The Obits

It's B minus 21 days to the big Four-Oh, and I find myself checking the obituaries with increased frequency. What does this mean? Do I think I will find myself in them?

No, not really. It just seems like there are more parents and grandparents that I know in there, and I don't want to miss anything. I'm not keeping a stockpile of sympathy cards or anything -- although maybe I should. It's a small town and you hate to see somebody you know in the local grocery and be like, "Hey! It's so great to see you! How the heck are ya!" only to find out that they're not so hot because Granny Tvrdik/Pfeninger/Chan/Klimek/Hvezda/Zavadil just passed away.

It's embarrassing. It's a very small town.

It's also a bit of Bohemian neighborhood now that I think about it. And I don't mean in the "disregard for convention" way. I mean in the "Grandma was from the Old Country" way.

During my tenure at the family weekly newspaper, we had to follow a strict news style when writing obituaries. No one "passed away" or "went to meet her Savior." They all died. I notice things are a little more casual in my local obits these days. There are a few more instances of "this union was blessed with three children." That always makes me chuckle. Yeah, they had four kids, but they were only blessed by three of them.

Cyberspace

It's Cyberspace Sarah's birthday today.

And she would like the world to know she's 31.

Actually we had a conversation this morning where she was able to laugh and say that now that she's 31, she can get over the trauma of being 30.

As you know it is now B minus 22 days until I turn 40. I have been trying out the term "middle aged" to speak of myself. That feels awkward. I plan to live to be at least 90, so I can probably wait five more years.

A Poem for Tuesday

This week's poem is from Mrs. Clare's fourth grade classroom. It's Langston Hughes, who is normally not my favorite, but this is nice.

And here's the view of my backyard taken last night. It's getting better.





April Rain Song
Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

You're in the village

My brother-in-law Brennan, Captain America to you, thought I should name today's blog entry, "If it takes a village, where were you guys?" This after Toddler D decided he was going to abdicate our family and sit with a young couple with three girls under the age of four in the back pew at church yesterday.

These little girls are, I am telling you, biz-ee. They are as darling as can be and are usually found singing, dancing, fighting over pencils, whatever it takes on any given Sunday morning. My second born thinks they are tremendous fun and moved right over to where they were playing Ring Around the Rosy and nosed himself between their hands laughing uproariously. If it had been me, I would have given them surreptitious glances all hour, hoping one of them would come over and invite me. Toddler D operates with a different set of rules.

We have tried taking Toddler D to the nursery twice and got called out on the pager both times because D did not want to stay there. Since then we have arrived at church with a backpack filled to the brim with every conceivable game, toy and snack. Mostly Colin makes use of it while D tries to make friends with the people around us.

D didn't seem to be causing any more trouble with the girls than they are usually in , so I just sat there with my back turned away from the sermon waiting for him to cause an infraction I considered worthy of being pulled back into our pew.

Then it happened, he and Sister 2 started jumping up and down in the pew. Sister 2 got pulled down, but what was Young Father supposed to do with my child? I went over to get him. Unfortunately they were in the middle of the pew against the sound board. I could not get to him from either side . . . and this is where Brennan who was running the sound board comes in . . . I figured Brennan who is very tall could reach over the sound board and pluck up my child. But he wasn't there. He was off -- well, I don't know. He'd heard the sermon two times already, maybe he'd gotten the three points. Finally Young Father just grabbed D and handed him over. Pulled away from his friends D started to scream. By this time no one on that side of church was listening to the sermon anymore and, in a rare form of embarrassment for me, I just walked right out the back.

"Where were you?!" I asked Brennan when I saw him.

"I don't know," was his replay. "Maybe if you'd keep track of your child."

With relatives like that . . .

Weight of the world

I was really proud I didn't gain any weight during the Big Anniversary Birthday Birthday cruise, and so I've been proudly celebrating by eating fried shrimp, french fries and homemade ice cream.

The tide has turned. The scale is going the wrong direction.

