When I was nine I spent approximately three weeks laying on my hands in bed, sick to near-death from the chicken pox. My mom may dispute the three weeks claim. It could've been one, or it could've been five for all I knew in my state of delirium, but it seemed like an eternity's worth of Monkees and Brady Bunch reruns, interspersed with Ducktails and chicken noodle soup.

I was somewhat new to school at the time, in our first year back in Kansas after a year's exile in Missouri following my parents' divorce. It was a nice school in a nice neighbourhood, but I didn't like my teacher because she wore an unrealistic curly brown wig.

She was different like I was different and I hated being different, therefore I hated my teacher. 

I also didn't like the fact that I was put in a reading class for "special" readers. You know, the one where they put the children who struggle with dyslexia (most of whom didn't know it yet) or near-sightedness or speech-related issues. I suffered from none of the above, but I was new and anxiety-stricken and drew a lot of slightly disturbing sad faces, so I think they put me in this class to encourage me. This experiment - the "encouraging me experiment" - failed when, in week three of reading class, I walked in to find scrawled on the desk in freshly learnt script:

karen is stupid.

At the time there were two Karens in the class, though other Karen was actually spelled Karin, so I knew it was meant for me: Karen with an e. I was mortified. I was smart and I knew I was smart, but I felt stupid. All the time. The stupidness and the smartness had no relation in my mind, for my heart almost always ran ahead of my brains, the stupid feelings preempting the smart ones.

And here, of course, was proof. Someone had outted me, had seen it, too. Someone turned out to be other Karin: Karin with an i, a 5th grader with gorgeous blond hair.

So you can see how the chicken pox came as a relief.

This week has been the week of sick children. Asher went down first with the flu and today I've got a girl with a temperature in the living room. She's currently using a roll of craft paper as a telescope, and even though her cheeks are flushed and her throat is sore, she is exploring and experimenting and drawing, all from the edge of our sofa.

My kids are smart kids. Jack is light years ahead in reading and Ella is kicking math butt. They love school and the subjects they're studying, about Galileo and Florence Nightingale and the Irish word for pink (bándearg). We discuss all this - and how they're actually thankful for it! - on the way to kids club. In the mornings we pray over such things, asking to show a bit of the heart of Jesus by how we act and treat each other and learn from our teachers. They hop out of the car and run away from me smiling, laughing. School and science and Irish and maths... these are all stops on the adventure train; puppy show-and-tell, sometimes included.

I don't know how they ended up (or are starting up) this way. As Jack walked through his school gate this morning, I stared after him in slack-jawed awe. We grew a person!, I thought. An intelligent, loving, happy person. Though at times he feels fearful or frustrated or sad, he never feels stupid. He feels burdened for the people and the things around him, for his mum when she's overwhelmed or his dad when he's away from home or the rubbish along the side of the road. The heart-burdens are positives in his book and ours, and the confidence that's somehow embedded in his psyche had to come from somewhere. It sure didn't come from me.

The girl, too, even on the sick days: she knows she's awesome. Smart and creative, too. She never cleans her room, she spends hours with a nutella mustache like a garland round her lips, and she gets angry like you wouldn't believe if you stared into those big brown eyes for any length of time. But she embraces these things as proof of her brilliance. I want her to stay this way forever, to always feel this strength within her.

It's too soon to tell with Asher. He's still our surprise baby, a hazel-eyed mystery.

Twenty-six years later I write these things knowing this: the power of feeling stupid can be broken. It can be washed away by something more powerful and elusive than generational patterns. Inside their tender bodies my genes flow, but somehow smart and independent and free shine through. Stupid dims in the background, overcome by a sturdier ground they walk on.

There may be a kid or two who write the words of shame on their desks, but the words on their hearts are in fine print, a permanent warranty against the lies of this world. 

I have them, too, written by One who always knew I was more than a label on a desk. They lay dormant for awhile, blurred by circumstance or covered with the scribbled drawings of a chicken-pox infested nine-year-old girl. But they remain, long after crayon fades away.

***

How do you see your childhood self? More importantly, how did you cope with chicken pox?

We do marriage counseling (and it is good)

image above: courtesy of Verite Photo.

I'm in this weird phase right now where I try to decide what's blog-worthy and for public consumption and what's best to remain just-for-us. Some things are obvious - do you really want an hourly recap on our potty training escapades? - while others remain elusive and ambiguous. There are some things I really want to share... and others, well, not so much.

