Ode to My Socks

Once Upon a Time

2011-11-08T13:49:00.002-06:00

I don't think I was meant for the 21st century. Ever since I was a child, I have always been attracted to things of the past. Stuff with a little history. Places with character. I can spend hours in antique stores, just looking and imagining and dreaming. I love museums and musty basements, built-ins and breakfast nooks, vintage postcards, forgotten letters, and dusty National Geographic magazines.

My fascination with the past has also permeated my world-view. I have a great reverence and a certain amount of awe for that which came before me, and for those that laid the foundation on which I now stand. I am constantly aware that my existence is only a link in an extraordinarily long chain. And I very often find myself wishing that "the way things used to be" were "the way things still are."

I appreciate a slower pace of life. I prefer speaking with people one on one and face to face. I am humbled by the thoughtfulness and time invested in a hand written letter. I love it when my kids make creative use out of last night's pizza box, or choose to spend the morning writing stories rather than watching television. I enjoy family walks on a Saturday morning and I cherish the community that a small, traditional, multi-generational church family provides. I feel like many of these simple things have been devalued in the name of "progress," yet these are the things that fill my soul.

Don't get me wrong, I love my straight iron as much the next girl, and I am extremely thankful for dishwashers, the Civil Rights movement, my hard-won ability to vote, and the polio vaccine. Technology isn't all bad, either. I have a cell phone, a digital camera and a laptop. And as a stay-at-home mom in a new city, email, blogging, facebook, and Pinterest have been my portal to the outside world. In many ways "progress" has made our lives a little more interesting, and a whole lot more convenient. I can admit it.

But how much is too much?

And does convenience fill the soul?

And is being connected becoming more important than the connection?

These questions challenge me daily. Because I don't want Facebook friendships to replace face to face friendships. I don't want to spend the day pin surfing when I could be doing. I don't want to confuse busy-ness for real, honest-to-goodness, deep down in your being fulfillment. You have to be more savvy these days because culture tends to advertise the two as one and the same.

The way things used to be. I kind of remember those days. Or at least I remember reading about those days. I remember hearing about those days. And I want to remember. I want to remember to be quiet sometimes, so I am able to hear what is authentic within me. I want to remember how to wait, so I don't forget my very vulnerable and inferior place in this universe. And I want to remember to simplify, so what is truly important isn't swallowed up by what isn't. I want to remember, and in remembering and honoring the past, somehow enrich the present.

***The irony that I am writing this in cyberspace and posting it on facebook for all of my virtual friends, and that I am doing so while my husband sits next to me and plays video games is not lost on me. Oh, and did I mention that I wrote part of this post while I anesthetized my four year old with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse so I could concentrate? Really and truly, this is an ideal, and one I do strive for, though sometimes I do not succeed. Such as in the writing of this blog post.

First and Last

2011-10-20T21:58:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow Sam turns a year old. His first birthday. My last first.

I love first birthdays.

I love them because of the miracle that occurs somewhere in the midst of twelve months that turns a completely inert and utterly dependent newborn into a drooling, waving, toddling, self-feeding, grin inducing child.

I love first birthdays because of the miracle that has allowed me, the girl who can barely keep her indoor herb garden from withering, to provide a child with the roots and soil needed to thrive.

Truth be told, I love first birthdays because I love, I mean LOVE to watch my little ones, covered head to toe in frosting, smashing handfuls of cake into their little pie holes. Talk about pure joy...for them and for me.

Tomorrow Sam turns a year old. It is the bittersweet end of an era in our family. But we all know it is really another new beginning. And that's kind of fun, too.

Happy Birthday to my little man. You are an immeasurable blessing to us all.

Amelia Burgess, Age 6 3/4

2011-10-03T15:08:00.000-05:00

In the early morning hours on December 15, 2004, the nurse on night duty handed this little being to me, this little being we had just named Amelia, her crazy pouf of bright red hair secured with a lavender ribbon. Daddy was still sleeping. So, for a quiet moment, it was just the two of us, Amelia and me, and all of my hopes and dreams for the life before her that I could not yet begin to fathom.

Amelia Elizabeth and her crazy pouf of bright red hair are now almost seven years old. She is in first grade. It has been a milestone year, to say the very least. Her life, which began in that little room, with her tiny lavender bow, has begun to unfold.

It is colorful.

It is dramatic.

It is a joy.

She spent a toothless summer learning how to swim the length of the pool without assistance.

She is on a no-joking-around soccer team. The kind where they make her run laps when she makes a mistake during practice. Mom thinks it's too much for a first grader. Amelia loves it...

So much so, that when it comes to a ballet vs. soccer showdown, she chooses soccer without any hesitation. Even though the kid is a dancing fool. Of course, I say that in love.

You see, this kid is a striver. She has a will like steel and a mind that rarely stops. When I put her to bed at night, I have a ritual where I "turn" her brain "off." Amelia does not like to slow down, even for sleep.

She learned this past weekend to ride a bike without training wheels. She fell down and got right back up again. Multiple times.And has the bruises and scars to prove it...

And she reads. She reads and reads and reads and reads. She reads billboards on the side of the road and the bulletin at church and board books to her baby brother.

Amelia, reading to her entourage

Amelia also adores it when I read to her. She doesn't let her daddy do it very often. That is our special time. This summer, we read the Ramona Quimby series. Next, it was Nancy Drew. Since school began, we have read abridged versions of Little Women, Pollyanna, and Heidi together. This is the only time that Amelia will snuggle with me. I hope she never gives it up.

And my favorite thing of all, the thing that makes me the most proud is her emerging creativity. Her kindergarten teacher encouraged them to use "kid writing," spelling words the best way they can in order to increase writing confidence and fluidity. Though my mother fears that she will never learn to spell correctly, I am in awe of how she is able to express herself. Here are some samples (translation as needed):

"Mom is not being very nice because mom won't let me have an ice cream cone. That is how I feel."

She makes worksheets for Sadie. I think Sadie may have had some help with the math.

"Once upon a time there lived two princesses"

A map of her life. "Hatin Place" is actually "Hampton Place," the street we live on :)

One of her favorite television shows is "Shake it Up, Chicago." Chicago is a tough word to spell.

An abstract self-portrait. I love that she always draws herself with orange hair.

In those early morning moments, when it was just Amelia and me, I could never have dreamed how this little being would fill and enrich my life.

Amelia Elizabeth Burgess

My determined, creative, energetic, precious, orange-haired ~~little~~ big girl.

I am so blessed to be your mom.

This Girl...

2011-08-30T16:51:00.008-05:00

She is my middle child. My snuggler. My sidekick.

She collects trash for her special projects. Every disposed toilet paper roll or cardboard box becomes a cell phone or doll house.

And oh, how this girl loves tape.

When she is proud of herself, she effervesces. Beams. Glows.

When I pick her up at preschool, she runs to me, arms open wide, yelling, "Mommy!"

She has a tender heart and sweet nature. She needs an immeasurable amount of hugs before she can fall asleep at night.

She is a free spirit. She loves to dance and when she does, she can really shake her little groove thang.

Every idea proposed by her big sister is solid gold.

She has enormous brown eyes that make it difficult for her mommy and daddy to be angry, even when she draws on the hardwood floor or removes all clothing from the waist down and pees in the backyard. In front of the neighbor mowing his yard. But I digress...

She will try just about anything at least once. Including broccoli.

She is a developing a little conscience. Three weeks after she promised me that she did not cut off a chunk of her hair (even though it looked that way), without prompting, she fessed up and in tears, admitted her guilt.

She prefaces almost every statement or question with, "Can I say one thing?"

When I give her kisses at bedtime, she holds my face in her little hands and looks straight into my eyes.

This girl...
has my whole heart.

Green Grass

2011-08-23T16:24:00.009-05:00

I am adjusting to being a stay-at-home mom.

That said, my house between the hours of four and five 0'clock are the closest thing I have ever experienced to the utter pandemonium often associated with being a full-time mom to three young children. Especially lately with Sam's new found mobility and accompanying curiosity. It's pretty much unbridled chaos around here. All three kids are home. Dave is not. They are tired. They are hungry. I am ready to have a conversation with someone over the age of six. Try as I might to find my happy place sauteing vegetables, I am inevitably interrupted (as I was this evening) by a child in need of a timeout for sticking her finger down her brother's throat, or by having to run outside to stop my little entrepreneurs from trying to sell their toys to our next door neighbors, or by fishing a full size grape out of the mouth of my ten month old...and then comforting him after he slams his face down on the kitchen floor, bloodying his lip as a means of protest. At this hour, the witching hour, I must remind myself that I chose this life.

I chose this life because right now because I've been on the other side. I've had the chance to dress up and put on make-up and go to work and bring home a paycheck and have an identity outside of my home and come back to my kids at the end of the day. And the grass is not always greener, though some days it seems that way.

Even on the hardest days, the green grass of my stay-at-home motherhood experience has been the new bond I've formed with my children. I drop them off in the morning. I pick them up every afternoon. I know what shows they watch and what they eat for breakfast and who they played with on the playground. I know how to calm a tantrum and what sets them off. I know their favorite books at the library and what kind of slush they will order at Sonic for Happy Hour. I am there to enforce chores and I know which consequences carry the most weight when they start to whine. I knew most of these things when I worked, too. But now these are the most important details of my day. The only things I have to remember. They are my job. I will not say that this life is the kind of domestic heaven that I always dreamed of as a girl. I have WAY too much laundry for that to be true. But I know my kids. And I know them in a way I've never known them before. That is priceless.

Times three.

Lessons

2011-08-17T19:17:00.008-05:00

Here a just a few things that I have learned over the course of the past year:
*Lessons that were re-learned this year and will be probably need to be re-learned in different ways every year for the rest of my life are delineated with an asterisk

-I am entitled to nothing*.
-Substance pretty much trumps aesthetics in every situation*
-One can buy electrocution-style mouse traps
-I can survive with only one bathroom
-I must never leave my wallet in the car. Ever.*
-Blood is not necessarily thicker than water
-Baby boys eat WAY more than baby girls
-Sixteen straight hours in a car with three kids is pretty much as bad as it sounds
-I am more than what I do (or don't do) for a living
-Nature should be both feared and respected...as should tornado warnings.
-One of the best things in life is to have a friend who can relate
-I love my creepy basement
-Ten successive snow days are only manageable with a case of diet coke in the fridge
-Chick-fil-A is the best fast food restaurant EVER.
-Grass is very seldom greener on the other side*
-My kids are awesome. All three of 'em
-The book is ALWAYS better than the movie*
-Excessive licorice consumption will give you cavities
-What doesn't kill you will sometimes make you stronger, and then sometimes it just really, really hurts*
-Avocados are freakin' expensive
-My husband is one of the biggest blessings I've ever received*
-God is good. All the time. Regardless of what is happening around me, God is always good.***

Who knew?

Back to School

2011-08-12T12:35:00.006-05:00

In many ways, this summer has seemed interminable. As a parent, I am running out of creativity, grasping at straws for ways to entertain my kids. On Tuesday, in a hazy moment of desperation, I bought a package of Oreos and let them scoop the centers out to make a giant frosting ball. Not my finest parenting moment.

And summer began abruptly this year. It began without good-byes or end-of-the-year parties or any trace of sentimentality. The beginning of summer was, in fact, largely overlooked. Overshadowed. Overwhelmed.

Three weeks in, we began, almost reluctantly (and guiltily) to do some of the more normal summer things: trips to the pool, afternoon drives for ice cream, a vacation to Branson with friends. Even though life was anything but. Normal, that is.

Because there is nothing normal about your kids "playing" tornado. Or asking people wherever they go if they can see their basement. Or their crawl space. Just in case. And normal is not a field of FEMA trailers outside of town. Or little ole' Joplin, Missouri making headlines on CNN. Or letting your kids consume the frosting from an entire package of Oreo cookies.

But there is also nothing normal about weekly church dinners for the volunteers (over 400 at last count) who we have housed on our campus all summer. Or the way strangers help strangers without thinking twice. Or the way people in this city have learned to live with a sense of purpose for serving others. Because those in need live in their backyard. And there is nothing normal about free backpacks and school supplies for all 7,000 students. Or hundreds of people working around the clock to make sure our children, all of our children, have a place to go to school next Wednesday. Not normal can be a good thing. It can be a great thing.

On Wednesday, I will have a first grader. And a new start. A new routine. And a new normal. Back to school means more this year than a few new outfits and a new teacher. Back to school in Joplin will be a return to something that was lost on May 22nd. I am sure that I am not alone when I say that I crave the day-to-day normalcy of school drop-off and pick-up, the monotony of making lunches, of signing and returning paperwork, and of driving my kids to their dance lessons or soccer practice. Though life as it was ended on May 22nd, all of these "normal" things are really symbols that life, though changed forever, does goes on.

Debris

2011-08-01T13:17:00.004-05:00

Last Friday, Dave and I spent the morning clearing rubble and sorting debris at an apartment complex destroyed by the storm. There is something incredibly intimate about sorting through the contents of someone's home. Or what is left of a home.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Hidden among the debris- blocks of shattered concrete, shards of wood, bricks, and broken sheets of plywood, we found treasure: family photos, one dollar coins, a piece of a locker with a purple lock still attached from the high school a half mile down the road, a crock pot, a few pairs of panties, a bra, a set of greeting cards and an old second grade journal from a girl named Ashley. The first page was dated September 16, 1994. In a childlike hand, the entry read, Today we had a tornado drill.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Their lives have been laid bare for the whole world to see. Or at least, our small group of volunteers. We separated the concrete and metal and larger pieces of wood. And we returned whatever personal items we came across to the site headquarters to be reclaimed by the former residents. And then we went home, humbled, shaken, changed.

Hampton House

2011-07-30T13:31:00.012-05:00

My blog post lately have been a little on the heavy side. So I am going to lighten things up a little with the story of my house. It's probably not very interesting to anyone but those who know me (and love me), so feel free to navigate away from this page at any time.

Before moving to Joplin last summer, Dave and I looked at more houses and apartments than we had time for, even spending three exhausting and fruitless days during his parents' 50th wedding anniversary and family reunion. We found this house on the very last day of that search, with only a month to go until the big move. The pictures we had found online left a lot to be desired, but it was within our budget, it had four bedrooms, and we didn't have time to be picky. Walking in for the first time, Dave and I were instantly impressed. We were able to see past the old-chewed up Wrigley's gum colored walls and the teal and white striped wallpaper in the bathroom. It had beautiful hardwood floors, original fixtures in the bathroom, and crystal doorknobs throughout the house. There are so many things I would like to do to make it our own ; its imperfections are many, but I have found that the imperfections are what give a home its character.

The Exterior
The part of the house that I like the least. I would desperately like to lose the green all-weather carpet on the steps, but when I tried to remove it I realized there was a four inch gap between the house and the steps. That's an expensive fix so I've decided for now to embrace green all-weather carpet. We may temporarily compromise and switch to brown all-weather carpet down the line. Less conspicuous.

The sun porch was built as an exterior porch and we would someday like it to return to its original function. Because most of the time, this room looks something like this:

Dining Room

Kitchen- second least favorite thing about the house. Budget may never allow a total kitchen makeover, but I would like to paint the cabinets, lose the border, replace the couter tops, and change out the hardware someday. Needs more counter space. Right now, I use my old chest of drawers as an island. Besides that, it's a pretty functional, cozy little kitchen.The technology center in our kitchen. I use this Willow House fruit basket as an office caddy.

