Beyond Myself

I am a closet introvert trapped in an extrovert’s body. To most people who know me, I am bubbly and very outgoing. I love to talk, exhibited by my frequent “diarrhea of the mouth” when I’m at parties. I’ll come home and rehash the evening, “Oh my, did I really say THAT???” I love to plan events to bring people together such as church functions, fundraisers, and get-togethers for no particular reason. I am the one who will go up to the person standing alone and try to draw her in.

Truthfully, however, I’ve spent most of the last 2 years alone in my minivan or alone at home. I’ll walk along the bike path and see everyone else paired up in twos, but it rarely crosses my mind to call someone to walk with. I like to shop alone. When we go to the beach with other families, you would think I’d be drinking margaritas and dancing on the table top, finally having other grown-ups to talk to, but I usually spend several days in my room devouring library books. When I do join the others to play cards at night, I have a blast and am energized, but I realize that cocooning has become my nature.

I think over the years I have put out a weird vibe when it comes to being intimate with people. I joke that I’m about as deep as a puddle when it comes to introspection, so maybe I’m just afraid of grappling with messy issues. When Tom and I were dating, we had two friends who were also dating. When I would hear about their deep talks that would last until 4 a.m.— on the meaning of life, etc. I would have a pang. Why didn’t Tom and I talk about those things? I came to realize that one of the reasons I was attracted to Tom in the first place was that he didn’t want to always be digging deeper and deeper and neither did I.

The past few days I’ve been thinking about how we are called to be God’s hands and feet on this earth. The way we do this is through loving and serving each other as an outpouring of His love. I love people and want what’s best for them. What I don’t seem to want to do is extend myself in the day to day way of relationships. I rarely make or receive phone calls just to chat. I have a structure to the day that I am reluctant to depart from if something comes up.

I think of friends I’ve had that I’ve introduced to each other. More times than I can count, they have become intimate, helping each other with child rearing, spending holidays together, and seeing each other through crises, while I have become more of a yearly Christmas card friend. This may sound like I’m jealous, but I’m not; I just see in them a willingness to openly share the stuff of life together while I hang back, again and again.

Please don't get me wrong-- being God’s hands and feet has nothing to do with being an introvert or extrovert—it has to do with love. I am awed when people show love in ways I wouldn’t consider doing myself. My mother was an excellent example of this. Whether it was inviting our 80+ year old babysitter to live in our house for 2 weeks when she decided (temporarily!) to leave her husband of 50 years, or welcoming a stream of friends to our dinner table, she extended herself in ways that were not convenient, but were real.

There are so many people around me who don’t stop at, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” They just do SOMETHING. I am in awe of them, because what they do is so different from what I do. I am much more comfortable writing a check for a cause or praying FOR someone in crisis than BEING there physically in the trenches or praying WITH someone in crisis.

I am not sure where I am going with this, but my prayer is that God enables me to step out of my comfort zone and live life with others. There is nothing wrong with down-time or alone time, but I want to be someone whom others can count on, not just at a party or during the good times, but in the messy, nitty gritty of life.

Feeling Louse-y Photo Update

I always thought Tom could be a little nit-picky.



























Natural prevention (we hope!) for the kids: tea tree oil, olive oil, eucalyptus oil, shampoo and Ziplocs.























Mom's latest bug-inspired beauty treatment, complete w/grocery bag. I still have it on as I type this.

Feeling Louse-y

I stood in the shower and called to Tom, “Do you want to do it in here or somewhere else?” With a strange look on his face, he said, “How about the kitchen?”

I’d like to say we were having a romantic moment, and if I think about it, what we did was indeed intimate, but it is probably not what you’re thinking. However, I must say having a spouse de-louse your head definitely brings you closer together.

I was paranoid on our trip to NYC that we’d bring home bedbugs. I didn’t allow anyone to put luggage on the floor or beds, and I even pulled back the sheets to take a look—nothing.

I was completely unprepared, however, to pick up lice in my own home state. For the record, if anyone from the kids’ school is reading this: I am the one who had lice. Please do not treat my kids like pariahs when school starts. I did treat Molly for lice anyway, because she was in close contact w/ the vector like I was, but so far, so good.

It’s pretty funny that I’m the one who got it, b/c as an elementary kid I was obsessed w/ lice. When we’d all line up for our lice checks, I held my breath, knowing for sure that the school nurse would find something. When she didn’t, I wasn’t satisfied, and would make my mom check me again and again. After about 5 years of this, she refused to check me any more. “ANNA, YOU DO NOT HAVE LICE!”

I guess it was just my time. I have done 30 loads of laundry and wonder if my efforts have been successful. The entire louse count at our house thus far has been ONE and I pray that’s the way it stays. My hair is brittle and unbrushed. No conditioner for at least 7 days! I’ve thrown away my brushes and hesitate to buy new ones in case the pestilence returns.