So here's my current appropriateness barometer: will it help someone?

Yes, I know that's all big and out there and self-important. But there are a few bloggers - less than a handful - whose confessions and diatribes and play-by-plays leave me sighing, near tears, saying, "Yes, yes, that's me." It makes me feel:

1) not so crazy,
2) validated or known, and
3) like at least I'm not as bad as [fill-in-the-blank].

Which leads me to marriage counseling. We go to it. And it is good.

Ok, we're not really going to it now. We're still newish here and I so loved our stateside guy (he's been around since that 9 year old and her sad stories) and finding an affordable counselor we both like with a similar life philosophy stresses me out. So, yeah, we're not attending weekly sessions or anything. But we do marriage counseling, and like I said: it is good.

Next week I'll share five signs it could be time for marriage counseling. But to start, I want to try and remove any cringe-inducing wince-factors you may come across when you hear some sorry sap say he and the missus are going to marriage counseling. This is usually how it goes:

Bob: "Suzy and I are in marriage counseling."
Awkward Friend: "Ohhhh, hmmm," (with knowing nod).

This alone is groundbreaking as someone has just admitted to going to - insert knowing nod - marriage counseling. I dare say most friendships never enter this territory, where one feels safe saying those five syllables outloud without implying you've hit the rocks and you and your spouse are stranded adrift in search of lifeboats. We're afraid to say it, afraid of suppositions. We're afraid of outsiders judging the quality of our family, the strength of our intimacy, the legitimacy of our bonds of matrimony.

But you don't have to be in crisis to be in counseling. Actually, I think it's preferable not to be. In my experience, counseling is at its most valuable when it comes before the crisis.

For us, it's an off and on thing. There have been years we've sailed along without any 3rd party interference (apart from our children, and some in-laws, and maybe the ocassional couch-crasher). We've simply not felt like we needed it. Other times, we find ourselves in a pickle, or in high-demand mode, or about to enter a crazy season. In these times, the first one to the punch - Hey, honey, let's go to counseling! - wins. It helps that we've both been open to it, we knew a guy, and so we went.

What do we do in counseling? We talk about our backgrounds, our families and their eccentricities (even the most "normal" ones have them!). We share about our kids and any worries or joys we feel on their behalf. We open up about our own weaknesses. We acknowledge when there's fear.

But most importantly, we listen. 



There's this independent question-asker who can draw out things usually left unsaid or misunderstood. We hear thoughts, longings from a different perspective. And then when one of us is on a roll, the other is at full-attention. We soak it all in without realizing it. Just because we're there. Just because, for this one hour, nothing is more important than hearing one another.

Does it always end in cuddles and smiles? No, not always. This is hard work, people! Sometimes there is tension, frustration or messiness. I've been known to pout my way home in the passenger seat. But instead of being hidden away in the junk drawer, the messiness is laid right there on the table. You gotta do something with it now. You've gotta sort through it and put everything in its right place.

Which is what you do at the next session because the buzzer just rang and time is up.

***

So, marriage counseling (or any old regular counseling, for that matter). Do you do it, too? Has it been good?

Give me your blah

I don't feel like I'm standing on holy ground. It feels more like I'm standing on three day old remnants of shredded wheat. 

I don't feel like I'm giving my kids the greatest gift of love and therefore receiving their love and overflowing with God-love. It feels more like I'm just barely keeping them alive till bedtime, and before then the best gift I'm giving them is unending rounds of crackers (or m&ms or fill-in-the-blank).

I don't feel like motherhood is holy, like it's my highest calling, my greatest joy. It feels more like really, really hard work. Hard work I'm not even that good at.

Mommy bloggers, you are amazing. I love you and I am one of you. But really, if there is one more post or article or book about the wonderful redemptiveness of diaper-changes and burnt dinners and holy ground walking on a dirty kitchen floor and the beautiful gift of receiving God's Beautiful Gifts, I'm gonna go nuts. It's not that you're wrong or misguided... I think you're probably right, and I think there are some days where I do need to hear it.

But most days? Most days it's just blah.

Most days it's just coffee and errands and laundry. Most days it's just videos and temper tantrums and impaling my foot with a tiny lego man's lego sword. Most days it's just make it to the next days. Most days the only moment of peace is in the bathroom... and even then it lasts less than a moment because within 30 seconds someone is looking for me having spilt his milk all over the brand new computer keyboard. Most days I can't even think to whisper gratitude. Most days I don't think.