Sun porch off the kitchen. This is where we eat all of our meals, play, and do crafts. But only in warm weather. This room had snow drifts during last winter's blizzard. I love all the light from the windows on three sides of the room and how it's surrounded by trees. I wish we could use it year round.

Family room. Pretty standard. The bookcase is gift from Dave's parents. It has been ours since we've been married, but this is the first time we've lived close enough to bring it home. I love it!

Hallway. Note the small white door on the right. Nevermind, it's covered by the big, white door. Anyhow, it's the laundry chute. This is maybe one of my favorite things about this house. I love throwing laundry down the chute and pretending it has disappeared forever.

This is our only functional bathroom. And I really don't mind sharing. Talk to me again about this ten years from now when I have two teenage girls. The best thing about this bathroom is its original hexagon tile pattern and the cute built-in vanity.

Bath toy purgatory

Sadie's bedroom. We store most of the girls' toys in the armoire that we bought at a second hand store in Eufaula. There are lots of things I'd like to do with Sadie's room, but we're still on the fence about putting the girls in the same room.Amelia's room. I love the color of this room. And the window seat. And the built- in desk and glass front display cabinet. We let her choose which room she wanted because she's the oldest, and she got the best deal in the house. Don't tell Sadie.

Sam's room is the best color, though it's hard to tell from this picture. It's a very muted sage green. Very soothing. It's also the only bedroom currently with hardwood floors. If the girls ever share a room, we'd like to make this an office and put Sam in Sadie's room. Dreams...

We love our bedroom. It's the only upstairs room in the house (the stairway is behind a door in the dining room) and we have kind of liked having some distance from the kiddos. They have a little bit of a hike to try and get in bed with us at night. Also, because it's upstairs, once I go down for the day, I usually never make it back up so the bed very rarely gets made. I used to be a stickler for bed making. Oh well.

and....Hope you enjoyed the tour. The good, the bad, and everything in between.

Thirteen Hours and a Million Miles Away

2011-07-27T13:28:00.008-05:00

This time last year, I was in a car somewhere between Memphis and Little Rock, a car packed full of moving van leftovers, two tired little girls, a long suffering husband, two Beta fish, and my six months pregnant self. This time last year, that car had Alabama plates and my girls still dropped the occasional "Yes, ma'am" or "No, sir." This time last year, I felt scared and alone, uncertain of the future and sad for what I was leaving behind.

In the past year, so much has changed: new house, new job, new church, new schools, new baby, new friends. These things are blessings.

In the past year, there has been loss. And lots of it. I don't have any theological perspective on that right now.

I have done a lot of looking back over the past 12 months. I will admit that I am glad to finally be in a place that when I play the "Where Was I a Year Ago" game, I will find myself here, in Joplin. When I wake up tomorrow, I will remember signing loan documents. And meeting Sallie at the house that she and a small task force lovingly cleaned and painted for us. I will remember buying Subway for the moving crew and how beautiful the paint colors (chosen in about five minutes at the Eufaula Wal-Mart) actually looked on the walls. I will remember the girls' excitement (short lived as it was) over the prospect of sharing a room for the first time. And I will remember the hot, musty smell that came with our sweet, old house. With the return of the summer heat, it smells like that again. I love it.

Looking back can be a great thing, but unchecked, it can and will drain today of its joy. I don't want to live in Alabama anymore. Not because it's not a great place to be, or because I don't like the people, or even because its average summer temperature is just slightly lower than the temperature of the sun (you get used to it). It's because it's time to stop living there when I no longer live there. And it's because I have a new home. A wonderful home. I have had it for a while now; it's time to lean in to it, as my friend would say. There is joy to be found here.

Stripped

2011-07-20T16:37:00.002-05:00

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me...
To comfort all who mourn, To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.
Isaiah 61:1-3

Driving through Joplin last week, I was startled by the way in which the landscape had significantly changed over the course of the past month. Mountains of rubble (in many places) are now clean concrete slabs. The trees, mangled with sheet metal and stripped bare, have been taken down. The abandoned carcasses of homes have disappeared one by one, devoured by monstrous machines and deposited in a landfill outside of town. Entire neighborhoods have simply ceased to exist. Wiped away. Wiped clean. Waiting.

For the families who have lost homes, I have heard that this part of the process has been both excruciating and cathartic. For the volunteers who have been helping to clear the rubble and take down trees, the work has been backbreaking and tedious in the ruthless summer heat. For those who were the first to clear their properties, the waiting game for building permits is agonizing and frustrating. Because before you rebuild, you have to tear down. And the tearing down is not yet finished. The work is slow. It hurts. It is hard to see beyond the emptiness. And for a season, we have to live there. In the emptiness, in the void, with the pain. For a season.

The conversation is beginning to turn towards restoration. At an open forum last week, residents were invited to share their vision of the new Joplin. In the paper, I read that one long-time Joplin resident wanted the city to be rebuilt exactly as it was before the storm. Good or bad, there is immense comfort in the familiar, the known, the way it was before. But it will never be the same. It can't be the same. Because in this season of emptiness, with its clean concrete slabs and treeless open fields, a vision will take shape. It will not be like it was before. It will be better. Because death is not the end. Destruction is not the end. The trees, stripped of their bark, stripped of their leaves, stripped of their beauty, will be replanted. The city will be rebuilt.

Confessions of an Inadequate Pastor's Wife

2011-06-03T16:05:00.004-05:00

I have a confession to make. I do not relish the role of the pastor's wife. For some, that may be a shocking fact. For those who know me well, that information is about as earth-shattering as the concept that water is wet.

Here are a list of my vocational inadequacies: I am not demure. I don't always defer to my husband. I am, unfortunately, not pure of heart. I don't sew or play the piano or scrapbook. I don't listen to (and don't care for) much Christian music. I can't name all the books of the Bible in reverse order, and I don't understand Biblical Hebrew. I am sometimes outspoken. I have lots of opinions about lots of things, and I don't always keep those opinions to myself. I can be sarcastic. I very much appreciate off-color humor. I am sometimes a doubter, a pessimist, and a cynic. I am not closer to God than anyone else. Oh, and check all of the above for my children as well.

You see, if it were up to me, I would rather slip in the back of the church unnoticed on Sunday mornings -with my husband. And I could do without the hurt feelings and anger that go along with a job change. Ditto that for the very literal divorce, even in the best of circumstances, that must take place when one pastor leaves a church and another one takes over. It's painful. I very often feel like a spiritual vagabond, an employee of the church, but not a member, and without a true home.

But here's the thing. I immensely respect my husband's vocation and am honored to be a part of it. He is doing exactly what God wants him to do, and with God's help, he is really good at what he does. While internally I fight against the title of "pastor's wife" and all the connotations therein, I know that this is as much my calling as it is Dave's calling because we're in this together. It is not comfortable, but a true calling beckons us out of what is comfortable.

When God calls us, he changes us, whether that be in character or perspective. He is changing my perspective and is opening my eyes to the ways I can be used as I am. I'm not saying that some of my rough edges couldn't use a little polish. I'm open to a little refinishing. A lot of refinishing. But I am realizing that I don't have to be the pastor's wife. I just have to be Sarah, the lady in the third row whose slightly feral four year old occasionally flashes her undies to the congregation during the children's message. And who, incidentally, just happens to be married to a pastor.

Nine Years

2011-06-02T14:42:00.004-05:00

Nine years ago today, I woke up with a smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach. I woke up thinking about the marathon first date I had been on that began at noon and lasted until almost midnight. He brought me a Ken Burns Jazz CD that I still haven't opened, and I greeted him with a hug which invaded his personal space. We walked together in a Relay for Life event, we attended a graduation party for a family friend (with my ENTIRE family), and we shared a long dinner over paella and tres leches cake at the Cuban restaurant down the street from my apartment. He held my hand on the way home, looked in my eyes, and said, "I'm not going to kiss you tonight, but I am going to kiss you." A week later he did kiss me. A month later he told me he loved me. Six months later we were engaged, and a year later we were married.

Nine years later, I woke up with a little girl putting stickers on my face and asking for breakfast. I kissed my exhausted husband before he left for a meeting, nursed a sick baby, put braids in Amelia's hair, made lunches and beds, and ran errands at Target. Yesterday, Dave brought flowers home and asked me if I remembered the significance. Then we laughed about what that night may have been like if we had known the path our lives would take. It might have made for an awkward first date, but I wouldn't have changed a thing.

Nine years from now, I know I'll have two teenagers, a few strands of gray hair, and some additional crow's feet. But aside from the inevitable, the future remains uncertain, as it should be. In the meantime, I love that nine years ago Dave Burgess became a part of my life. I love that he used cheesy lines to get me to like him and I love the path that we are on, mostly because we are on it together.

Sunday

2011-05-26T04:53:00.008-05:00

It's almost impossible for me to remember what life was like before Sunday. There has been no way to mark the days since. No school, meetings cancelled, graduations on hold, playdates forgotten. Today was the first day since Sunday that there was something to plan for. It was a funeral.

It's also hard for me to remember right now that there are other things going on in the world. Reading updates from others about life as it was, life as it should be (whatever that means) causes irrational frustration. Anger, even. Maybe it's because right now, here in Joplin we are so removed from the trivial. Or maybe it's because I have removed myself from the trivial because of the overwhelming burden of guilt I feel ( I lost nothing when so many lost everything). Last week, I worried about getting my kids' teacher gifts ready in time, or the chipped paint in the hallway, or the way my upper arm flab seems lately to sway in the breeze. But that was before. There is only here and now, doing what we can, though it will never seem like enough because the well of need is so deep. There is a world outside of Joplin, Missouri, but right now it is hard for me to fathom.
This is an amazing community. A relative newcomer, I stand on the periphery in awe of all of the ways that people are working together because they love this town. Because they love their neighbor. Amelia's school sent people door to door to account for the whereabouts of every child who had not been heard from. Reconstruction has already begun on several of the school buildings to be ready in time for next year. Everywhere you turn restaurants offer free food. Free bottled water is stacked in parking lots for whoever may need it. After only five days, the major aid distribution centers stopped taking item donations because they were at capacity. There was standing room only to celebrate the loss of a beautiful and innocent life, ripped away by the tornado. There are tears of joy mixed with tears of grief.

I understand now why we are here in Joplin. I am bonded to this community, for better or for worse, and in a way I could never have imagined this time last week. Out of the chaos, there is hope in the new week that is to come. A new Sunday, a new week is on its way.

Moving On...

2011-05-16T20:28:00.009-05:00

Home. It's a city named after a citrus in Southern California, comfortable and worn in, it feels like childhood. It's a town on the Hungarian plains, lovely and complicated, both in language and inhabitants, a place of independence and personal discovery. It's a suburb of San Diego, sanitized and homogenous, my first baby's first home. It's a small, charming Southern town, a kind of living museum, where neighbors quickly become family. These are the places I have lived, the places that have shaped me, the places that have become part of the very fiber of my being.

Our latest move, even ten months later, has left me stunned and saddened, longing for a place where I no longer belong. And it got me thinking about the definition of home, mostly because I have felt so homeless. Each move brings with it a little death, a falling away of a certain way of life. You can always return to a place you once called home, but those places are forever changed: stores close up or open for business, people move or remodel, relationships evolve to accommodate the distance, or sometimes fade away entirely. And there is inevitably a time of loss before the regeneration can begin in a new community. Some losses are deeper and more indelible than others. This one, for one reason or another, hit me hard. A long winter.

But there are buds on the trees. My winter is giving way to spring. Slowly. There are new friends at the park, and familiar, loving faces at church. There is a porch swing and long talks with my husband. There are daily walks to the neighborhood school, and a great park down the street. And there are swim lessons and soccer games, play dates, birthday parties, and school carnivals. There is a new routine, a new normal, and there is comfort in that.

With each move, I am reminded in a very clear and tangible way that ultimately, and no matter how badly we long for it, we do not have a permanent home here on earth. We are just passing through. And while we long for the eternal, we should not live for it, just as we should not live only for the past. Thus, home is now; home is the present.

Home is my little redhead with the missing bottom tooth who loves Little House on the Prairie and Strawberry Shortcake, whose little fingers are perpetually stained with marker. It is the little girl with the enormous brown eyes and runny nose, who has an insatiable need for scotch tape and bedtime renditions of "You're a Grand Old Flag." Home is my sweet, blue eyed boy who wants nothing more than to nurse, eat his prunes, and laugh at his sisters. And it is the man with the quirky sense of humor and cute dimples who promised to always love me and actually does, even though I'm covered in spit up ninety percent of the time and lacking regular access to a shower. They are my base, my comfy socks, my heart, my home.

Full Tank

2009-11-09T00:41:00.003-06:00

My oldest daughter Amelia. Where do I begin? I love her so much that, at times, I could eat her up with a spoon. Other days? Well, today I had to take a "mommy time out" in the bathroom of "Los Portales" because I was just about ready to overturn my table of chips and guac. You see, she began the day by exclaiming that she liked her preschool teacher better than me. Then, at church, in front of God and everyone, she put her sister in a choke hold over an inflatable ball. At lunch, she refused to sit by me. But it was that snotty, sing-songy tattle-tale voice, the one that can only be learned on kindergarten playgrounds, that sent me over the edge. I went to the bathroom and cried.

I know how to handle Amelia. In fact, I have it down to a science, and usually, I'm pretty good at staying in control of my emotions in the midst of her "spirit." It's just that my sweet girl requires me to be on my "A" game. All the time. And it's been a hard month. With Dave's mission trip, company in town, Halloween, seasonal allergies and Dave's recent pneumonia diagnosis, I feel like I've barely been able to keep my head above water. I fell out of sync with myself and my kids. I am tired, I am edgy about laundry and schoolwork and upcoming trips, I am annoyed by all the little piles all over my house, and my priorities are out of balance. When this happens, I fall in to maintenance mode with everything, including my kids. Maintenance mode doesn't phase Sadie, but Amelia just doesn't roll with maintenance mode. And really, she shouldn't have to.

So, after a nice little cry in arguably the most disgusting public restroom in Eufaula (but that's another post), I went back to the table and decided that we were in need of a date. Just the two of us. She was mad at me so it took some convincing, and actually, a little bribery, but I knew we needed the time together. We spent the afternoon in Columbus. I let her spend a leftover birthday gift card at Target. She bought a pretend bathtub for her dolls and a 100 piece rabbit puzzle, just in case you were wondering. I let her have a (very small) diet coke for the first time. We walked the aisles of Pet Smart and I named all the different kinds of fish for her. Then it was off to Micheal's where she helped me choose some craft paper for a project I'm working on. On the way home, we called Aunt Abby to thank her for the gift card that bought her new toys, we sang "Wheels on the Bus" and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," we talked about school and her friends and the girls on the playground who are sometimes not so nice. And she told me that she didn't mean it when she said she liked her teacher more than me. By the time we reached Eufaula, she was a different girl than the one who made me want to overturn tables in public places. Her tank was full and so was mine.

Happiness or Blessing?

