know, if I really had to...

Happy Mother's Day!

I have been blessed with so many wonderful mothers in my life: my own mother, my mother-in-law, my stepmother, my grandmother, my grandmother-in-law, and all of my friends who are mothers. I have been loved, influenced, cared for, nourished, nurtured, and rescued by all of these women. I live for my husband. I live because of my mothers.

Happy Mother's Day.

We Bought A House!!!

You may remember this little gem, it was one of the contenders, then became a finalist, and as of June 30 will be called home. Home, what a wonderful word. We began the search back in mid-January and I can honestly say I have looked at hundreds of homes, if only online. We began searching a very narrow area in Massachusetts, then ventured out into New Hampshire, and finally narrowed in again. The new house is 5 minutes from our daughter's school, 10 minutes from Steve's office, 5 minutes from my favorite grocery store, and 3 minutes from Barnes&Noble (which for a book lover, was a huge consideration!). I can walk to the library and post office. We have neighbors, there are plenty of kids, and the view is amazing.

From a feng shui point of view you are always supposed to face the south and have a mountain at your back. This house has both. It is open, airy, and filled with natural light. It is my dream home and I feel incredibly lucky to have found such a house and incredibly grateful to be able to afford it. Just out of curiosity I ran the address through a numerology "calculator" and the address equals a '4' which means strength, solidity, and comfort. I need some solidity in my life. I am ready to settle down. We could all just use some time to be settled. I am grateful for the time I have had to search for the right home, but I am definitely not a long-term-renter. I need the responsibility of a home of my own. I need the grounding, maybe because I am a Gemini, an air sign, I am drawn toward bricks and mortar, wood and earth: solid substances to provide some balance to my air-filled nature (air-headed as my family would say).

Be it ever so humble, it will be my home.

Grace #12 Psyllium husk

At the risk of giving way too much information about my lower intestinal tract, I have to recognize psyllium husk as a perfect solution for those of us who need to keep things moving. I put a scoop in my smoothie every morning, try to remember to drink plenty of water, and everything in my body works like clockwork. Gentler than wheat germ, completely natural, and relatively inexpensive, psyllium husk has no noticeable flavor and doesn't bulk up the smoothie like other fiber supplements can do.

I had to wait months for a supply of psyllium husk because my regular grocery store does not carry it and a trip to Whole Foods is an hour-and-a-half-round-trip endeavor. I tried other fiber supplements but just didn't like them as much.

Crazy the things for which we become grateful, eh?

Is that Neosporin supposed to make you look sexy?

I have been debating the to-bikini-wax-or-not-to-bikini-wax question all winter. Finally, with my waxing appointment more than a week away and my bikini area looking a little too unkempt for my taste, I decided just to shave. I have not had a lot of shaving success stories in this area, which is why the bikini wax question became a question in the first place. I have asked friends for advice, but frankly my friends are not as hirsute as I am and really cannot understand the depth of the problem. Debbie, who to my knowledge has not bikini waxed, told me to go for the waxing. Chellie, who to my knowledge has absolutely no unsightly hairs anywhere on her body, suggested that if I shave I use Neosporin afterward to reduce the red bumps and lesions.

I shaved. I Neosporined.

I am a mass of red bumps, welts, lesions, chicken skin and stubble.

Is this really the sexy, smooth look for which I was aiming??

Now where do I go from here? Do I wait a few weeks to get the required 1/4" stubble to be able to wax? Do I try shaving again? Do I just give it all up and wear swim shorts? And it's not just about swimming: frankly I do not wish to slink into the bedroom, toss a naughty look at Steve, bare all, and have him swoon from the Bactine fumes as my Neosporined thighs glisten in the moonlight. Surely I am not forced to painful and expensive sessions with electrolysis just to keep my Eastern-European-Women's-Wrestling-Team genes at bay?

I don't know what to do. Perhaps I can train Steve to get excited when he smells Neosporin. Perhaps I can try using a man's razor with the patented lift-and-cut blades. Perhaps I can make peace with the fact that I am a hairy beast and that is how God made me.

Perhaps I can purchase skirted lingerie, wear boy shorts, buy swim shorts, and just never, ever look down again.