I come from healthy stock. Large boned stocky farmers. Tall and willowy women. (Review the photo of my great-grandmother there.) I got more of the large bone stock genes than the tall and willowy genes.

I try really hard not to get too focused on weight. Our culture is so hard on women. This particular era expects us to be razor thin, emaciated even. That's not right, and I reject that image. On the other hand, in America, we love value and quantity and don't know when to say no. It's so easy to eat those tasty hot McDonald's fries and ignore the fact that the large size has enough fat and calories for the entire meal. They're so lovely and salty, crispy and good.

No, my exercise has remained the same and even increased because, as we have discussed before, exercise is an essential part of my good mental health plan.

Chocolate chips are not (well, they are, but you know what I mean) and . . . at least for now . . . they have got to go.

Fare thee well beloved friend.

She's paddling up river

So, as you remember, my s'aughter (stepdaughter) Shelby has been here all week after being evacuated from her college along the Red River in Moorhead. The river is going down and classes start on Monday. She has decided to spend a -- no doubt -- quiet weekend with her Mom up in Duluth after helping hold down the fort with The Little Brothers here at Mania Central all week.

I cannot tell what mixed emotions I have about this. I am very thankful that the flooding was not worse. I am glad Shelby can get back into her own predictable routine.

But . . . well . . . I know it's a little on the selfish side . . .

It was like a live-in nanny ALL week!! I mean to tell you! I caught up on my housework . . . well, you know, such as it is. I read two books. I played spider solitaire. (Yes, Rita, I was cheating again.) Oh, man! To have her here all the time! To have another adult to talk and to listen!

I just want to stand in the door holding her suitcase hostage. "Don't go!" I want to yell. "Don't leave me! You are a valuable member of our family unit!! I'LL MISS YOUUUUUUUUUU!!"

Sigh. I won't.

She is a lovely young woman with a life and interests of her own. I cannot imagine how she's put up with so much Little Brother love all week. It's time. Fine. It's time.

But we're not that far away. Maybe she should start coming down more on weekends. You know, like every weekend.

Autism Awareness

It's Autism awareness month. According to the Autism Society of Minnesota:

Autism is estimated to occur in as many as 1 in 166 individuals (Center for Disease Control and Prevention). Autism is four times more prevalent in boys than in girls and knows no racial, ethnic, or social boundaries. Family income, life-style, and educational levels do not affect the chance of a child having autism. Autism is currently thought of as a “spectrum disorder.” This means that the severity of symptoms differs in people with ASD.

Colin is at the "high end" of the spectrum. People often ask me what this means, and I trip over my tongue trying to explain something I only sort of understand myself. Colin's senses are heightened. Things are too loud. He hums to himself. (Sometimes my mother does this as well.) He doesn't mind being touched, but it sort of has to be on his terms -- but, then again, what 10-year-old boy isn't this way. He has always done things at his own pace, on his own time . . . talking, walking, potty training.

Communication is probably the area he struggles with the most. He has a difficult time getting what's in his head out his mouth. This is the issue that is hardest for me. I was a linguistics student. I love words. I am fascinated by language. Speaking what's on our minds is something many of us take for granted.

I certainly did.

Even though he cannot always tell me what's bothering him, or what happened to him during the day, or how he feels, my son is gifted in ways I never dreamed for him. At 10 he plays jazz piano better than I ever will. Because feelings are a bit of a mystery to him, he pays particular attention to people. He sees things I do not notice. "Mom, what is that person feeling?" he will ask of someone I had not even seen -- an impatient mom at the mall perhaps, a crying baby, a worried dad.

He is purposefully attuned to the world . . . until the world is too loud or too tiring and then he retreats. You might say "zones out." Or, if we are somewhere safe -- like at home -- he will melt down in a way you might find inappropriate for a big kid his age. These moments are not fun.

He is handsome and funny. He is musical. He is joyful.

He is my child born the way God needs him to be.