2009-09-28T19:15:00.002-05:00

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be blessed. It seems like the word "blessing" is everywhere I turn: a chapter in Amelia's children's Bible is called "God's Blessings Grow"; an earlier CNN headline reads, "Flood Survivors Count Their Blessings"; a friend of a friend's blog post today is entitled "Deliriously Blessed." I ask God to bless my home, my family, and my loved ones, but do I really understand what I am asking for?

What I think I am asking for is for a happy home, for a healthy family, for safety and peace for my loved ones. However, I wonder often about how my definition of blessing might be applied to the faith of those who live in a constant state of violence, misery and poverty. Are they not blessed? Do they live outside of God's favor? If I adhere to my definition, the answer is yes. If I adhere to my definition, blessing is equated to my own personal and selfish happiness. If I adhere to my definition, then I also must believe that I am more deserving of God's favor. I do believe that my God is just; therefore, my definition of blessing must change.

Thoughts?

But I get turned around
I mistake some happiness for blessing
But I`m blessed as the poor
Still I judge success by how I`m dressing
-Caedmon's Call

Redemption in the Deep South

2009-09-20T05:07:00.006-05:00

Today as I was driving to the grocery store, alone with my thoughts for the first time in about a week, I had an epiphany about happiness. I realized that I was, that I AM happy. This happiness of which I speak is not a giddy euphoria, but more of a steady, deep current of contentedness. I think I have felt this way for a while, but on this solo trip to the store, I realized that I am no longer waiting for that other shoe to drop. I trust this happiness. I know it won't go away.

Moving from California has been cathartic for me. I needed a new canvas. Growing up, and well into my twenties, I became accustomed to what I now call "crisis living," going from one personal or family crisis to another. I couldn't slow down and enjoy life; I was constantly anxious about turning a corner and running headlong, unprepared, in to my next tragedy. So I stayed on my guard, rejecting before I could be rejected, struggling to keep my head above the tide of anger and bitterness. This way of life was so ingrained in my mental topography, I honestly didn't know, until recently, that there was another way to live.

Early in our marriage, my husband helped me to recognize that the unhealthy consequences of living with this constant fear, but I had no idea how to change. Physical distance has been the only way for me to repair my faulty wiring; Alabama has been my soul's rehabilitation. We did not move here as a means of escape, and I did not foresee that this new found peace would be the result. But it was, and it has been, and I am thankful.

I am thankful because, though redemption has always been a part of the story, it is now a part of my story. I understand what it means now, and because I understand it, I can pass it on. I am no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, or waiting in fear for the next crisis to arise; but when it does, I have a deep well from which to draw.

A Short Story by Amelia Burgess

2009-08-27T20:46:00.002-05:00

When Ajee (Dave's mom) came to visit last April, she began an album of short stories dictated by Amelia. Remember, I record it as I hear it. No editing is involved. Here is her latest work:

Jack Anderson's Best Cousin's House
by Amelia Burgess

Once upon a time there was a baby butterfly. She was going over to her friend Jack Anderson's cousin's house. She saw her friend's house was on fire, so she jumped on top of the roof and she got some water from the water fountain and she got where the fire was and there was a hole. Then she didn't know what to do, so lots of friends came over and they had a birthday party.

The End.

We must work on denoument and resolution...

The Summer of Brokenness

2009-07-16T20:09:00.004-05:00

Here's my list:

Our lawnmower is broken and the grass is a foot high
The top oven no longer heats, while the bottom oven runs about 200 degrees too hot
We discovered wood rot and pulled a handful off of an outdoor window casing the other day
There is a leak in our roof that has already been fixed twice...and is still leaking
The face of our dishwasher fell off; it gives my kitchen an unintentional, industrial look
The toilet in the girls' bathroom in unusable; Dave tried to fix it a few weeks ago, but now it sprays water from the top of the toilet instead of the bottom when you flush
Via CT scan yesterday, I learned that I have sinus polyps (the cause of my chronic sinus infections this spring), which will have to be surgically removed a week before school starts; recovery time is a week...

But here's the other list:

A fellow congregant offered us a free riding lawn mower that he no longer uses
We have a microwave...and now, an oven thermometer
The wood rot is localized to a very small area
The big leaks are taken care of; at least it's not running down the wall anymore
Our urban chic dishwasher is a great ice breaker when we have people over for dinner
The toilet is most likely an easy fix, just not by my husband
My silly little polyps are not life threatening, just a bit uncomfortable

Enjoy the View

2009-07-06T22:54:00.003-05:00

Today, while Amelia was playing some computer games and Sadie was napping, I went to the bookshelf where we keep old journals and selected one at random. Dave and I used to be avid journal writers, but life creeps in and slowly, and inevitably, the busy-ness of everyday chips away at time for solitude and self-reflection.

The journal I grabbed off the shelf today belonged to Dave. I felt at liberty to read it because he had read it to me before, when we were first dating. Page after page of this journal was filled with poetry, beautiful poetry, and before I knew it, an hour had passed; Amelia was still playing computer games and Sadie was up from her nap. Life crept back in and snapped me out of my reverie.

Dave reminds me every day why I married him. He makes me laugh out loud on a regular basis; he loves our girls in a way that I didn't know fathers could love their daughters; he takes care of our family in little ways that I don't always immediately recognize. But life creeps in. After six years of marriage, two kids, two full-time jobs and more laundry and yard work than we could have ever hoped for, we have both lost some of the serendipity of our youth. It did my heart well to revisit the passion, idealism and sensitivity of the man I fell in love with. It reminded me that he is still that man and I'm still that woman. We just have to work a little harder to find that part of ourselves these days.

Contrast

2009-06-02T20:34:00.005-05:00

Here are my girls' legs, side by side, after the same amount of sun exposure. I swear they have the same father...

Leaps and Bounds

2009-06-02T20:12:00.007-05:00

With her favorite book, Dora Loves Boots

Amelia, lending moral support

Little girl, big room

Sweet dreams...

Between my girls, Sadie is without question the more easy going of the two; however, when she sets her mind to something, it is nearly impossible to dissuade her from that path. When she was two weeks old, Sadie decided that she would never take a feeding from anything but her mother's breast. And she never did. Not once. I tried every bottle on the market, even the kind that are made to resemble a real breast that you find advertised in the back of parenting magazines. When I went back to work, her babysitters had to feed her with a little medicine dropper because she refused everything else. At two weeks old, she made a decision about the way she wanted to be fed...and there was no going back.

So it was with sleeping in a crib. Saturday night, I put her to bed and within ten minutes heard sobbing in her room: deep, racking sobs as if she were scared. She never does this, so I went to check on her and as I walked in, she screamed between sobs, "I want sleep Pooh bed. I want to sleep Pooh bed!" It took several more minutes before it became clear what she was trying to communicate in her broken toddler English. "Pooh bed" is the toddler bed with Winnie-the-Pooh sheets we still had set up from our friends' visit back in April. Fine, I thought. I'll just put the sheets on her crib mattress. As I changed her sheets and began to put the mattress back in the crib, Sadie began waving her hands wildly and sobbing again, "I want sleep Pooh bed! I want to sleep Pooh bed!" So once more, I took the mattress out of the crib and this time put it on the floor. As soon as it touched the carpet, Sadie dove for the mattress and requested her favorite doll and blanket to snuggle with. I stayed with her for a minute, kissed her and closed the door. We heard not a sound from her room for the rest of the night. That's all it took for her to make that leap from a baby to a toddler.

Last night, we set up the toddler bed and removed her crib for good. Here are the obligatory "first night in a big girl bed" pictures. Sweet dreams, little gir! You are growing up too fast...

Where I've Been

2009-05-16T05:41:00.023-05:00

Snow in Alabama!

Daddy with his matching girls

Sadie and Amelia, hamming it up for the camera

Messy playroom

I love how close they're sitting in this picture:)

Sadie and our new swing set= thanks Ajee and Bapa!

T-ball- Go Royals!

Elton John, backstage before the performance

Easter Sunday

Hunting eggs at church

The Nygren's visit- sweet times with sweet friends

Sadie and Molly Grace

Sadie's 2nd birthday!
Perfecting the art of time out
Ajee's visit in April

Tired, but happy

February through May has been filled with illness, visits from friends (hurray!), visits from relatives (so thankful), decisions about schools (for both children), job applications (for the fourth year in a row), a trip to the Dominican Republic (Dave's, not mine), more illness, two T-ball games a week, and now finally, the end a very long, exhausting, but fulfilling school year. I feel like I am at the end of a marathon for which I did not properly train; I am weary in both body and spirit. I look forward to spending quality time my sweet little girls, replanting my flower boxes, wasting time with a diet coke in our inflatable backyard pool, reading some good books, and getting organized again. Posted above are some pictures from the last four months; more blogging to come!

The Sunday School Tree

2009-02-16T19:53:00.009-06:00

About 18 miles outside of Eufaula is the tiny community of Comer, Alabama. There's not much to it: a few old, overgrown buildings, a couple of little churches and a smattering of country houses. Dave had been out there a few times on visitations and had shared with me about the little town that time forgot. So, today I packed the kids in the car, put Peter Pan on the DVR and headed north on Highway 82. I really just wanted to look around, maybe take a few pictures and be back within an hour.

As I pulled off the highway and into the little hamlet of Comer, I noticed a pick-up truck heading towards me, then pulling over to let me pass. When I drove by, I noticed that the lady in the truck was Martha Grant, a sweet member of our church. She rolled down her window and jokingly asked if I was lost, because really, if you don't live there, there is no good reason to be all the way out in Comer. Embarrassed, I told her that I had always wanted to see what it was like. She laughed at me, but then she asked if I wanted to come out to the family property and bring her husband Frank his morning coffee. I agreed. So, she hopped in alongside me in the mini-van and away we went. The Grant's cow pasture

On the way, Miss Martha told me what Mr. Frank was doing in the cow pasture; he was erecting a monument on the site of The Sunday School Tree. The Sunday School Tree, Miss Martha explained, was an enormous Red Oak tree that sat on the property of the old Russell plantation before "The War Between the States." When the weather was nice, Mrs. Russell, Mr. Frank's great-grandmother, would teach Sunday school under the old Oak tree to all the little boys and girls, both black and white together, that lived on the plantation. After the "War Between the Sates," the Russell plantation house burned, a forest grew up over the cotton fields, the old "Sunday School Tree" died and the stump was eventually removed. Miss Martha laughed about how ridiculous it must sound to be erecting a monument to a tree that no longer exists, in the middle of a pasture, surrounded by cow patties. But, really, I thought it was beautiful.

The site of the old Russell family plantation

Working on the monument for "The Sunday School Tree"

The old vault in the Bank of Comer

One of the little churches in Comer

Amelia, Sadie and Miss Martha on the Grant property

Duh...

2009-02-12T09:48:00.006-06:00

For as long as I can remember, I have suffered from a serious (and apparently incurable) case of what I like to call "Duh Syndrome." I mean, I consider myself to be a relatively intelligent person, but I have moments (more than I would like to admit) that my brain completely shuts down and I do something so stupid that my husband is often left wondering how he wound up with such a "special" wife. As I write this, my poor, long-suffering spouse is driving up and down highway 431, in search of my wallet that I most likely left on top of the car at the grocery store this morning. Yes, I had bags of groceries and a sick child to worry about. And yes, I was also engaged in a conversation with Callie Peak about their three cases of RSV and two bouts of pneumonia this winter. But really, that's no excuse. Duh.

And then there's a month ago when I was checking my cell phone messages in the driveway at Sadie's babysitter's house and backed right over their mailbox, knocking it completely out of the ground and denting the back of our brand new mini-van. Yep, say it with me...Duh.

Our poor Camry, which has been my car for the past three years, has a dent in the front fender from an unknown source (my fault, most likely), a dent and some chipped paint on the rear fender from when I backed into a tree last year, and a missing hubcap from when I pulled up a little too close to the curb. Duh...to the third power.

Essentially, I'm a scatterbrain. I leave things places (luckily, I've never left my children anywhere), I forget stuff that is important, I run into and break things that aren't mine. Though this post is written with tongue in cheek, I don't think it's funny. I spend a fair amount of time beating myself up over this glaring shortcoming in my life. I know we all have them, shortcomings, that is. I just wish this shortcoming was less destructive. What I hate the most is that my "duh" moments create a hassle for others. I hate that my husband had to take time away from work to look for my wallet and though we payed for it, I hate that Sadie's babysitter had to spend time on a Saturday afternoon to replace their broken mailbox. I really hate all the money we have to spend fixing my mistakes. So, if you're reading this and you've been a victim of my "Duh Syndrome," I'm sorry and I'm working on it. In the meantime, i wouldn't recommend loaning me your car.

Love Your Neighbors

2009-02-08T19:39:00.003-06:00

Amelia and Bailey

Growing up on Barkley Ave., I lived in the same house for nineteen years and honestly, I would not be able to tell you the name of the man that lived next door. I played with the neighborhood kids from time to time, but they were mostly boys and I often found myself cleaning their room before I would allow myself to play in it. Boys are messy, you know. We were friendly with everyone, but we weren't about to close off the street for any 4th of July block party or anything, either. We did our own thing. We didn't exchange Christmas gifts. Or bring over a plate of cookies for new neighbors. Or watch out for one another. There was just a general lack of community. And it always made me a little bit sad.

I knew plenty of people in California who had block parties and great neighbors, so this is not a slam on any particular region. I, personally, just had to move to a small town in Alabama to find the kind of neighborhood I always dreamed about. The kind of neighborhood where the kids across the street spend hours at our house on a Saturday and then invite us for dinner that night. The kind of neighborhood where Meemaw and Granddaddy Ang take Amelia for rides in the wheelbarrow and bring us handmade deer sausage every Christmas. The kind of neighborhood where we take vacations to Disneyworld together in the summer and pick up eachother's kids from school because the baby is still napping. The kind of neighborhood where we take care of eachother's pets when we're away and can stop by to say "hello" without calling first.

Our neighborhood, in so many ways, has been a salve to that broken piece of me. Here, I have found the community I always longed for. I think that is why, despite the laundry list of Southern idiosynchrasies we could do without, for now, we love living in Eufaula. It is home.

Ninety-Nine

2009-01-17T01:58:00.005-06:00

I wasn't tagged, but thought this looked like fun!

So, here's what you do...

