March 2010 Archives

On the Myers-Briggs, I'm an "I". Introvert. Occasionally, I vacillate over to the "E"s and turn on my outgoing self, but for the most part, I'm pretty content with my "I" status. The Myers-Briggs test defines an "I" as someone who gets her energy from being alone, as opposed to someone who gets recharged from being around other people, the extrovert "E".

I've been at a photography conference for the past three days, and what little "E" I have is all used up. I've stayed up late, chatting, gotten up early to work and learn, and I've had little time to recharge. On top of that, I'm frustrating myself, trying to master in three days an art that has taken the phenomenal artists here years to perfect. To boot, photography requires a certain technical savvy, which I would like to think that I'm pretty handsy about catching on to, and I'm not catching. It's not clicking. GRRRRRRRR.

I have enjoyed having a king size bed to myself for three nights. I have enjoyed the Frette bathrobe, and the heated tile floors in the mornings. I have enjoyed the roaring fires in every room, the New England waterfront, the spotless and invisible service. My towels have been changed three times a day, the apples in the bowl in my room have been changed out daily, my curtains have been drawn, my bed has been turned down--all by some invisible goddess who deserves to be tipped very, very, very well.

But I needed to find my energy, so I left the group and came upstairs to pack. And reflect. And, I'll be honest, sink into a little bit of selfishness. (Although I'd really like to sink into that bathtub one more time.)

I've worked since I arrived here. Not non-stop, but I've stepped out of meetings to take phone calls, I've answered texts in the middle of important conversations, I've sent emails instead of connecting with those around me. During one of the sessions, Melanie Mauer spoke on the disciplines of balancing career and home life.

And honestly, lately, there hasn't been much home life, let alone me life. What it looks like on the outside isn't what it's like on the inside. In my heart, part of the reason I want to be a better photographer is because it gives me a hobby that allows me to focus on my son and husband. It's something we can do together, and then I can go back to my "I"-ness in the post-processing stages and garner some energy.

But stopping (oh, that word: STOPPING) to do that is going to take work on my part. Turning OFF the cell phone, CLOSING the computer, detaching from all things electronic and internet. Even thinking about it sends my blood pressure up.

But I've got to do it. I have to. There is no point in working this hard if I can't stop to enjoy my family, if I can't stop to rejuvenate and rebuild my energy.

This will require more effort from me in some areas. I will have to clearly communicate my expectations to others. I will have to live by deadlines (UGH--the other part of my Myers-Briggs is that I'm a "P", and "P"s do NOT like deadlines).

My inbox is calling. Checkout is at noon. I've got to say my goodbyes.

Taken with iPhone. Might try to take a few more with some of my new-found knowledge of Nikon settings before I leave.

Kiddo and I were out the door at 9:01. I remember looking at the clock as I backed out of the driveway. We made our way to the highway and headed south to Lawton, Oklahoma. The last time Kiddo had been down that turnpike was when he was four days old. On the drive down, the spotty cell phone coverage annoyed me, Kiddo really didn't want to be in the car for an hour and a half, and the construction threw me for a loop when it was time to exit.

When we finally turned onto the road to my grandparent's house, I noted, as usual, how dejected the surrounding homes looked. I pulled into the driveway, not realizing how sad the house looked. Over the past decade, the house has gone from glistening pickets on the surrounding fence, to piles of metal, junk, and this time, a car (pretty much on blocks), just sitting in the driveway.

I pulled Kiddo out of the car and finished my phone conversation before heading to the back door. "Hello?" I called out, but it was quiet. We walked past the master bedroom. Diana Jo was sitting in there, quietly watching TV. She's home-schooled, and had spent a lot of time at Gran and Pop's over the past year. In the kitchen there was a care taker.

After unloading a fussy Kiddo, I fixed a bottle and we headed in to the front room. Pop's back was to me, but Gran saw something going on from a distance, and perked up. They were both sitting in their recliners. As I walked in, I saw a cat sprawled across Pop's lap, upside down. He didn't really say anything, but that's what he's been doing lately. Gran grinned at tired grin, and said "That's my thirteenth great grandchild!" Pride oozed out of her voice. It was about 11:00.