Do I love my children? Yes. Is this the job, the people, the life God has set before me? Yes.

Am I complaining? Yes.

Because I think we need to know - the new moms and the old moms and the Princess Kates and the Kim K's - that it's not going to feel holy, amazing, fulfilling most of the time, probably not even a fraction of the time. I think we need to know it's ok to feel blah. It's ok to not feel like this is the greatest thing on earth, the most divine, the most sacrificially-like-Jesus we will ever be. We need to know it's ok to not like it. It's ok to look forward to the days they're all in school, the days they go to bed early, the oh-so-rare days we get to go away by ourselves and be refreshed and renewed by something other than soapy water.

It's OK. It's just OK.

We still love our kids. We still want them to grow up to be compassionate, loving, amazing, joyful people. We're still grateful for the gift of them. We want them to grow up and be the best moms and dads they can be.

And then, there will still be those moments of pure joy when we will bask in the wonder that is a child, a Gift From Above, who loves and forgives and trusts without even thinking about it... just because we're Mom.

But on the blah days, the blah months and the blah years, when we are just hanging by a thread... don't tell me how holy and blessing-filled and Christ-like I'm being. That just makes me feel worse, like my tiny piece of thread is fraying, leaving me and my children dangling in mid-air.

Tell me you and God and my kids will love me anyway. Tell me we'll all survive. Tell me about your blah days, minus the silver lining or spiritual lesson. Just give me your blah. Then, maybe, I'll feel a holy space to tell you about mine. And one day (probably not today), God will redeem it all.

***

Ok, so it's probably just me, but do you ever just feel blah? About parenting or work or marriage or whatever? 

Faith in the ink of rebellion

I had a boyfriend once, whose thick hoop earring and cross tattoo on his back made him quite the object of fascination among us youth group girls. When I finally got the chance to touch those dark lines, I asked him why he did it, the earring and the tattoo. I thought I knew; he was all hard edges and loud music. But he looked at me with such innocence, "I am a slave to Christ," he said, referencing the Old Testament binding of a slave to his master. The boy with the ring in his ear.

This was how I knew I loved him. Faith in the form of rebellion.

***



I was looking to add to my rebellion. Getting married at 20 made me feel much more settled, safe and pure than my teens had led my heart to believe. Matt was my match, my calming force and steady hand, sent from above. But I still had a wildness burning within that tandem bike rides along the lake front could not tame. Adulthood had onset with a swift force and I needed one last look back at the years which broke and bore me.

Like any good big sister, I talked my little sister into it, too. It wasn't all that hard; she was - and still is - a willing accomplice. In any case, we took our 18 and 21 year-old-selves and asked for our mother's blessing. She sighed and fretted, but the fact we were doing it together, the fact we had spent the majority of our young lives at odds, the fact we had finally seen one another for what we really were - mirror images, best friends - her fight for tradition and propriety faded away in the face of soul sisters.

And so it was, we took a printed copy of a clip-art image of a daisy into the tattoo shop. Yes. Clip-art. We left imprinted, her ankle and my back, with a white and yellow daisy. My inner rebellion was satisfied by a pure symbol of peace.

Over the years, Matt got the itch as well. His calmness and maturity gave way to a hidden dissenter, asking questions and searching for depth. His soft edges grew stronger while my hardness became less brittle. When the systematic theology and preaching formulas he deferred to for so long failed to make much headway on the uneven and narrow footpath of life overseas, he longed for simple faith in the face of doubt. The calm in the storm.

And so it was, he journeyed to Belfast with a youth pastor friend and left imprinted with St Brigid's Cross. His inner dissenter was satisfied by a symbol of simple faith, folded within with the reeds of long Irish grass.

This is how we belong to eachother. Me and my sister. Matt and I. Us and Christ. The story is written on our skin and when we are asked, we tell it. Faith, hope and love in the ink of rebellion.

There are more stories to be shared, and we dream up the designs and the placement. A pair of strong hands cradling the tree whose leaves hold the names of our children, Yahweh written like a wreath around my wrist, the ring of black with my name on his finger ("You know it's permanent, right?" my mother asks, aware more than others that some things tattooed on our hearts do not last).

We shall see... whether these stories are written on paper or skin or heart. We shall see, the shape it takes. We shall see if it fades away.


joining the syncroblog at A Deeper Story on our Embodied Stories...