Things you've already done: bold
Things you want to do: italicize
Things you haven't done and don't want to - leave in plain font

1. started your own blog
2. slept under the stars- haven't done that for a long time...
3. played in a band
4. visited Hawaii
5. watched a meteor shower
6. given more than you can afford to charity
7. been to Disneyland/World

8. climbed a mountain- I haven't done this, but couldn't unbold it for some reason

9. held a Praying Mantis- um, I don't think so...
10. sang a solo -a few...
11. bungee jumped- no way, no how!
12. visited Paris

13. watched a lightning storm at sea
14. taught yourself an art from scratch
15. adopted a child
16. had food poisoning- a horrible night at a B&B in Williamsburg, VA
17. walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. grown your own vegetables
19. seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. slept on an overnight train...and been accosted by dirty Italian men!
21. had a pillow fight
22. hitch hiked
23. taken a sick day when you’re not ill- yesterday, but Sadie was sick, so...
24. built a snow fort
25. held a lamb
26. gone skinny dipping- don't tell...
27. run a marathon
28. ridden a gondola in Venice
29. seen a total eclipse
30. watched a sunrise or sunset

31. hit a home run - I'm not the type...
32. been on a cruise
33. seen Niagara Falls in person
34. visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. seen an Amish community- I've seen the Amish at a Missouri Costco...does that count?
36. taught yourself a new language- Beszelek egy kicsit magyarul:)
37. had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. gone rock climbing - Joshua Tree in 5th grade

40. seen Michelangelo's David in person- same trip I was accosted by dirty Italians on a night train from Rome to Vienna
41. sung karaoke - fun!
42. seen Old Faithful Geyser erupt
43. bought a stranger a meal in a restaurant
44. visited Africa
45. walked on a beach by moonlight
46. been transported in an ambulance
47. had your portrait painted - does a caricature count?
48. gone deep sea fishing
49. seen the Sistene Chapel in person- once again, dirty Italian trip...
50. been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris

51. gone scuba diving or snorkeling- snorkeling in Catalina and Hawaii
52. kissed in the rain- probably, though I can't remember off hand
53. played in the mud

54. gone to a drive-in theater- those were the days...
55. been in a movie - split second overhead shot in "Sister Act II"
56. visited the Great Wall of China
57. started a business

58. taken a martial arts class
59. visited Russia
60. served at a soup kitchen
61. sold Girl Scout Cookies- and eaten LOTS of them, too!
62. gone whale watching
63. gotten flowers for no reason
64. donated blood
65. gone sky diving- nope...
66. visited a Nazi concentration camp- Aushwitz in Poland. A very powerful experience
67. bounced a check
68. flown in a helicopter
69. saved a favorite childhood toy
70. visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. eaten caviar
72. pieced a quilt- started to, but never finished:(

73. stood in Times Square
74. toured the Everglades
75. been fired from a job
76. seen the changing of the guard in London
77. broken a bone
78. been on a speeding motorcycle
79. seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. published a book
81. visited the Vatican
82. bought a brand new car
83. walked in Jerusalem
84. had your picture in the newspaper
85. read the entire Bible
86. visited the White House
87. killed and prepared an animal for eating- No! But my neighbor does and makes us deer sausage every Christmas...
88. had chickenpox- still have the scars to prove it!
89. saved someone’s life- hope I never have to do that...
90. sat on a jury
91. met someone famous -Drake, of "Drake and Josh" was in my 10th grade English class...ha, ha!
92. joined a book club
93. lost a loved one
94. had a baby- TWO!

95. seen the Alamo in person.
96. swum in the Great Salt Lake- yuck!
97. been involved in a law suit- I rear-ended a crazy lady once. It's a long story...
98. owned a cell phone
99. been stung by a bee- only once in my whole life!

Dog Days

2008-12-29T19:18:00.003-06:00

On her first birthday, Amelia received doggy. That's what she calls him. Doggy. Back in the day, doggy was plump with stuffing and so soft you could use him as a pillow. Amelia took to him right away, but it wasn't until our move to Alabama that he became an irreplaceable fixture in our lives. Two years later, doggy's fur is coarse and matted, his glass eyes are chipped from several trips to the washer and dryer, and bits of stuffing escape from a hole at the tip of his leather nose. He has been doused by just about every bodily fluid (and solid) imaginable (our recent trip to Arkansas left him covered in vomit twice). No matter how much we wash him, doggy is a disgusting, well-loved mess.

So, on the aforementioned vomit trip to Arkansas, I decided that maybe it was time to upgrade doggy for a newer, less contaminated option. The day after Thanksgiving, I took Amelia on her very first trip to Build-A-Bear. I talked to her about it before hand, explaining that we would always keep doggy, but maybe she could have something new to sleep with. Amelia seemed amenable to this plan, so off we went. And we had fun. We chose a bear, watched as it was stuffed before our eyes, picked out clothes and named her Emily.

The excitement of it all lasted until we got to the cash register. All of the sudden, Amelia's brown eyes welled up with tears and when I asked her what was wrong, she replied, "I don't want to sleep with my new bear. I want to sleep with doggy. I love him even though he's yucky." It occurred to me at that moment that doggy is Amelia's Velveteen Rabbit. All of the chipped glass and matted fur and vomit chunks are the things that make him real; the things that make him safe and familiar and loved.

So doggy remains. Emily, the replacement bear, is long forgotten. Doggy, who is loved even though he is yucky, is safe tonight in Amelia's arms and all is right with the world.

Growing Pains

2008-11-28T22:15:00.006-06:00

As Amelia grows up, she is more and more like me. Her red hair, brown eyes, lanky figure and dimple on her right cheek are just the beginning of our similarities. At four, her personality has begun to emerge. She is an observer, more comfortable to stand on the outside of the action until she gets a feel for it; she isn't one to jump right in to the fray. Though she sings and dances and laughs and makes jokes at home, she rarely does so in public. Her preschool enrichment teacher says that she rarely talks; it takes a long time for someone to work their way in to Amelia's circle of trust. She is incredibly sensitive and emotional. If she is defying me in some way, all I have to do is say that I am sad and she will almost always comply. She is also able to express the way she is feeling at a depth that is unusual for a child of her age.

It is a bittersweet thing to see myself reflected in Amelia. When I watch her draw for hours, making up stories about her characters, I celebrate her imagination. When the question, "why" follows every little thing I say, I celebrate her curiosity. When her brown eyes sparkle with laughter over a "joke" she made up, I celebrate her sense of humor. I love these things about her because she gets them from me. Then, there are other times. There are times when she lingers behind my legs, too shy to engage with other kids at a birthday party. I admit that I cringe a little bit when she refuses to go down the inflatable slide or jump in the bounce house because she is scared. And sometimes when her emotions swing dramatically hot and cold, I wish that she had inherited her father's temperament. I struggle with these things because she gets them from me, and throughout my life, these qualities were painful.

Amelia's bright little life will not be hindered by my emotional baggage. I made that decision a long time ago. However, I have dreams for Amelia. As parents, our dreams never involve our children experiencing pain, but I know that if I want her to excel in her gifts, I also must relinquish her to her flaws. I know that some of my flaws became scars in the wake of a very difficult adolescence; some of them, admittedly, by my own consequence. What this has taught me is that pain is inevitable; I can not and will not eliminate this reality for her. I also realize that what I may see as flaws in myself, depending on how they manifest themselves in her, may become a part of Amelia's beauty. That's why, I stand back, hold my tongue and focus on her gifts: her bountiful imagination, her curiosity about the world, her off-beat sense of humor. I will teach her to lead with these gifts and let the rest fall away.

Taxidermy and Collard Greens

2008-11-17T20:03:00.002-06:00

A sample of what one might hear on a day in a rural Alabama middle school:

Chris: Mrs. Burgess, I can't ever do my homework.

Mrs. Burgess: Why can't you do homework, Chris?

Chris: Because I have a garden: 136 collard greens. No time for homework!

Mrs. Burgess: Tyler, why aren't you doing your work?

Tyler: I'm going to juvi tomorrow and I ain't coming back, so why should I work?

Mrs. Burgess: juvi?

Tyler: I'm up for two felonies...

Mrs. Burgess: What did you do?

Tyler: Attempted murder and killing a cat. But Mrs. Burgess, I swear I didn't kill that cat!

Mrs. Burgess: Um, ok.

*Cody (yelling from across the room): Mrs. Burgess!! When I get my deer head back from the taxidermist, can I bring it in to show you?

Mrs. Burgess: How about you bring a picture...

*Cody is also the student who, on the Monday after we read The Raven, brought me a REAL (and freshly dismembered) crow's foot. He says I'm his favorite teacher. Sweet, but can't I just get an apple?

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

2008-11-11T21:20:00.006-06:00

I've been teaching for almost ten years. In those ten years, I've worked at many different schools, with a diverse cross-section of students. I've taught students who are filthy rich and dirt poor; students who have spent time in rehab, or had a parent pass away, or are themselves in remission from cancer. I've seen students come to terms with being gay and or their parents' divorce. And seven years ago, a bunch of ninth graders and I muddled our way through a tough day in September. Though my teacher shoes are fairly worn in, I find myself this week in the midst of another first: the death of a student.

Ryan had long hair that hung in front of his blue eyes- the kind of hairstyle popular with teenage boys in the South. He didn't talk much, though he had developed a deft note passing technique. I never wrote him up, never had to call his parents, and never really got to know him. He got a "B" on his poetry quiz on Friday. On Saturday morning, he got on a four wheeler with his cousin, drove it through a stop sign and into a speeding pick-up truck. On Sunday afternoon, he died.

I knew Monday would be emotionally exhausting. Dealing with death is something that most adults are unable to gracefully navigate. Thirteen-year-olds can't navigate their way to the restroom, let alone deal with the death of a classmate. I thought long and hard about the best way to go forward. In the end, I decided to acknowledge to my students that it was a hard day, but that we needed to proceed normally. We learned how to diagram the rhyme scheme of a Robert Frost poem, and they quietly and obediently took it in. They didn't argue. They didn't yell at each other from across the room. Some kids put their heads on the desk, and I didn't bother them. Throughout the day, several girls broke in to sobs, and I sent them to the counselors who had gathered in the library. One student (even as Ryan's empty desk sat across the room from him), made a perverse comment about what the scene of the accident might have looked like. He laughed about it as his classmates around him cried. I sent him to the principal's office. He was the only one.

Overall, we fought our grief by walking through our day as we usually do. I think that my students found comfort in routine; I know I did. Beyond that, I was proud of the way that they handled themselves, and the way they treated each other. For whatever reason (this is a whole other post), I have struggled immensely with this particular group of students. But I have hope. Ryan's death forced us to be human. It forced me to stop focussing (for a moment) on whether or not they're able to make their subjects and verbs agree, and it forced them to stop focussing on themselves.

Tag

2008-11-03T01:16:00.002-06:00

So, I was tagged by Jen a while back and forgot. Now, I have insomnia and I'm doing something about it. Without further ado:

1. I have insomnia BAD. A few times a month (like tonight, most likely), I'm up close to all night long. I've had this problem since high school. I have memories of baking cookies and cleaning my room in the middle of the night, and then going straight to school without having slept at all. During my most recent bouts of insomnia, the only thing I have the energy to do is surf the net and watch backlogged episodes of House Hunters on DVR.

2. I love rhubarb. I'll buy it pretty much any time I see it at the grocery store, and go straight home and make a pie out of it...and then pretty much eat it all myself since my husband is too disciplined to eat pie. If you've never seen rhubarb, it looks like red celery:)

3. When I'm nervous or deep in thought, I rub my eyebrows. I just love the way they feel.

4. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I put my foot in my mouth a lot. I have little tolerance for social norms and hierarchies. I am not a fan of status quo. As a pastor's wife, this sometimes works for me, and is sometimes to my detriment. But I think there is little chance that I am going to change any time soon, so I work on not insulting people, and then I just roll with the rest...

5. I love completely useless television. I am currently a fan of "Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders: Making the Team, Season 3" on CMT. I LOVE it. I really don't know why. I also enjoy "The Hills," and "The Real Housewives of Orange County." Please don't judge me.

6. I hate small talk and I'm terrible at it. I recently left a party in tears because Dave was absorbed by the masses, and I was left alone to make chit-chat with people I hardly knew. It felt like a junior high school dance all over again. For this same reason, I also despise talking on the telephone.

7. I try to keep a bag of tootsie rolls in my freezer at all times. They're better frozen because they take longer to eat...though I usually can't stop with just one handful:)

According to the rules, I am supposed to "tag" seven other people. Quite honestly, I don't even know seven other people who blog. I don't even know if seven people read THIS blog. Sorry, no tags tonight.

Flower Power

2008-11-01T20:22:00.002-05:00

For the past several months, I have found an outlet of sorts with a group of girls in Eufaula. All of us have three year olds and way too much laundry, so we can relate. Last week, the four of us took a floral arranging class where we made these amazing cornucopia centerpieces. Times when I get to be creative make me realize how much of my time is spent maintaining: putting things away, cleaning up, organizing, making meals, washing little faces, brushing teeth and wiping bottoms. I really don't mind doing these things. In fact, I love taking care of my family, but I get so wrapped up in day-to-day stuff that I can easily forget how much more there is to life. Every once in a while, spending an hour playing with flowers is heaven.

Why I Can't Sleep at Night

2008-10-03T19:46:00.005-05:00

I haven't been blogging much lately. It's been a hard year so far, and I don't have a lot of time or energy to write. Also, the subtitle of my blog is "musings of motherhood and the mundane." However, lately, the things on my heart are not mundane, but profound. These days, I'm more in the mood to rant than to muse. When (or if) I ever have the energy, here is a list of potential blog posts mulling around in my head:

-The presidential election. Since Sarah Palin's arrival on the scene, my intelligence has been insulted by the indirect suggestion that because I am a woman, and/or middle class, that Sarah Palin in any way speaks for me.

-Political Correctness and the South- When I moved to Alabama two years ago, it made my skin crawl to listen to people discuss things in terms of black and white. To a certain extent, it still does. Growing up in the very politically correct Southern California, I was taught not to see, or at least not to acknowledge color. I was raised to celebrate diversity. Don't get me wrong; this is a very good and important principle. The difference is, in the deep South, there really isn't diversity, there is black and there is white. It is still very racially divided. So, how then do we live? Do we acknowledge this split, or do we pretend that we are the same? Is it easier to be politically correct when you don't have to apply its principles?

The Identity of a Pastor's Wife- I've not yet come to terms with this role. Honestly, I don't think about myself very often as a "pastor's wife." I think of myself as a mom, or as a teacher, or a wife and daughter; my identity is definitely not tied up in what Dave does for a living. There are several issues, though, specific to his vocation that I struggle with, or question.

The Reality of Poverty- The school that I work at is a very poor, rural county school. It is in the middle of nowhere. The students are bussed in from all over a very large county that has no industry to speak of, and no real cities. The kids at my school are unlike any I have ever taught. The disrespect towards me and each other is astounding. The fighting, both physical and verbal is unbelievable and daily. The apathy breaks my heart. The manipulation of the system, by both parents and students makes my stomach turn. Never in my almost ten years of teaching have I been afraid of being sued by a student. This year, I joined the union SOLELY for the liability insurance. Though I understand the antecedent to this behavior, it doesn't make it easier to deal with every day. I have always, always believed in taking care of the poor and in giving without asking questions. How, when you live in the midst of this, do you continue to claim this ideal and not become hardened?

Ode to Little Girls

2008-09-21T20:49:00.005-05:00

They fight over breakfast

...and make-up among messes

Life is hot dogs and Kool Aid Slides, swings and dirty faces ...and more joy than we could have ever imagined.

Phat!

2008-09-18T19:53:00.003-05:00

Since I don't have a lot of time to write these days, I'm left with posting videos. This is what my crazy husband made while I was at work today...

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Jesus on Broadway

2008-09-11T21:50:00.003-05:00

Watch for the male dance solo. It rocks.

Just for Fun

2008-09-09T22:35:00.003-05:00

These kind of pictures (both smiling, bows still in the hair, no stains on the clothing) don't happen very often, so I thought I would post it. I love them so much it hurts.