Tom and I have grown closer as he conducts the nightly inspection. I mean, you can’t watch tv or read blogs while your hubby is checking you for lice. We’ve talked about the beginning of school, our crazy fall schedules and every few moments he comments on my flaky scalp. He keeps calling it dandruff, but for the record I’d like to state that my scalp has recently undergone harsh chemical treatment for de-lousing and what he is seeing might just be a sign of an eensy bit of stress.

3 Negatives Don't Make a Positive

For about 7 days, I’ve thought I was pregnant. So many things have been running through my mind. What will it be like to be an old mom? How will our household withstand a kid in puberty, 2 in their late teens, and a menopausal mom all at the same time? Could I bear to play Barbies or Thomas the Tank Engine again?

Would this body that has held together, albeit tenuously, all these years be able to handle another pregnancy without going to crap? Why, oh why haven’t I exercised the past two years? Will I ever have a career? Would I resent the baby? Would having a baby strengthen or strain my marriage? Was it okay for a mom of two perfectly healthy children push her luck to have another? What would it be like to go from the freedom of having 2 kids who are currently off playing somewhere in the neighborhood, to having one tethered to my leg, my breast, my heart? What would it be like for a kid to have such older siblings, who already drink soda and say "butt?" Why the heck did we ever get a dog???

Okay, it wasn’t all about me. My first fears were about how much Diet Pepsi I’ve been drinking and how few vitamins I’ve been taking these past few weeks. Is self-tanner bad for a baby? What about my recently colored gray roots? Coming from an older egg to start with, would this baby be saddled with additional problems brought on by an ignorant mom?

On the flip side, I thought about how after 7 years of indecisiveness, the decision had been made for us. We would have another child! Our family would feel complete. Soon there would be a baby in the house. That meant footy pajamas, bath time, and blowing raspberries on a jiggly tummy again. That meant a clean round head to smell and kiss, so delectable I could almost take a bite! That meant a baby to fold up against my chest, to sing to, whose eyes would light up when I entered the room. Someone who really believed I could make it all better. With a 7 and 9 year old, the jig is up. We all know even Mom can’t make everything all better.

I thought about how I might be more relaxed this time. With my first, I put so much pressure on him (and me!) for him to be the perfect child. With my second, I felt so in the weeds from lack of sleep and caring for 2 kids while my husband worked long hours, I simply did my time and rated my days by how much sleep we got. The days were relentless, and I sometimes found myself hiding in the bathroom just to get away from them. Maybe this time I’d have more perspective.

When people told me “this too shall pass,” I didn’t believe them, but now I do. Those babies whose babyhood I wished away are now riding bikes, reading chapter books, and (thankfully!) wiping their own rears. I’ve learned a lot in the almost 10 years since my first pregnancy, especially that all kids are different and mine don’t have to be perfect. I hope I would take some of that wisdom into mothering a new little one.

On the flip side, I wonder if I would be able to muster up the enthusiasm to embrace the wonder of seeing things from a baby’s viewpoint again, and not have a “been there, done that” attitude about parenting.

Well, 3 EPT’s later—all negative—I’m relieved and sad.

It's My Party and I'll Fry if I Want To

I enjoyed the Olympic segment on all of the strange fried foods you can get in China. Scorpion on a stick, anyone? It reminded me of a family tradition I’ve been meaning to share with you.

Each summer we go camping in West Virginia with my brother. We stay at a rustic campground (toilets, no showers) in the mountains. We tube slowly down a river (beer cooler in tow), and make S’mores on demand. My brother is an expert camper, so Tom and I just need to show up and pitch our tent while he takes care of the rest.

One of the highlights of the weekend is “Fry Fest.” My brother heats up a vat of oil on his camp stove, whips up a batch of beer batter and starts to fry stuff. My son Jake has never enjoyed any type of fried food, so I usually sneak him a yogurt out of the Igloo cooler at this point. I tried to supplement our menu with a bagged Caesar Salad, but it was met with derision by the die-hard fryers in the group.

Within minutes, my brother and his best friend Will are dumping large quantities of fried food onto the picnic table. We sit around in camp chairs eating ourselves into a stupor.

Past experiments have included:

Whole onions, corn dogs, hardboiled eggs, chimichangas and doughnuts.

Here’s what we had this year:

Fish (caught that day)
Fish (frozen)
8 lbs of french fries
Chicken nuggets
Chicken breasts
Jalapeño jack cheese
Zingers (like Twinkies covered in raspberry jelly and coconut)

And my personal favorite: fried OREOS! Check out the photo above. Yum!

If just reading this makes you feel queasy and maybe a little bound up inside, you get the picture. Considering the rustic bathroom accommodations, and the fact that I try to make it the whole weekend without using the facilities for certain acts, Fry Fest works out just fine for me.