Kiddo and I perched on the edge of one of the two hospital beds that sat in the middle of the living room. I fed him his bottle, and started chatting with her. When he was finished eating, I held him up and he looked around the room, locking eyes on Gran. She said, "Well, he's a big boy!" and started making the dorkiest noises at Kiddo. She wanted to know where Hubs was, and asked how business was, if Kiddo was a good baby. "You need to get a picture of him with Pop," she said.

Uncle Joe walked in, carrying a bag of barbecue. He was there to do payroll. I stayed seated on the bed, but turned my attention to him. When I turned back around to talk to Gran again, she had fallen asleep sitting up. I passed the minutes talking to Pop.

A new nurse arrived, and Gran snapped out of her nap. While the nurse took her vitals, Gran asked her if she wanted to hear a dirty joke--and then proceeded to tell one! She was smart-alec and fiesty. I fed Kiddo and continued to talk to her about what was going on with work, with life. She occasionally would comment to the nurse that she knew her body was failing her, and then we would resume talking about something else.

After the nurse left, I looked at Gran. "How are you really doing?"

She looked at me through narrowed, fatigued eyes. "I'm most frustrated because I'm not mobile."

"You mean, you can't putz around here?" I asked for clarification. She nodded. "You mean, you can't boss Pop around?" She smiled, almost laughed, and nodded.

One of the caretakers brought Gran lunch and set it up in front of her. Pop managed to get to the dining table to eat his lunch. Gran looked at her plate. "She's served me a double portion!" She looked up at the caretaker. "Get me another plate and give some of this to her." She is bossy, bossy, bossy.

"Gran, I am fine!" I exclaimed, and jumped up to go get my own plate before she griped at the caretaker anymore. I sat on the stainless steel, vinyl-upholstered stool and ate my lunch with her, while the caretaker held Kiddo. Before I was finished with lunch, Aunt Judy showed up with a birthday cake for me. She cut slices of it for Gran and Pop.

After Gran was done eating, I asked if she wanted to hold Kiddo, and without hesitation she said yes. He was starting to get fussy at that point--it was past time for him to take a nap. I had no idea how he would react to being held by someone else, but it was worth a try. It all went well. He laid on her patiently, and she was happy to hold him. "Get a picture of him with Pop," she insisted.

Kiddo needed a nap, so I held him and bounced him until he was almost asleep and put in him Pop's arms. There must be something about Pop's arms, because both that cat and Kiddo were thoroughly happy to remain there for extended periods of time. Kiddo dozed happily on him for a good fifteen minutes, and then I had to start gathering him up to get ready to head back to the city.

We walked back over to Gran, and I bent down and she kissed Kiddo on the head. I bent down further and kissed her on the lips. My eyes teared up. If I had counted Granny-kisses over the course of my life, I knew which one that was. Kiddo and I headed over to Pop and kissed him as well. I could only whisper "bye" because of the tears stuck in my throat.

Aunt Judy walked us to the kitchen, then back to the car, and hugged me goodbye.

This morning, my phone rang at 7:00 a.m. The caller ID said it was my mom, and I knew.

Gran used to sit back after Thanksgiving dinner, or on Christmas Eve after we had finished opening presents and look at me and say "I'm safronified. Are you?" Without leaving time for me to respond, she'd ask again, "Do you know what safronified means? It means you are completely satisfied." I tried explaining to Gran once that I had reserved the domain name "safronified.com" to start a blog. I should have just said I decided to write a book and title it Safronified, because I know I lost her at domain name.

Gran, you are now, officially, safronified.

This morning, the most adorable, precious two-year-old little girl met Jesus, face to face. We had never met; I didn't know her. In her short years on this earth, her little body went through more agony than mine has in 31 years. I've been following her updates on twitter for the past couple of weeks, unsuccessfully bracing for tears every time I navigated to check her status. Her name was Layla Grace.

This morning, something was wrong. Her mother still had not posted a twitter update by 10:30, which was rare. Lately, her morning updates had been coming much earlier than that. As I realized this, sitting in a meeting, I flashed back to the moment I suddenly woke up this morning at 4:00 a.m. It was a different kind of waking--I wasn't thinking about work, wasn't watching TV, I was just laying there. My mind went to Layla, and I started praying furiously. Hardcore, focused, begging-praying. In my gut, my heart of hearts, I knew--well, something. I don't know what. But it was SOMETHING.