Jackson Pollock has Nothing on Us

2008-09-02T00:32:00.006-05:00

To celebrate Labor day, Sadie and Amelia created their first painting together.

Amelia's work on the left, Sadie's on the right, mommy's in the middle

Amelia showing sissy how it's done

Sadie kept trying to lick the brush; Dave reassures me that Crayola products must be non-toxic :)

We topped off the day with a rare, and very much enjoyed bowl of ice-cream!

Happy Labor Day!

Home

2008-09-01T09:59:00.006-05:00

This time of year always summons nostalgia for home. I grew up in Southern California, which is synonymous with traffic, unfettered materialism and an ever-growing mass of people. But, hidden between the throbbing arteries of the 57, 22, and 91 freeways is the unique community of Orange. The city of Orange is a breath of fresh air from the chaos of urban life. It has a small town feel with its tree-lined streets of historic bungalows, the plaza with a fountain at its center, and restaurants like Felix's and Watson's Drugstore that have been around since before I can remember.

The city is also known for its traditions. Every Labor Day, Orange residents, past and present, return as if to Mecca for loukemedes, abbleskivers, and the chicken polka at the Orange International Street Fair. The Street Fair serves as an informal back-to-school social, as classes all over the city used to begin the week after Labor Day. At Christmastime, there is the city-wide tree-lighting ceremony at the plaza, and every Wednesday during the summer, there are concerts at Hart Park. Kids who grow up in Orange don't necessarily yearn to get out; they know what they have and cherish it. Many times, they return to raise their own families there.

My own memories of growing up in Orange are simple. The smell of chlorine from entire summers spent at the Orange High School pool. Long jogs ending downtown with a stroll through an antique store. Watching a quiet city at night from the rooftop of the Chapman University auditorium (illegal, but fun). Hours pouring over books at the Orange Public Library, and then riding home on my bike for dinner. The smell of plaster during ceramics class in Anka Volkelvang's basement. Peppermint ice-cream at the Pink Lady. Lying in bed at my very first apartment, listening to live music waft in the open window from the Ugly Mug coffee house next door. These are the indelible moments of a place that belongs to me, but a place to which I no longer belong.

Until recently, I had never thought about what was meant by the phrase, "you can never go home again." When I returned for a visit this past summer, I realized that, slowly and inevitably, Orange has changed. It's charm is no longer a secret. The historic bungalows that line its streets, now trendy, have been snapped up and lovingly restored by those who are able to keep pace with the astronomical housing market. The downtown businesses such as Orange Lock and Key and Orange Photo have been replaced by upscale bistros and pricey boutiques. The library has tripled in size. Chapman University, once self-contained to a single city block, has bled across Glassell Street and continues to grow. Change isn't a bad thing; the Orange of today is exponentially more hip than the Orange of my youth. It's just that it's no longer simple, and it's no longer home. I suppose if I still lived there, I would celebrate the new arrivals, but from a distance, I mourn a place to which I can never return.

Hell's Fire Hath No Fury

2008-08-28T21:15:00.004-05:00

A few weekends ago on our way to the big city, Dave, the girls and I took a detour through the town of Seale. There's not much left in Seale except my school, the old Russell County Court House (which also just happens to be the oldest municipal structure in the state of Alabama), and some trailers held up by cinder blocks. There's also an elementary school and a small Baptist church, which are directly across the street from one another. I didn't have my camera with me, but I did recreate (word-for-word) the sign in front of said Baptist church with the handy, dandy church sign generator. Is it any wonder so many people hate Christians?

Working Mom

2008-08-16T16:23:00.007-05:00

A general disclaimer: I hope that no one will be offended by the content of this post. However, in remaining true to my original blogging objective, which was to have a forum to write freely, (regardless of whether people read or not), I am compelled to publish my thoughts on this matter.
Three weeks ago, I returned to work full-time for the first time in two years. Since then, I have experienced a host of emotions that I had gladly tucked away in the recesses of my working mom memory. The advent of every school year since the birth of my oldest, Amelia, brings with it a tidal wave of "mom guilt." Dave knows this, and has learned to prepare for weeks of a teary, distant and overwhelmed wife.
You see, I love my children; I love being the first face they see in the morning and the last face they see before they go to bed. I even love wiping their bottoms and taking them to the doctor and working through the kinks of their discipline. Seriously, motherhood is the best, most wonderful, messiest, most difficult job I've ever had. On the other hand, I also love teaching. I love working with teenagers (most of them). I love teaching them that through writing, they can have a voice in the world. I love introducing them to literature that they might never read on their own. I love knowing that I've made a small (and sometimes big) difference in students' lives. Teaching is not just my job; it is my calling. So, you see my conundrum: when I am teaching, I struggle terribly with being away from my kids, and when I stay home, I am restless to teach.
Working is also a financial issue, since my husband is a pastor. Though our church is beyond generous, especially when you consider its size and location, we still do not make enough to be a one income family. It is on this point that I get defensive. Many people have questioned my decision to work, and while ultimately, it is no one's business, their questions and/or comments eat at me, and add salt to an already sore subject. People have said things like,"I could never leave my children all day," and most recently a very well-intentioned, but rather insensitive person told me "I should pray about staying home with my children because they are worth the sacrifice, and that I could have 'my time' later." I'm sure that person had no idea that my praying had already been done and that I cried every day for a week over her comment.
Yes, OF COURSE my children are worth sacrifice. But for us, this is not about sacrifice, it's about financial responsibility. One could argue that if we had faith, God would provide for us, and while I do believe this to be true, I also believe that God helps those who help themselves. I have (and am still paying for) a college degree and feel blessed that I have a way to contribute to our family's need. Yes, my working allows us to see our families which are distributed across the country like Manifest Destiny, but we sure won't be taking a Disney Cruise anytime soon. And yes, our home is large and comfortable, but it is by no means luxurious and in Eufaula, there are very few "middle class" homes like the one we live in; people would be surprised at how little we actually paid for it.
As a child, I watched from across the street as our car was repossessed out of our own driveway. As a senior in high school, I was only able to go on my senior trip to Magic Mountain because a friend anonymously paid for me. I only bring this up to explain why I will probably never be a stay-at-home mom (in the true sense of the word, at least), and I do believe (until I'm redirected) that working is the right thing for me to do. As long as I have children who are not yet self-sufficient, this issue will cause me grief and sleepless nights. However, I also know that life is sometimes a tug of war; a case of situational ethics. What's right for me, is not necessarily right for my next door neighbor. I try my hardest not to judge the decisions that others make because I only see the cards that they choose to lay on the table. The cards that we don't show, are sometimes the cards that determine our paths in life. While my path is arduous at times, I am thankful to be on it. I'm thankful for a husband that supports any decision I make and for my two beautiful children who are the reason this is an issue at all.

Team Burgess

2008-08-04T19:51:00.006-05:00

Today on my lunch break, I called Sadie's daycare provider to see how she was adjusting. After relieving my mind with a good report, she went on the compliment Dave.

"Did he remember to give you a check on Friday?" I asked.

"Oh yes, and this morning, he came in waving a pack of diapers. He was so excited that he remembered. I wish all fathers were as enthusiastic."

I love my husband deeply. I always have and always will, no matter what he does or doesn't do, but this afternoon, I was reminded once again of how blessed I am. It seems like the more kids we add to the mix, and the busier our lives become, the easier it is to impress me with simple gestures. Dave likes to joke that it makes me hot when he does yard work. And I'll admit, it kind of does.

When we first got married, we struggled to work together as a team. He hated how I always left the lights on and the way I loaded the dishwasher and I hated how he would throw his clothes on a pile next to the bed and leave dishes in the sink. We still get frustrated, but I think we've learned better how to serve each other.

When I got home from work today, I realized he had made both beds and put the breakfast dishes in the sink. Maybe he was just hoping to get lucky, but it made me feel loved and appreciated. In the chaos of family, it is easy to dwell on the things that the other person doesn't do and so tonight, I am so thankful to be a part of a great team.

Dirty Minds

2008-08-03T23:00:00.001-05:00

If you ever find yourself teaching middle or high school students, do not abbreviate the following:

Analysis

or

Cumulative

Just don't. I say this from experience.

Sweet Dreams

2008-07-29T22:04:00.003-05:00

Amelia, my oldest, has never liked to go to sleep. When she was a baby, I had to learn to let her cry it out (usually in tears, myself), and this task could sometimes take up to an hour. As a toddler, we had to barricade the doors to eliminate the nightly in-and-out-of-bed dance. As a preschooler, Amelia wields the bedtime weapons of manipulation and negotiation.

"I need my doggy, Mommy." Mom goes and retrieves doggy from under the kitchen table.

"I need cold water." I tell her that she has water in a cup next to her bed already.

"It's not cold; I need cold water." To Amelia, cold water has to have ice cubes. If it doesn't, it's not "cold."

We read 3 stories, we feed the fish, we brush teeth, we pray. Manipulation is complete, now let the negotiation begin...

"But, mommy, I can't sleep here by myself. Rub my back and sing me a song....Puhlease!!!!" I tell her 2 minutes, she says 10 minutes. I say 5 minutes, she says 10 minutes. This can go on and on. It is no small miracle that I ever make it out of her bedroom.

Some nights are better than others. Tonight, I could tell that her little engine was all revved up by the events of the day and after the standard bedtime ritual, I decided to employ a technique suggested to me by a friend. I simply asked, "Amelia, what was the best part of your day today?" Realizing that three year olds struggle with open-ended questions, I told her that the best part of my day was going to pick her up from school and watching her go down the water slide.

Amelia replied, "Well, my favorite part of the day was when you picked me up from school and watched me on the water slide. That was fun." I kissed her, told her I loved her, and she rolled on to her side and snuggled up with her doggy. I could sense that it was O.K. for me to leave.

I guess I have to remember that in the midst of bedtime directives and routines, what she really wants and needs is to spend time with me. All of her manipulations and negotiations are working towards that objective. Parenting a small child (or two, or three...) is a job, but it's also a relationship. Sometimes, I forget that.

Rest for the Weary

2008-07-19T21:55:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow, our family leaves for a much anticipated vacation to northern Wisconsin. I have been visiting my grandparents' summer cabin on Rest Lake since I was six months old, and am so excited to share this place with my own children. When I think about this place, every sense is evoked: the whisper of the trees and clinking wind chimes blown in the breeze, the pervasive aroma of bug repellent, the sun casting streaks of light across the lake as the sun sets late at night.

For mainly financial reasons, I haven't been up to visit since the summer of 2000; the summer my grandfather passed away. We were there for his funeral. That year, my senses were dulled. The trees weren't quite as tall that summer, and the lake was not as brilliant as I had remembered. My grandfather was the patriarch of our family; a jovial man who sang about "pistol packin' momma," loved Jesus, and tended to his garden with the precision of a scientific mind. In many ways, I looked to him as the father figure that I needed and yearned for. Summers on Rest Lake were beautiful because of him.

I think one of two things happen when you have been away from something for a while: it can become glorified to a kind mythic proportion, or you begin to see the thing as it really was. While he was alive, I idealized my grandfather. In his death, I see that though he was an amazing person, he was also human. He could be impatient, he showed partiality to certain grandchildren, and I don't think he was comfortable with my need for a father figure. I don't love him any less because of it.

In my absence from Rest Lake, I have grown up. I am now a wife, a mother and have learned to deal with my own humanity. I don't see the world in absolutes anymore (don't tell the fundamentalists), but in a world painted in slightly muted shades of their former colors. When we arrive tomorrow, I know that I am not returning to the same place I left behind, but I also know that Rest Lake will always be a magical place because the seeds of my childhood are planted there.

Finger Lickin' Good

2008-07-07T20:14:00.003-05:00

The flip side to our sometimes idyllic life here in Eufaula is what Dave and I jokingly refer to as the "Down Home, Down the Street" phenomena; the slogan for the Piggly Wiggly grocery chain. Since this may be difficult to visualize if you have never been to the South, I will provide one of my favorite illustrations.

While sitting at a red light on Eufaula Ave. the other day, I happened to glance to my right and notice a sturdy blond woman in a dark green Pontiac Grand Am. If the light had turned green at that moment, she wouldn't have noticed because she was in the middle of devouring an enormous fried chicken leg. I could tell she was almost through because she was sucking on the ends and licking her fingers. Then, her passenger side window began to go down, almost in slow motion, and I thought to myself, "Oh, no, please lady! Don't perpetuate a stereotype!" But she did it. She threw her chicken bone and accompanying trash on the lawn of the First United Methodist Church, licked her fingers again and drove away.

Ties That Bind

2008-07-01T13:58:00.004-05:00

Edna and Charlie's house on Randolph

Our very first Sunday in Eufaula, Charlie and Edna introduced themselves to us, then proceeded to say how happy they were to finally meet the minister that would perform their funeral. While this sounds morbid, in Charlie and Edna's case, ages 89 and 88 respectively, this was just plain realistic. So, when Charlie passed away on Saturday, weeks shy of his 90th birthday, I thought of the prophetic words of our first meeting with a smile.

The last time we visited with Charlie and Edna was on my birthday. Our family was out for a walk and they were shelling pecans on their front porch. As we walked by, they called to us and welcomed us up. They brought out cookies and dolls for the girls and Dave and I shelled a few pecans. We didn't stay long because the girls were becoming restless, though we promised to come back sometime and stay a bit longer.

At the visitation last night, Edna flitted from person to person, assuring us that she was doing fine and that Charlie's passing had in fact been a blessing. Around her neck, she wore a gold chain with Charlie's wedding ring. They had been married for over 60 years. Mayor Jaxon shared that his elderly mother, who lives across the street from the Presbyterian church and watches from her window all the comings and goings, had called him after church last week to say that she was concerned that she had not seen Charlie and Edna that morning. Charlie had passed away the night before.

I love Mayor Jaxon's story. I love it because it illustrates a few different things. First, it speaks to the faithfulness of Charlie and Edna; faithfulness to church in the midst of illness and bad weather. This faithfulness was exemplified in all areas of their lives: faithfulness to family; faithfulness to friends; faithfulness to one another. This story also beautifully defines the kind of town we live in. People watch out for each other here. We know what's going on in each other's lives, for better or for worse. At its worst, it can be annoying; at its best, it is a blessing.

When Dave performs a funeral service in Eufaula, it has to be authentic because he knows and cares for the people here. He knows their stories; where they came from and why they're here. Many times, he knows their children and grandchildren, too. We pray for Edna's comfort, and we know that this community will embrace her like family.

Oceans of Fun

2008-06-08T12:49:00.005-05:00

Last week, our family took our first trip down to Panama City, Florida. Though we've heard nothing but rave reviews from Alabama friends, the only image I was able to conjure was that of inebriated, scantily clad teenagers jumping from balconies and yelling, "Spring Break!" (Thanks, MTV). As you can see from the pictures, the beach was phenomenal. The sand was like snow (except HOT) and the water was clear, warm and pristine. We picked up seashells by the handful. The girls made sandcastles. We all thoroughly enjoyed our day.

Girls Night Out

2008-05-22T23:40:00.000-05:00

Being the mother of young children can be described in many ways: rewarding, challenging, precious, exhausting, and fulfilling. It is all of those things and so much more in ways that words cannot adequately describe. I love my sweet children and I love being their mommy. And to be clear, I wouldn't trade my current station in life, not ever. But I will be a realist for a moment and add a lesser acknowledged descriptor to the list: being the mother of young children can be Isolating. Yes, with a capital "I."