Masquerading as Ronald Reagan, among other things

I can pick up accents. It's kind of a gift. Drop me anywhere in the western hemisphere (so far) and I can pick up the cadence, the lilt, the structure and the pronunciations of someone else's mother tongue. Places I've experimented with this include, but are not limited to, Wisconsin, Canada, New England, the Deep South, Ireland and England. Scotland is the lone exception. It it an impossible - though beautiful - accent.

And I used to do impressions. As a kid I had this great Ronald Reagan catchphrase. I don't even remember it now, but my mother would have me do it for her friends, my teachers would laugh with pride at my political wit, and late at night I would practice it for my inevitable audition tape for SNL. I was hilarious.

Oh, and I changed my name. A lot. Karen was just too... plain. Homely. I filled an old mead notebook with practiced signatures of Callie, Kali, Kim, Kat, Karin, Kari, etc, etc. Nothing stuck, though, apart from a 5th grade English teacher in a bolo tie who nicknamed me Irish, on account of my auburn hair and super shortness (you know, like a leprachaun).

Only recently have I put my finger on the pulse of this weird and slightly disconcerting talent.

I am always trying to be someone else. And when someone else doesn't work, I conform quickly and effortlessly.

Nearly every personality test (and teachers and most friends I have) told me I was an extrovert. Life of the party, friend to everyone, comfortable being out front and in charge, ready for action. This was me. This was who I wanted to be. Growing up, I would throw affection and attention to anyone who would return it. I'd cast my net out looking for a bite, a positive response, affirmation, and love.

Being loud and gregarious - and well, let's face it, dramatic - was the best way to get noticed. This was the Karen people wanted, I thought. But this Karen... this Karen was so uncomfortable, unhappy, and afraid. Being me was exhausting! Actually, it is exhausting! Because I'm still trying to figure out who Real Karen is (and I have the sneaking suspicion Real Karen is an introvert).

Even today, I mimic what I see and hear around me, quick to mirror the images I perceive to be normal, better, prettier, smarter. And I do this a lot here. Without even realizing it, I sit with an Irish friend and I project her beautiful words and phrases back at her. I replace my midwest tongue with a manufactured Irish brogue and, like a reflex, think to myself, "There, that's better. I'm Irish now."

What am I trying to hide? Who am I trying to be? Why can't I just, you know, be me? Karen, from Kansas. (or Kah-ren, from Kahn-sas, as the case may be).

"We should always start with who God made us to be and out of that find direction for our actions."

This quote scares the crap out of me. Today at 34, three great kids, a husband I love, a new life abroad, and I'm still asking, How has God made me to be?

"You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I’d even lived one day." Psalm 139:15-16 | the message

You know me, You know me, You know me.

I'm trying to drop the accent; the faux-Irish one, that is. Nearly three months in, and it's harder than it should be. I'm Karen, from Kansas. And I still don't know what I'm doing here, who I'm supposed to be here, where I fit or how this will all work out.

It's a little hilarious when you think about it. Mid-30s me, still a mess. But I think, deep down, I'm not alone in the mess. I think you might be here with me, too. I think, if we were to be honest about it, there's a lot of us here, trying to figure out who we really were made to be.

Then again, it could be just me.

***

Make me feel better. Are you a mess, too? Can we cut the crap together, leave Reagan in the 80s and just be real?

The kinky curl tells the tale

He comes up to me, takes a good long look at me.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, annoyed.
"Just checking the humidity," he says, "before I have to go outside."

***

95 Degrees Fahrenheit. This is the threshold - 95 degrees Fahrenheit (35 Celsius to my slim European readership) - where I am forced to shave my legs. Jeans will not cut it today. Maxi skirts will only frustrate me. Shorts will have to do. And in order to go out in public and buy some groceries on a 95 degree Fahrenheit day, I know what I must do.

This is Kansas in June. (No scratch that, this is Missouri in June... I forget even my driver's license says I live on the Missouri side now.) There is no ocean or great lake here. We are severely landlocked: the cool air of mountain breezes 10 hours to the west, the warm surf of Lake Michigan 8 hours to the east, nary a sea within 1500 miles (or 2+ days' drive) in any and every direction.

As far as the eye can see, scorched and spotted grass, lazy trees, hills pushing us closer to a baking sun.

***

I turn and look to the mirror. My hair tells the tale of a Midwestern summer. A kinky curl peeks out at my temple.