The BIG City

We were strolling through Times Square on Saturday night, looking for a place to eat dinner. We wanted something distinctively New York, but we didn’t want to pay a fortune or have the kids embarrass us. That cut out a lot of options. When we finally saw a Mexican chain restaurant “Chevy’s,” I said, “Let’s do it!”

Tom rolled his eyes, thinking it a bit pedestrian, especially since we have one in our very own town, but I was just excited to find something we would all like. When we walked in, another party followed us.

With a quick glance back, I saw the most bodacious pair of breasts imaginable. These things were enormous. They were only minimally covered. They appeared to be “working breasts.” I don’t mean that in the same way that my own, marble in a tube-sock, saggy from breastfeeding, breasts once gave my little ones sustenance. These appeared to have been purchased for a specific mission or purpose. I was so busy glancing while not appearing to glance, that I barely noticed the woman’s 3 male companions.

We walked up the large staircase together and waited to be seated. As we walked to our table, I recognized the distinctive voice of one of the men. It was rapper Ice-T, one of my favorite actors from Law & Order! The breasts belonged to his Playboy model wife Coco! I was so glad that they were seated two booths away. This provided us the perfect buffer to tell the kids who he was, and to shield the kids from a view of the boobs.

We had a fantastic dinner, and enjoyed giggling about our small brush with fame. I felt vindicated when we had the best guacamole of our lives and because if a famous rapper and tv star would eat at Chevy’s, perhaps it wasn’t such an odd choice while out in the big city.

The kids wanted me to ask him for a picture, but I didn’t have the nerve, so here is a pic of me with my real iced tea, with Ice-T’s head in the background. Can you see it?

If it's too blurry, and I think it is, I will provide you with a shot of Tom and the kids in their best rapper poses. I guess now you can see why it's good there was a buffer zone between the See family and Ice-T.

The Yanks are Coming

Shortly after arriving in the city, Tom and Jake went to the Museum of Modern Art and Molly and I entered the red awning Mecca of The American Girl Store. I had been planning this for months, and had even bought tickets to the American Girl play. As soon as we walked in, we knew we had a problem. Hordes of girls, moms, and a few bored-looking dads crowded the store’s four levels and all (okay most) of the girls clutched an American Girl doll.

Molly didn’t. I hate to admit it, but she has THREE of these dolls. They are $100 a pop. One we bought, one was a gift, and Molly won the other at a local toy store. You would think we could have remembered to take one of these dolls to New York with us, but with the packing, and the dog kennel, and the train, and everything else, neither “Nikki,” “Emily,” nor “Samantha” made it to the big city.

Molly went into shutdown mode. We had an hour and fifteen minutes before the play started. She wanted her dolls. I wanted chocolate and a diet Pepsi. Girls flitted about, taking their dolls to the hair salon, the doll hospital, getting their photos taken with their dolls, and buying matching outfits. Mothers sagged under the weight of multiple packages, containing doll clothes and accessories that cost more than my entire wardrobe. The bathroom stalls even had special hooks inside-- for your doll.

Molly stood in the corner saying quietly what a stupid store it was and how she wanted to go home. She wouldn’t look at the clothes, wouldn’t marvel at the tiny accessories, and wouldn’t budge. I tried to help her out a little bit by saying things, in a too-loud voice like, “Wouldn’t this pair of glasses look great on your Samantha doll?” and “Your Nikki doll looks a little different than this one, doesn’t she?” or “Can you believe that out of all the entries at the toy store raffle, you won the only Emily doll?”

Her ears perked up a little with my showboating, but it wasn’t enough to encourage her to get out of her funk and start enjoying our big date in the big city. She knew her dolls were at home, she knew there was no way I’d buy her another one just to appease her, and she knew we were stuck there for several hours.

After about 45 minutes of her silent dejection, I pointed out a tiny stuffed dog, retail $18. “This is Emily’s dog, Yank! Would you like me to buy it for you?” Molly responded with, “Are you buying it for me just because I’ve been pouting since we got here?”

“Absolutely not” came my measured response. “I’ve been planning to buy you a special late birthday present here at the store, but I couldn’t offer it to you because you were pouting so much. It wasn’t until you stopped pouting and feeling sorry for yourself that I could buy it for you.” Believable? I’m not sure. But Molly wasn’t the only one trying to save face and make it through this experience.

We ended up buying the dog, one of the cheapest things in the store, and enjoying our front row seats in the corny by inspiring American Girl Musical. We waltzed out of the building hand and hand swinging our tiny red bag between us.

Back at the hotel, the boys, who had spent an educational and edifying afternoon at the MoMA, looked at the tiny dog with suspicion.

Tom rolled his eyes and asked if I had bought it as a reward for bad behavior. Well no, I mean maybe. You see, I remember what it was like to be seven and to have a much-awaited and anticipated event quickly turn to crap. Heck, I know what it’s like to be 38 and have the same thing happen. So, if Yank the dog took the edge off for all of us, so be it.