Tonight I was invited to dinner with a few women that I have met through Amelia's preschool. All of them are fun, intelligent women with multiple children and demanding careers. As we sat down to talk, the one obvious common denominator between the four of us was that we were starved for female companionship. Some of us more than others. I know I am somewhere near the top of that list. I realized that since I moved to Alabama nineteen months ago, I could think of only 3 other times that I have gotten together with other women, sans children, just to hang out. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to hear how ALL of their husbands are messy, especially when left alone with the kids, and that their 3 year olds refuse their naps, or that I'm not the only one with post pregnancy back fat and deflated boobs.

Sometimes, when you are embroiled in the business of toilet training, tantrums and time-outs, it is easy to forget that many women around the world have done this before you, and are, in fact, going through it along side you. Tonight, between the Dos Equis and tortilla chips, I felt like I had allies; I felt as if I wasn't alone in this terrifying and wonderful journey of motherhood. After more than two hours, I left the restaurant refreshed, more connected to my own center, more ready than ever to dive back into my crazy world over on Marina Dr.

Second Child Syndrome

2008-05-19T01:36:00.000-05:00

Here is Sadie engaged in one of her favorite activities

The other day as I was going back through some of my older posts, I realized that I haven't written much about my youngest child. So, I thought I would write a brief sketch of her life as a 14 month old.

Sadie: Destructively Delicious

Despite the fact that she takes everything out of every drawer she can find a way into and loves to splash in toilet water (especially after sister has forgotten to flush), little Sadie is a doll. This morning, Dave brought her in to bed with us before anyone else was awake. She layed down on the pillow between us and took turns kissing me, then Dave, back and forth for about 5 minutes, then curled up beside me for snuggle time. Currently, her favorite book is Moo-Baa-La La La by Sandra Boynton, though Barnyard Dance, Runaway Bunny and Goodnight Moon are also big hits. Sadie talks a lot, all the time and tries to copy many simple words I say to her. Her current lexicon includes: Daddy (both Dave and I are "daddy" at this point), Mimi (Amelia), kitty, doggy, tree, baby, nana (banana), hi, bye-bye, hot and duck. She also has become proficient in the baby signs for "please" and "thank-you." She loves to dance to old funk favorites like "Brick House" and "Jungle Boogie". She loves milk and grapes and quesadillas and peanut butter sandwiches. She loves to rub food in her hair. She loves to follow Amelia around the house and steal her toys. She loves to be held. She loves her dad. She does not love afternoon naps or the word "no." She does not love the nursery worker at church. She wants to be bigger than she is. She is loved beyond measure.

And there you have it, my sweet Sadie in 5oo words or less. Sorry, that it took mommy this long to give you some blog time!

Little Girls

2008-04-11T03:18:00.000-05:00

In January, our good friends took Amelia to see the musical "Annie." Though I was nervous that she was still a little young and would get restless during the production, she was spellbound by the little girl who "has red hair like me." Ever since, it has been all things "Annie" all the time. We now have a cat named "Annie" (this is a story unto itself), we taped a cheesy Hallmark Channel version of "Annie," which she watches at least 3 times a week, and her preschool teacher told me that while she is playing, she will belt out, "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" at the top of her lungs.

Tonight, while I was about to serve dinner, Amelia began whining for her food. Trying to prompt her to say please, I asked, "What do you say?"

Wide-grinned, she replied, "I love you, Miss Hannigan!"

Sunsets and Soccer Games

2008-03-27T21:03:00.000-05:00

Tonight, Dave and I took the kids to Wendy's for an early dinner and then to Eufaula High School for the men's soccer game. Two of the students that I work with are on the team and after a season of cold, rain and sick children, I decided tonight would be a perfect night to watch them play. We spent an hour walking Amelia up and down the stadium steps so she could see "the top" and explaining how the boys in red clothes were trying to get the ball away from the boys in the black clothes. At the half, just as the sun was beginning to set, I scanned the stadium for Dave and Amelia, who had embarked on yet another trip up the steps. They were sitting side by side, content, at the very top corner. Dave called to me and pointed at the sky. The remaining clouds were shadowed with various shades of pinks and purples and melted into a buttery horizon. We all just sat there a minute and took it in.

The past two weeks, I have been homesick. Not for any particular place; just for anywhere other than south Alabama. But on nights like tonight, I am reminded of why we moved here. We are living the life that we hoped for. Of course, it is possible to appreciate a sunset in Southern California, but the fact of the matter is that we didn't. It was hard for us to slow down.

Tonight was a great night. We shared french fries with our little girls, we watched Israel and Ignacio tear it up on the soccer field and we were rewarded with a beautiful sunset. The complexity of our lives has been extensively diminished by our move here. Our calender is a little more empty than it used to be, and sometimes, I'll be honest, I just don't answer the phone. I am learning, very slowly, to enjoy life. Maybe it took our move to Alabama, or maybe it is my old(er) age kicking in. Whatever the reason, I have never been happier.

Looking Back

2008-02-18T15:24:00.000-06:00

"We're all on our own, aren't we? That's what it boils down to.
We come into this world on our own- in Hawaii, as I did, or New York, or China, or Africa, or Montana- and we leave it in the same way, on our own, wherever we happen to be at the time- in a plane, in our beds, in a car, in a space shuttle, or in a field of flowers.
And in between those times, we try to connect along the way with others who are also on their own.
If we're lucky we have a mother that reads to us.
We have a teacher or two along the way who make us feel special.
We have dogs who do stupid dog tricks we teach them and who lie on our bed when we're not looking, because it smells like us, and so we pretend not to notice the paw prints on the bedspread.
We have friends that lend us their favorite books.
Maybe we have children, and grandchildren, and funny mailmen, and eccentric great-aunts, and uncles who can pull pennies out of our ears.
All of them teach us stuff. They teach us about combustion engines and the major products of Bolivia, and what poems are not boring, and how to be kind to each other, and how to laugh, and when the vigil is in our hands, and when we just have make the best of things even though it's hard sometimes.
Looking back, telling our stories to one another, we learn how to be on our own. "

Lois Lowry, children's author, in her book Looking Back

A Fish Named Sue

2007-12-15T20:19:00.000-06:00

For Amelia's 3rd birthday, Dave and I decided to expand our family. So, last Friday night we drove 54 miles to Columbus, Georgia where we purchased a lovely little Beta fish, some faux seaweed for its tank, and about 6 months worth of Beta fish food (are we being optimistic?). When we got home, we set up the tank and put it next to Amelia's bed for her special birthday surprise.

The next morning we awoke to shrieks of joy. She wants a puppy, but for now a Beta fish will more than suffice. Dave and I sat down with her on her bed and asked what she wanted to name it.

"Well, how about Sue," she said without hesitation.

Sue it is. Life ain't easy for a fish named Sue.

One Year in Eufaula

2007-11-12T13:45:00.000-06:00

It's been a little over a year now since our family pulled up stakes in California and headed for the cotton fields of lower Alabama. We've survived tornado season and one of the hottest summers on record, even by Southern standards. We are used to the smell of the paper mill that blows into town from time to time; an aroma akin to a stale dirty diaper, and we are used to the pervasive lack of urgency that I suspect is not only a facet of life in the South, but of life in any small town.

Amelia is assimilating well to our new reality. She wears big bows in her ponytails and says things like, "Mommy, I have to tee-tee," and "Let's go over thay-er," or "Can I play with your hay-er?"She has friends with names like Sarah Elizabeth and Mary Helen and Colby Mac (double names are as popular as seersucker in the South- off the top of my head I can think of at least 3 people I know named Mary Frances). She's used to a simpler life now- one without freeways or department stores or amusement parks. Saturday afternoons mean swinging in the backyard or going over to the neighbor's house to say hello. This is the life that we wanted for her, and for ourselves.

Dave and I are adapting, but not necessarily assimilating. Beyond the big bows, seersucker suits and Sunday afternoon fried chicken buffets, there is another reality to life in the gentile south. It is the reality that stereotypes are made of. To some degree, any stereotype has a basis of truth, and this is what I have found here. For now, I'll just leave my commentary at that; I haven't lived in the South long enough to be an authority or to understand its rich history and complexity. We will never be true Southerners, but we are soaking in the life that our time here offers us. We have met people that we love and who love us and the slower pace affords us time to enjoy our children. This is all we need.

Naughty By Nature

2007-07-29T21:38:00.000-05:00

One day last week, Dave and I officially earned our parenthood stripes. Amelia was up three times in the night (and up for good by 5:45am), kicked and screamed through her diaper change (NOT good for anyone involved), writhed and wailed while being dressed, asked for frosted mini wheats only to reject them minutes later in favor of mommy and daddy's granola. More screaming. All of this before 8am. Throughout the rest of the morning, she followed me from room to room, whining, "play in my playroom, mommy," and effectively eliminated any of my remaining personal space by lodging herself in between me and the changing table/kitchen counter/bathroom sink. When I settled in on the couch to feed Sadie, she tried to remove her from my lap, crying, "put Sadie down, pick Mia up!" Even my final reserve, Playdough, which I save for very special occasions, was a total bust. She mixed all the colors together and finally decided to eat it- not because it looked good, but because, of course, I had told her not to.

Though this was not a typical day for Amelia, it was not all together untypical, either. Especially lately. I don't talk to many people about my difficulties, but those who I have spoken to assure me that all of these things are a product of the terrible two's, that this is a stage every child goes through and that I shouldn't worry so much about her. But I worry. I worry that she will become the bratty pastor's kid that everyone whispers about. I worry that I'm not providing enough structure or discipline. I worry that I'm providing too much structure or discipline. I worry that our move across country has made her insecure and created her various misbehaviors. This stuff keeps me up at night.

This is our first performance as parents, and unfortunately we didn't get a dress rehearsal. And though Dave and I are doing the best we can, we are undoubtedly screwing up at least a few things as we try to raise her. My mother, who is very often my sounding board and my voice of reason, encouraged me on that difficult day to concentrate on all the things that we're doing right with Amelia. That helped because she really is a great little kid. She says please and thank-you (most of the time). She loves her baby sister and squeals with delight when she sees her. Every night she gets on her knees beside her bed and prays for her friends ("thank-you for Addison and help Michael to feel better..."). She loves to help out and is crazy about our special "mommy and Mia" trips to the Piggly Wiggly or Walmart. And last week when Dave took her to the park, while he was pushing her on the swing she exclaimed, completely unsolicited, "Daddy, you rock my socks." There's nothing better than that.

And so we push on. We endure her tantrums and savor her sweetness, knowing that every stage along the way will most likely have this duality. Something I tell friends who have had new babies is that there is no perfect stage. There are great things and difficult things about every stage, and it is important to appreciate it all because before you know it, they're not babies anymore. Even though there are days like last week and her 3rd birthday seems a million miles away, I am more in love with her now than ever.

Glory Days

2007-06-15T23:40:00.000-05:00

After three months of sleep deprivation, countless hour long drives to the pediatrician's office and a tantrum prone two year old who was sure she was being replaced, our life as a family of four has finally settled into a manageable and wonderful routine of joyful chaos. We've cleared up Sadie's eczema, fattened her up so she can sleep through the night, and taken Amelia on lots of special trips to the library and swimming pool (sans Sadie, of course) to reassure her that she still has an important place in our family.

Though not tantrum-free, Amelia is much more secure in her role as an older sister. She now greets the baby each morning with the exclamation, "Ooooooh, Saaaaaadie (insert burgeoning southern accent here)" and a big, and increasingly gentle, kiss on the forehead. Sadie is now entering what Dave calls "The Golden Age of Baby." Our efforts at keeping her fed and diapered all these months have finally been rewarded with enormous, full body smiles; she's all dimples and gums and eyes. Her daddy and I are suckers for it.

Motherhood, as a vocation, is a whole lot harder than I ever thought it would be. It takes all of my heart and most of my energy. Probably the most challenging part of the whole deal is the lack of time that I have for myself. Sometimes, I just want to read a book without falling asleep before I get through the first page. Or watch "Ellen" uninterrupted. Or eat a dish of ice cream without having to share. And someday, I will again. But for now, I try to savor it because this life we are living is the life I always dreamed about. It's full, but it is fulfilling. These are our glory days.

The Real Slim Sadie

2007-03-22T14:36:00.000-05:00

Welcome to our family, Sadie!

Actually, at 9lbs and 7 ounces, not so slim. Sarah Vassar Burgess arrived a little earlier than we expected on March 14, 2007. She is beautiful. To us, she looks like Amelia with dark hair, though we're not completely sure yet where that characteristic came from. We are overjoyed to finally have a new baby to fill up the crib and keep us awake at night again (it's not so bad).

One of the most precious moments of my life was the first time I saw Amelia after Sadie was born. We live an hour away from the hospital, so I hadn't seen her in two days and missed her terribly. Daddy sent her into the hospital room by herself while he stood outside the door. In her arms was a bouquet of flowers. Her little face lit up when she saw me and of course, I was in tears. From the door, I heard daddy say, "Give mommy the flowers..." At that, Amelia grabbed an enormous handful of petals from the bouquet and placed them in my hand. And her first thoughts on her new little sister: "I like Sadie. I want to hold Sadie." We are blessed.

Big Girl Bed

2007-03-06T20:49:00.001-06:00

As Dave and I prepare to welcome a new baby into our family, our first baby, Amelia, has taken the first step away from her babyhood and into (gasp) what we call the "big girl bed." One "oh-my-gosh-what's-this-parenting-thing-really-all-about" moment that remains crystal clear in my memory took place at Amelia's two month old appointment at the pediatrician's office. A little girl, about two and a half, was sitting with her mother across the aisle from us in the lobby. As I listened to the mother lamenting on her cell phone, I gathered that the little girl was in the office because she had thrown herself out of her crib and on to the hard wood floor of her bedroom and had been acting pained and drowsy ever since. I remember looking at my serene little infant in her carrier on the floor beside me and wondering if we would ever get to that stage. Maybe my child will skip that stage, I thought to myself. Wouldn't that be nice.

Amelia's timing is impeccable, really. Three weeks before her world is about to get rocked to its foundation, our mischievous little girl decided that this would be a really good week to start throwing herself out of her crib. And when I say "throw," it's not a hyperbole in any way. Dave watched her on Monday as she lifted one leg over and then flung herself with all of her might out of her little prison. That was enough for us. Within hours, we had disassembled her crib, brought out her new bedding (I was prepared, knowing this moment was at hand) and had a heart to heart with our two year old about the benefits of a sleeping THROUGH THE NIGHT in a real bona fide bed. We read her a story, sang her a song and then said good night. Forty-five minutes of screaming and a little bribery later, she finally curled up with her stuffed Elmo and doggy and fell asleep. As parents, Dave and I have not had a prouder moment.

Sweet victory!

Whistling Dixie

2007-03-01T20:15:00.001-06:00

January and February were the most homesick months that I've had here in Alabama. And I've struggled to put my finger on exactly why that is. The cockroaches are a fading memory. We have a beautiful new home. I've even met a few people I would consider friends. Yet, I've spent the past two months racking up phone bills and feeling like a little piece of my heart was missing.