We are all so thirsty. We are in drought. 

And my tongue is fuzzy and parched, wishing for just one moment it could taste the cool blue of the Sea.



What is it like where you are? Forest fires, severe weather, or sink hole?

Recovery in centimeter-sized bites

I am currently doing a whole lot of nothing. Well, apart from lying in bed, reading, watching movies, lying in bed some more, taking meds, trying not to think about food, and... well... lying in bed. Having my wisdom teeth removed was actually quick and painless, but the recovery is long and bumpy and painful.

a total of three, but this impacted one was the "doozy"

All in all, the family is surviving nicely. Husband has had a slow couple of days, so everyone is fed and clean and relatively happy. We are having long quiet times here, where we each occupy a corner of the apartment, playing with legos or reading books or catching up on The Daily Show. The lights are off and today it gently rains and if it weren't for the ubiquitous ache in my jaw, I'd be quite pleased.

But instead I'm sore and tired and have got the dry mouth and miss food. Have I mentioned food? I miss it! All the chewing and the eating. Oh, how I miss it. It turns out the whole experience of food eating isn't just about how it tastes on your tongue. My tastebuds are still intact and the pizza I "ate" today was good. But without the ability to chew and crunch and use those fine molars, eating is slow and exhausting and not very fun. Within a few centimeter-sized bites, I'm ready to give up.

Diet Coke tastes the same and ibuprofen is my friend. The sweatshirt I've been wearing for two days might smell just a little bit. My face is hideous and I'm thankful for long frizzy hair to hide the massive, bruised goiter that juts out to the left (is that how goiter is spelled? I've never had to use it before). I look disturbingly like the Wii Mii the boy created for me some two years and 40 pounds ago.

My bed and I are BFFs, and as I try to find a comfy way to sleep with my fat face and sore teeth, I thank the man who put that pallet headboard together. I may look weird, feel gross and tired, am starving and strung out on hydrocodone, but that pallet headboard says I am loved and at home. And the plethora of stuffed animals tucked in around me say my children want me better. And the toddler asleep on my chest says there is no better time than right now for a long cuddle.

Ok, so it's not so bad.

I'm sorry, did I say too much?

I'm running a little behind this week, what with the conference going on and all of my super important, elite speaking engagements. :) But seeing as how I'm now home, golf is on, and the crying baby in the other room is the hubby's problem for the moment, I'm going to attempt Five Minute Friday on a Sunday.

Wait, is that another child crying? No? Ok.

If you met me...

If you met me, you would notice my hair first. Not super curly, definitely not straight, but a weird frizzy variety of uncontrolled brown chaos that starts at my roots and ends at the racing feet of my excited-to-meet-you,-too children.

If you met me, I would probably overwhelm you at first. I would touch your arm too much, laugh too loudly at your jokes (which up until that moment you probably thought only you found funny, and then you met me...), ask too many questions, or give too many long answers to the questions you give me.

If you met me, you would think I'm outspoken, outgoing, and out of breath. I am some of these things, some of the time. But the outspoken thing ends up with a foot in the mouth more often that not, the outgoing thing is merely a clever ruse to make you think I'm fun and popular, and the out of breath thing is just the state of life I'm in at the moment, both by and not by choice. Depending on the day.

If you met me, you'd meet the man. Maybe not in person, but through stories and smiles and glances across the room. You'd see the children run dashes between the two of us in the shape of squiggly hearts and you would see in my eyes that there's more to our love story than just the two of us.

If you met me, you'd see that I'm searching for something. A new friend, a comrade, another mother-fighter to help me keep going. You'd see that I've got some things going on the inside, things I may or may not tell you straight away (depending on the function and if there's a glass of wine nearby and a table for two we could sit and rest at awhile), about our journey and my heart and the ways we're learning and struggling and aching to know God better.

If you met me, you may not get me at first. But that would be OK, because right now, I've got just a wee bit of time on my hands.



Whew, that was a frenzied little exercise. So, now it's your turn. I really encourage you to give this thing a try, even if it's not particularly your thing. It's actually starting to become the highlight of my week.

New post

So I was tired of looking at my ramblings in my last post, so here is a new post! Oh yeah, and I'm pregnant too. 12 weeks. This one's been a tough one (physically and emotionally) so not sure what else to say at this point... except that I'm really pleased that my one good ovary is apparently awesome. Too awesome, one might say. :)