It could've been the weather. Or maybe it's because my mom was here in December. But most likely, it's because the euphoria of living in Eufaula has been replaced by the reality of living here. And the realization that we're not going home again. We're not just passing through; we live here. We have Alabama driver's licenses and Alabama tags on our cars. When we return to California for a visit, we will inevitably be introduced as "friends from Alabama," a label I'm not yet fully comfortable with.

Tornadoes and NASCAR obsession aside, Alabama is not altogether a bad place to live. People welcome you into their community and treat you like family. We've received more covered dishes and baby gifts than we know what to do with. Plus, there is a lack of pretense with most people that I find refreshing; people generally say what they mean and mean what they say. There's a lot to appreciate about this place and I'm really trying to open my heart and mind to the potential of being here a while. But I have to let go of a few things first.

I never ever considered my life in California to be glamorous in the least, but as I pull my car into the parking lot of Young's Bait and Tackle for my drink every morning on the way to school, I realize that it was a pretty cushy existence. What it really comes down to for me is learning to appreciate wherever I am, because it's likely I'll miss it when I'm no longer there. Someday, in the distant future, when I'm once again living in the big city, I'm sure I'll mourn the Bait and Tackle shop on Lakeside Drive that would order cases of Power Bars just for me; I'll shed a few tears over Howell's Paint Store that would meet me outside at my car with my order and still operates on a customer tab. And undoubtedly, the piece of my heart that is missing right now will be filled in with lots of new friends- new people to love. Maybe Alabama isn't so bad after all.

Thankful

2006-11-26T14:39:00.000-06:00

Our first Thanksgiving in Eufaula was a wonderful day. We invited a few people over who were in similar situation to us and ate ourselves silly. I must admit, however, that I didn't cook. The oven in our rental home is broken; it takes almost an hour to cook a frozen pizza. Thus, we ordered a 12 pound turkey and all the fixings from one of our local grocery stores, the Winn Dixie.

Later in the evening, after our company had left, we walked down to a new friend's home to share in their annual Thanksgiving tradition: a low country boil. Basically, a low country boil consists of sausage, potatoes, shrimp, and ears of corn all boiled together in an enormous pot in the backyard. We talked, sat by the bonfire and made new friends.

Here are a few photos from the day.

I had fun setting the table!Our guests: Robert and Lynn Murphy; Van Smith

Amelia enjoying the turkey

We told her to smile and this is what we got...:)Happy girl!

First Sunday in Eufaula

2006-11-02T12:58:00.000-06:00

A man from our new church took these photos of Dave's first Sunday at First Presbyterian Church of Eufaula

The Processional (people don't like to sit in the first five rows)

Dave speaks passionately about the Reformation

A full church!

A bagpipe concert in the garden after church

Amelia playing in the garden

Half Full or Half Empty?

2006-10-26T02:43:00.000-05:00

Five Things I Love About Eufaula So Far:
1. Sweater weather
2. Chocolate covered pecans (delivered by the pound)
3. The choir director and his wife who washed our windows in the dark before we arrived.
4. The "Playground of Dreams"
5. Sonic drive-through

Five Things I Hate About Eufaula So Far:
1. Roaches the size of my big toe
2. Men who sit shirtless on their front porch in 50 degree weather
3. No pumpkin patches
4. Cars with special "camoflauge" paint jobs (we've seen several)
5. Corporal punishment is alive and well in Eufaula City Schools

Sweet Home Alabama

2006-08-21T21:41:00.000-05:00

The many months of our discernment process has finally birthed a decision: the Burgess family is heading to Eufaula, Alabama. Eufaula is a town of about 14,000 people and is located directly across the Chatahoochee River from Georgia. The nearest bookstore is 50 miles away, as is the nearest movie theater, obstetrician or shopping mall. Having lived the majority of my life in the urban paradise that is Southern California, I have been questioned as to whether this move to small town America is something I'm really ready for. I guess ignorance is bliss at this point. But I think I am ready for it. I'm ready for a little bit of quiet; for a place where stores close at noon on Saturday and don't open again until Monday; for a place where the hardware store still operates on a customer tab. For where I am in my life, this slower pace appeals to me.

Roots

2006-07-29T02:28:00.000-05:00

About a month ago, as we were preparing to place our home on the market, Dave and I spent an afternoon re-landscaping the planter of our backyard patio. During the busy year, we had sort of let it overgrow in some areas and wither in others. It was a ratty mess of dying Queen Anne's Lace and leafless fruit trees. It was so bad, we decided to rip it all out and start over. So, we went to Lowe's and bought some hearty flowers that would thrive in the Saharan-like composition of our soil and in the unrelenting sunlight that the placement of our patio affords. It's a tough life for plants back there.

As we got down to the business of tearing out the mostly dehydrated plants, we hit a bit of a snag with the fruit trees. While most of the other plants came easily out of the dry soil, the fruit trees, our near death, stick-figure fruit trees, refused to be uprooted. We pulled, we cajoled, we took a spade and dug at their bases, only to find that while they looked as if their numbers were up, their roots had taken hold deep in the soil base. They had almost literally become a part of the property. So, we left them. And watered like crazy. A month later, our nearly departed fruit trees are experiencing a renaissance. They have leaves and lemon buds and are growing like hungry infants. We are so glad that their roots defied our expectations.

The imminence of our move across country has led, subconsciously or not, to another kind of pulling up of roots. In the past month, especially, I am aware that I have begun the process of mentally tugging a bit at the different friendships and other relationships in my life as I prepare to leave. Inevitably, some are going to wither and fade away, while others have unexpectedly developed roots so deep that they have become a part our family for a lifetime.

Moving is always traumatic and I know that the coming months will hold many tears and even more uncertainty. Though, I must admit, in many ways I am kind of looking forward to starting fresh and replanting. Whether it be in the rich red earth of Alabama or in the sandy soil of St. Louis, the landscape of our new garden will undoubtedly be different than the one we have here. But we know our "fruit trees" will always be where we left them and hopefully, those roots will only continue to deepen.

The Edge of Reason

2006-07-04T10:35:00.000-05:00

Dave and I made a decision tonight about our already sizzling social life: we either have people over to our house or we hire a babysitter when we go out. At eighteen months, the toddler stage has done us in; we're finished with social outings where we linger over cocktails, appetizers and conversation with adults. For a while, at least.

This decision comes on the heels of several attempts at having dinner at the homes of friends who are almost, but not quite yet parents themselves. The latest attempt left me covered in vomit (twice) and feeling like an annoying friend, a bad mom and a terrible conversationalist. Upon our hasty departure just after the vomit and right before dinner was about to be served, I said to our host, "Thanks for everything and I hope that we didn't scare you!"

To which she replied, "Too late."

Subconciously, I was hoping that she would say it was alright; that the chaos we had brought to her house that evening was endearing, not annoying; that we were still fun to be around. The reality is that if one is not a parent yet, the energy and curiousity of someone else's eighteen month old is cute...for about an hour.

In Amelia's toddlerhood, Dave and I are getting jumped in to the business of being parents. We are learning more and more about the epic struggle between what we want and we need versus what she wants and she needs. The two are opposing forces looking for compromise: to work or not to work, to go out or to stay at home, to keep your sanity or watch an episode of Barney. What I'm finding is that more often it is not a compromise at all, but a choice. And she wins everytime. It doesn't feel like sacrifice, though, and that's because she's not someone else's eighteen month old. She's mine and this is her time.

2006-06-22T22:48:00.000-05:00

Dance and the World Will Dance With You!

...Or maybe you'll just be that weirdo that everybody else watches. I love it! This is a pure and unadulterated good time. Sometimes I wish I was this guy. I stole this from my friend Melodie. Enjoy!

"Mr. Orange"

2006-06-20T01:35:00.000-05:00

I don't know why it didn't occur to me to post this before. A wonderful old friend was killed in a head-on collision almost one month ago. This horrible accident has given me pause for several reasons, one of which I wrote about a few posts back. Another is that he leaves behind a wife, Bridget and a 3-year-old daughter, Kaitlyn. Those of us who are married and those of us who have children can especially empathize with the overwhelming emotional and financial responsibility of having to continue on without their spouse. For that reason, a fund has been set up in his daughter's name. Steve Ambriz gave an incredible amount to a community that he loved, and now the community has the opportunity to give back to his family. You may or may not have known Steve, but if you are able and feel inclined, donations can be made at the following website:

www.kaitlynfund.org

Or can be sent directly to:
Kaitlyn Ambriz Scholarship Fund
1940 N. Tustin Avenue
Suite #103
Orange, CA 92865

Please say a prayer for Steve's family...

Nine to Five: The Reality

2006-06-15T22:45:00.000-05:00

As I said before, reality has set in. In a big way. While my nature tempts me to base my assessment of stay-at-home motherhood on this week alone, I am aware that this, like anything new, will take time and patience and a few prayers. That having been said, here is a typical day-in-the-life thus far:

8:15- Dave leaves for work; I panic as I consider the eight or so hours that stretch infinitely before me until he comes home again.
8:30- Amelia and I go to aerobics; the instructor sings along to pretty much every song. As if getting my desperately out- of- shape booty kicked all over the San Marcos Community Center wasn't bad enough.
10:30- Call Dave to ask if he knows where the pool key went; engage in witty banter with his secretary.
11:00-Water the plants in the backyard and spray Amelia with the hose (she loves it).
11:15- Make up another excuse to call Dave (i.e.- What time is the graduation party on Saturday?); apologize to his secretary for calling again; engage in more witty banter.
12:00- Make Amelia Macaroni N'Cheese for lunch. And peaches, from a can.
12:30- Put Amelia down for a nap. Pick up the living room. Do the dishes. Start the laundry; get sidetracked by The Jonbenet Ramsey E! True Hollywood Story. Correction: not just sidetracked, engrossed...
1:30- Dave calls; asks what I'm doing. I confess.
2:30- Amelia wakes up. We go to Sam's Club to pick up pictures; I buy a diet coke; peruse the aisles for things I don't need.
3:30- Call Dave again (his secretary leaves at 3) and ask him what time he is going to be home so I can plan dinner.
4:00- I make dinner; Amelia trashes the living room.
4:30- Take a "walk" around the block; I walk, Amelia runs. We visit the tot lot. She sees a dog, chases it, yelling, "woof" "woof!"
4:45- Pick up the living room.
5:00- Dave FINALLY arrives home. We eat dinner; Amelia throws half of her food on to the floor.
6:00- I pick up the living room; Amelia trashes it; I pick up the living room; Amelia trashes it; I give up.
6:30- Give Amelia a bath; put her in her pajamas; brush her teeth; read her "Guess How Much I Love You" and tear up at the sweet ending.
7:00- Put Amelia to bed.
7:10- Pick up the living room. Victory!
10:00- Fall asleep watching a re-run of The Daily Show.

It's not glamorous and I didn't expect that it would be, but it's FAR from the fanatasy I had envisioned. The first week wasn't, anyway. When all is said and done; when Amelia is fast asleep in her crib and the living room is finally picked up for the night, I know that staying home is the best decision that we could make for our family. I'll grow into it. And lest I become an irritation to my husband and a thorn in the side of his secretary, I'll learn how to not only be at home with Amelia, but how to be at peace at just being with Amelia. That's where the fantasy began in the first place.

Nine to Five: The Fantasy

2006-06-15T21:24:00.000-05:00

I am in the midst of a career change. Last Wednesday, I packed up the rest of my files, said good-bye to my colleagues and moved all my "teacher stuff" into storage. Indefinitely. Usually, the end of a school year is liberating; this year it has been frightening. Now an entire week into it, I have experienced the full spectrum of emotions and in this short time developed a more complete respect for the vocation of a stay-at-home mom.

This was a particularly difficult year for me professionally and I spent a good deal of it romanticizing the idea of staying home. In my mind I weighed the options: being with my sweet little girl or combatting hormonal defiance. The choice seemed easy. I would learn to cook gourmet delicacies, have dinner ready at six every evening, and keep the house spotless. I would have time to read all the books I've ever wanted to read and I would also take up a new hobby like quilting or gardening. I would never again serve Amelia Spaghetti-O' s or frozen fishsticks or canned apricots; instead I would prepare everything from scratch. We would go to the park everyday and do lots of fun crafts like fingerpainting and hand turkeys. In the evening, I would take care of a little light ironing and still have the time and energy for a glass of wine and a game of Backgammon or Scrabble with my husband. It would be a domestic utopia.

And then reality set in...

My Cup Runneth Over...

2006-06-01T22:41:00.001-05:00

Because of the recent untimely death of an old friend, many of my thoughts have centered upon what it means to live life and to live it abundantly. I've spent the the past few days pouring over newspaper articles and blogs, reading tributes to his service in the community and anecdotes about his passion for family and friends. At his funeral on Wednesday, I was moved beyond words to see the number of lives that he touched and am honored to be one of them. When tragedies such as this occur in our midst, life assumes a certain poignancy, a richness, that reminds me to more fully live in the here and now; to not let a single moment escape.

A minute ago, Dave swung open the bedroom door and chuckling to himself, repeated in great length a joke he had just heard. Momentarily annoyed by the disruption, I remembered what I was writing about and tried to put myself fully in that moment, not because the joke was particularly funny (it was an "I guess you had to be there" kind of joke), but because I love that my husband wants to share the silly (and sometimes lame) things of life with me.

Ultimately, I realize that life is made up of a million little moments of which I have just experienced. I'm an expert in how to live fully in the profound moments of my life; I know what's expected of me in that regard. It's the small things; the little moments that I tend to brush aside and minimalize. Those are the moments that I need to cherish the most.

So Big!

2006-05-02T22:17:00.000-05:00

Yesterday as Amelia was running from one end of the living room to the other in hasty pursuit of her stuffed dog, I saw something new in her; something I hadn't allowed myself to see before. My "baby" was no longer a baby at all, but a full-fledged, bona fide little girl.

When I think back to this time a year ago, I remember a quiet infant who couldn't sit up or feed herself. I remember my tidy house and 2 naps a day worth of free time. Now, at 16 months, she is independent and alive; she's found her voice and she knows how to use it. One of Amelia's new found joys is to remove all the pots and pans from the cupboard and bang on them with a wooden spoon. She loves to dance- with or without music, and when I say to her, "Do you want Mommy to read you a story?," she brings me Little Quack or The Touch Me Book and plops herself down on my lap. She also does a stunning rendition of "Head-Shoulder-Knees and Toes," though she generally leaves out the shoulders and knees part. My household is a noisy, toy-strewn, joyous mess. At least until 7pm when she goes to bed.

The baby days are a fading memory. While I miss certain things of her infancy, Amelia-the-toddler is pretty much the best thing since diet coke in a Styrofoam cup. She is a bright and innocent life and through her, I get to see the world as new all over again.

Planting Season

2006-04-03T00:37:00.000-05:00

I have a hard time keeping exciting news to myself. Dave knows this about me and thus, when we decided to "wait" for a while to tell everyone we were pregnant with our second child, he knew it wouldn't take long for me to spill the beans. Subconciously, I thought Dave was out to ruin my fun; I wanted to shout it from the rooftops immediately. Miscarriage was something that happened to other people, not to me. I was a victim of my own reproductive arrogance.

Later that night, a friend who just happened to also be pregnant, just happened to call and I can't remember how we got on the topic, but of course it came up somehow and naturally I had to tell her. By the time I reached my seventh week, I had told a handful of friends (only the ones that asked, of course), a lady at Amelia's gym, the principal of my school, my sister, my mom, my brother and someone in the checkout line of the grocery store. And then I started bleeding.

To make a short story even shorter, I am no longer pregnant. It's funny; I haven't had any trouble keeping this to myself. I haven't been able to bring myself to call even the friends with whom I had originally shared I was pregnant. Though, I did see the lady at Amelia's gym on Saturday and when she asked me how I was feeling, I had to fess up. I think I have begun to develop some perspective on the situation, and with that perspective, a bit of a paradigm shift.

I think this whole thing has made me realize that I have an unhealthy confidence in my own ability to control any situation in my life. If I want a new shirt for work, I go to Old Navy and buy one. If I want another child, well, then by golly, of course I'm going to get what I want. While this is obviously a false analogy, in the past few days I have begun to see that I have a sense of entitlement that I'm not wholly comfortable with. The relative comfort I have enjoyed for the past few years has caused me to forget that this world we live in can be a brutal, unjust place. And this rediscovered epiphany reminded me of something else I had forgotten: grace. All the beauty of my life, every joy, each moment of happiness is a product of grace. Nothing is a promise or a guarantee. Therefore every blessing is just that, a blessing; a gift- not something I deserve.

Amelia, my very independant 15 month old, in a rare moment of submission, let me sing her to sleep last night as she nuzzled on my chest. That's my grace. That's the most tangible way I can think to describe it. I have always worried a lot about losing what I have; about my plans not going the way that I want them to; about letting an unforeseen tragedy destroy my faith. But, strangely, because of this hole in my heart, I have found some new hope in this not-at-all-new-philosophy. May it take root and grow.

The Fragrance of Suburbia

2006-02-21T22:58:00.000-06:00

It was a glorious day. Saturday afternoon. No school for a week. On a walk with my daughter. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The air still maintained a mid-February chill, but it was tinged with a promise of warmer weather. You could smell it. Almost taste it. The aroma was pervasive throughout my short walk around our condominium complex. I liked it; it was clean and fresh, almost like perfume. It reminded me of the overwhelming fragrance of jasmine that accompanied springtime in my old neighborhood. But this definitely wasn't jasmine. Nor any other flower I had ever experienced. I chalked it up to some kind of scrub brush or lavender or other foreign plant indigenous to the hills surrounding our house.

On the walk back towards home, it dawned on me. It was Saturday in the suburbs: laundry day. What I smelled in the air that was not an exotic plant or the promise of spring. It was the aroma of laundry detergent, expelled from two hundred vents in two hundred garages, that saturated the neighborhood.

When Dave and I tell some of the older members of our congregation where we live, we often hear, "I used to hunt bobcats up in those hills" or "That whole area was all chicken farms in my day." I used to vehemently begrudge new developments and cookie-cutter houses and gated communities... until we moved here. Now, I am so thankful for our little postage stamp of property. However, I can't help but wonder what a Saturday afternoon walk in mid-February would have smelled like back then.

Legacy

2006-02-16T23:27:00.000-06:00

Lately, when I look at my 14 month old daughter, Amelia, I wonder what kinds of contributions, besides her red hair, that I will make to the person that she will ultimately become. And then I think about the kind of things that have been handed down to me. This always reintroduces me to a web of gloomy, unresolved feelings about my own heritage. Though I am not a superstitious person, I have often viewed my own destiny through a rather fatalistic lense. I have personally struggled with the patterns of dysfunction and weakness and addiction that I have observed in my lineage, and sometimes wonder if it's a losing battle. I have tried desperately to believe that God will be the change-agent in this equation, but it never quite settled my heart. However, I am no longer the ending place in this lineage. For Amelia's sake (and my own), I have to find crests of strength in a sea of weakness. I have to embrace the strength I find and pass it on.

About a month ago I received a letter. The contents were in response to a request I had made for any sort of anecdotal or geneological information about my paternal grandmother. Because I have no contact with my father, I feel that I have lost any connection that I had to that part of myself. Receiving the letter was like finding a missing piece of a puzzle that had been lost under the couch for years and years. Much of the information I had known in part, but Susie, my dad's half-sister, filled in the blanks and reminded me that I belong to a different legacy.

I knew my grandmother, Ura Mae, was born in a small Texas town to poor, uneducated parents. I knew that she was one of thirteen children and that she used to play paper dolls under the dining room table because it was one of the only places that she could find to be alone. I also knew that she eventually married a total of three times, the first when she was sixteen, and had three children by three different men. I have seen the haunting pictures of Margie, her first child, who died of bone cancer at the age of twelve. And I have heard stories about her second husband, Mac, who was killed by the Japanese on Wake Island during World War II. I know that she was heartbroken when her only son abandoned his wife and children and that it would've crushed her to know that after she died, her two surviving children fought for years over her estate and eventually stopped speaking altogether. Her life was one of tragedy, heartbreak and despair.

But that's only half the story. My grandmother completed her high school education through correspondence in 1955 and in 1972, received a degree in English from San Diego State University. She designed and taught a course on conservatorship at the local junior college until just before she died in 1994. For several years, she was the Sunday school superintendent of her church and also served as president of volunteer organizations around the San Diego area. She was interested in social justice and rarely turned down a worthwhile cause. She kept her 4'10 frame in tip-top shape by exercising everyday in her garage, though she did enjoy a bowl of Heavenly Hash ice cream every night before bed. She loved her grandchildren so much that when her son proved financially and emotionally irresponsible, she provided all three of them with a college education. She possessed intelligence, tenacity and unimaginable strength.

That's the whole story, or at least for now, the one that I know to tell. And it's the story that I claim for my daughter. Someday, when I tell Amelia about her spunky great-grandmother, I will share the tragedy, only as it serves to illuminate the beauty of who she became. That legacy belongs to me, and now it belongs to Amelia. What she chooses to do with it is up to her.

Cure for the Winter Blues

2006-02-12T20:35:00.000-06:00

O.K., so maybe the term "winter blues" means something a little different in San Diego than it does in, say, North Dakota, but everyone everywhere gets the blahs once in a while. Especially during this time of year in California when it is too warm to wear a sweater, but not warm enough for a tank top. Well, I think I may have found a remedy. On Saturday, I had my first legitimate haircut in over two years. And by "legitimate," I mean that it cost more than ten dollars and I wasn't left with hair that was longer on one side than the other. Yep, I splurged and got the real deal...It was a scalp-scrubbin', deep-conditioning, leave -with- a- free- bottle- of- hair-straightener good time. My hairdresser Kevin is a magician, I'm convinced. I sat down in his chair a frumpy, over-extended hausfrau and left the place feeling like a Pantene model, swinging my new coif from side to side and casting flirty glances at myself in full length mirrors. For anyone out there in need of an end of winter pick-me-up, I highly recommend a good haircut. It's amazing what a little snip-snip will do for the spirit.

They Love You, They Hate You, They Steal Your Laptop...

2006-01-30T21:03:00.000-06:00

Today was just one of those days. I even said that to Dave this morning when Amelia, who is cutting her 1-year molars, woke up screaming at 4am. I said, "Today's going to be one of those days." I didn't know how right I was.

I could make a laundry list of all the little things that went wrong from the moment I woke up, but I have now forgotten what they are. It doesn't even matter anymore. I don't think those little things ever mattered, really. They were minor inconveniences; annoyances that continually distract me from the meat and potatoes of daily life. And they pale in comparison to what happened later.

3rd period, a group of boistrous and lively 9th graders, is a class I look forward to. I would venture to say that they are my favorite class. Besides the typical issues of excessive talking, trying to listen to their i-pod on the sly and general homework apathy, they are a fun group of kids who ask great questions and make me look good when I have principal observations. But today as they were filing out of the classroom, one of them lifted my school-issued laptop from off my desk and walked away with it.

I didn't see it; I was collecting classwork outside the door, waving good-bye and reminding them to finish A Samurai's Tale before Friday. Within minutes of returning inside, I realized it wasn't there. I searched high and low; in cupboards and under stacks of papers; I even looked in the ten-gallon trash can right outside my classroom. It was gone. On the way down to the office to report my loss, I thought of the three hours of grading that I had done on Sunday afternoon and the final exam on All Quiet on the Western Front that I had prepared for Friday. I could feel a lump pushing its way up my throat when I thought of the semester's worth of documents that I had not yet copied to my flash drive. At that moment, who took it and why didn't cross my mind. I just wanted it back.

By the end of the day, it was in my hands again. School security had printed off my class roster and interrogated one kid at a time until finally, they found my laptop in Frankie's backpack. Walking up to the office after school to find out what had happened, I began to feel sick to my stomach. My hands started to shake. Now that my laptop had been recovered, I began to think about what this meant for Frankie. I knew he had been arrested. According to the Sheriff, he will most likely be charged be with grand theft. He will definitely be expelled. He might even spend some time in Juvenile Hall. Frankie just turned fifteen.

Tomorrow I am going to talk to my 3rd period class about what things cost. My laptop cost $500; Frankie's decision cost him considerably more. The truth is, he probably didn't realize the full consequences of his actions, or maybe he did and he just didn't care. Either way, it rips my heart out. Most likely, I will never see Frankie again. For the rest of the semester, his empty desk will serve as a reminder that most of the time, we create our own obstacles; our poor choices lead to our own challenges and all of these things boil down to the overused, but indisputable truth that what we make of life is up to us.

Show Me Your Belly!

2006-01-28T16:37:00.000-06:00

This morning Dave and I took Amelia to her baby gym class. Before I had a child of my own, I probably would have thought that the idea of taking a 13 month old to a gymnastics class was a bit silly. And I have to concede that maybe it is. Though there are obvious benefits such as gross motor skill development and socialization, I think a part of me is in this thing for selfish reasons. There aren't many things in this life that have brought me as much joy as watching half a dozen toddlers lifting up their shirts (the instructor incorporates the teaching of body parts into the lesson), all clamoring for the reward of having bubbles blown on their tummies. Amelia doesn't quite get the whole Pavlov-cause-and-effect-thing yet, but she was in bubble heaven nevertheless...and so was I.

Lunchtime Epiphanies

2006-01-22T23:10:00.000-06:00

A few days before the semester ended last year, I was talking with one of my students about my impending departure from Orange County High School of the Arts to a job closer to home. I expressed a bit of my trepidation at leaving the kooky familiarity that defined my present position for a job at a large, public high school. Austin, in many ways, was the quintessential OCHSA student. He was intelligent, creative, eager to learn, cynical of the status quo, though equally empathetic and compassionate. And, most importantly, he laughed at my lame jokes. What would teaching be like without kids like Austin? Upon hearing my concern, Austin, wise beyond his fifteen years, shrugged and said, "Ah, Mrs. Burgess, don't worry about it. Kids are just kids wherever you are."

The new school year began at the large, public high school and as the first class began to file in, I thought of Austin's pearl of wisdom that I had carried with me all summer long. But as the kid with the mohawk strolled past, dropping the f-bomb and ignoring me entirely, it fell to the floor and began to roll under my desk. These were not the kids I had left behind. I spent most of the first semester either bemoaning my current predicament or waiting for "Austin" to show up. He never did.

Enter Tom. Tom's distinction in my own personal teaching hall of fame was that he was the first student I had ever had who managed to slug through the entire first semester without turning in a single homework assignment. Seriously, not one. Though he was bright, he didn't seem to care if he passed or failed. Everyday I would ask, "Tom, do you have your homework?" and everyday he would answer, "Nah, Mrs. Burgess, you know I don't do homework. Later on, I learned that Tom was in the foster care system, had a brother in prison for manslaughter and was, himself, on probation for burglary. I thought of Austin, who happened to be in the same grade as Tom, and the chasm between the two seemed so vast, I began to despair. How could I possibly reach this kid and others like him? I wasn't sure.

Winter break came and went and another semester descended with a few new faces and a fading memory of what had been. One day last week, Tom stopped by my classroom during lunch. The unexpectedness of his visit caught me off guard and I immediately abandoned my Ham n' Cheese Hot Pocket to see what was up. "Mrs. Burgess, I didn't do my homework," he announced with a smirk on his face. The day before I had assigned his class a 100 point project on World War I propaganda. In my mind, I thought, "News at Eleven: Tom did not do his homework... I gave up my Hot Pocket for this?" But Tom continued to stand there, now with an enormous grin on his face, so I kept my sarcasm in check. Finally, opening his backpack, he gloated, "Psych! I did it, Mrs. Burgess! Oh, snap, I got you good!" I was so proud of him that I almost cried. I think I probably jumped up and down. Embarassed by my outburst, Tom attempted to maintain his too-cool-for-school facade and replied, "It's not like I won the Nobel Peace award or nothing." No, Tom, not yet. But it is a small step in the right direction.

It was a small step for me, too. The lesson learned? Austin, the perfect student, was right when he said that" kids are just kids" in any school, in any city, in any state, or even in any country. They love you, they hate you, they push your buttons and make you want to crawl under the desk into the fetal position at the end of the day. But in the end, kids everywhere need approval and acceptance; they need to know that someone believes in them. They need to know that what they do or don't do matters to someone. Hopefully, one of those someones can be me. I still don't have a classroom full of Austins, but maybe that's not what I want anymore. Maybe I want a classroom full of Toms. Because the payoff, when there is one, if there is one, is exponentially greater.

Cheerio Mayhem

2006-01-21T16:30:00.000-06:00

If you've ever had a one year old in your house then you know what I'm talking about. Two months ago, when Dave and I discovered their invaluable utility, I could have been a Cheerio spokeswoman. Suddenly, we could take her out to dinner and for an hour she would be utterly transfixed by the oat-flavored spheres. Cheerios brought tranquility to meal time. But the jig is up. She is on to us. Cheerios no longer appease her appetite or her curiosity. When Amelia sees me coming with the yellow box in my hand, she shakes her head from side to side as if to say, "you don't get it, do you? I'm over those things." Still, I get desperate. So, occasionally, I'll toss a few on her tray, just until I can get dinner ready. From across the room, I can see the look in her eye, the look that says, "oh yeah? I'll show you," as she daintily picks up one Cheerio at a time and drops them onto the floor. Tonight, as I write, Amelia is sleeping soundly in the next room and the dinner dishes are done; all is right with the world. Except for the sea of forsaken Cheerios that lay in waste on my kitchen floor.

Backgammon and Frozen Pizza

2006-01-21T00:00:00.000-06:00

I am a teacher and a mom and a wife. My life is not particularly interesting; my students would likely classify it as "boring," if only they knew that a saucy Saturday night in my house often involves a frozen pizza, a few games of backgammon and 48 Hours Mystery. Nevertheless, at present, my life is fuller than I can handle. I love my vocation ( but not necessarily my job) and adore my family, but have forgotten who I am apart from those two things. Before I met my husband, I could fill volume upon volume of journals. Then, instead of pouring out my heart to the pages, I poured my heart out to him and slowly lost the desire to write altogether. I want to find that again. If anyone reads this or not is immaterial to me; I just think I needed a potential audience in order to reclaim my voice.