Fast forward to 10:30, when I realized her mother had not yet updated the twitter status. My heart sank. I prayed some more. Packing up my things, getting ready to leave the meeting, the topic of cause-focused marketing came up. I mentioned to the leader of the group that I was trying to find a way to support an organization that funded research for childhood cancer. She looked up at me, suddenly. "My daughter died of neuroblastoma, twenty-eight years ago..." she said, pausing only slightly before finishing her sentence, "...today."

Goosebumps hit me. The odds of me (the Tin Man) discussing Layla Grace with her, on this day of all days, were eerie. But if you subscribe to classic theories, there is no such thing as coincidence, and everything happens for a reason. I do not know her daughter's name, so we'll call her Dee. She was five.

I left my meeting at 1, came home, checked twitter and realized that Layla had gone. Forever. In the arms of a merciful, merciful, gracious Savior. And as hard as it is for us to understand that from down here, I know that God saw it as good. His plan for that little girl is far more amazing than anything I can grasp in my feeble human mind.

The phone rang, and it was Caroline, who has run a non-profit for several years called Katie's Kids. Her sister-in-law, Katie, died at 28 of a brain tumor. Katie had founded the non-profit to help find and fund a cure for pediatric brain tumors.

I told Caroline the story of Layla and little Dee. She got goosebumps, too.

Since the earthquake in Haiti, I've been following several blogs. A couple of weeks ago, I read this beautiful, poignant story, told by a missionary who was visiting a remote orphanage.

There were two little children who very much broke my heart--a (very) little girl named Jemima and a (very) little boy named Ezaye. Both were malnourished to the point where they looked like skeletons. There was no meat on them at all, their skin was saggy and baggy, their eyes sunken in, the hair they had (not much) was orange and brittle, their eyes half closed and unresponsive. Holding them was like holding a bag of bones. We've all seen pictures of starving children on TV. But this is the first time I actually saw, touched, and held a truly starving person. It wasn't that great for me. Barton was the first to cry. Tears poured down his face in silence, dripping onto the blankets they were wrapped in to keep them warm. He whispered to Ezaye, "Go home. Just go home. You won't feel pain any more if you just go home. It's okay. God is waiting for you there."

I bent down close to him and started singing quietly a popular children's song in Haiti, "Eske 'w vle ale, lakay papa mwen, lakay papa mwen, lakay papa mwen? Eske 'w vle ale lakay papa mwen? Genyen jwa, jwa, jwa." (Translation: Do you want to go to my Father's house, to my Father's house, to my Father's house? Do you want to go, to my father's house? It has joy, joy, joy.") It was the same with Jemima. I sang it to her too. I touched her and prayed that God would find a way for there to be redemption in the situation. I even asked if we could foster them in our house--I knew it probably be of much use, but I would at least know that they would be held and fed every two hours around the clock. If it helped, great. If not, they could die in a home, in the arms of someone who cherished their sweet souls. But I wasn't given permission. (That's another story for another day.)

Yesterday I went back with our visiting group. Ezaye was still there. I sang to him again. I held him and prayed for him again.

Jemima was not there. I asked a nanny where she was, knowing already the answer.

"Jemima? Oh, li mouri." (Jemima? Oh, she's dead.")

Here's the funny thing. Though my heart initally sunk when I heard her words, I quickly saw the goodness of God, and I decided not to think of her as dead. Instead I am thinking of her as finally truly alive. No longer a skeleton, but the proud owner of a new body. Running and playing and laughing and hugging the neck of Jesus. I asked God for redemption in this situation. I can't imagine a more full redemption than she was granted...

But I take heart in knowing that sweet little 2 year old Layla, baby Jemima, and five-year-old Dee are running through those fields with Katie and Jesus. Completely healed. No more pain.

And for that, I'm grateful.

Dear Kiddo,

You'll have to start learning to forgive me early in life, I suppose. I've started several drafts of these letters to you, but haven't finished them, for one reason or another. The excuses have been plentiful; time has not. I started with the best of intentions, but haven't written you a three month, four month, or five month letter.

Sometime during your month three, I walked in late from work. Things had been hectic, as they always are at that time of year. It was quiet in the house, without a daddy, dog or baby in sight, so I tiptoed upstairs and saw this:

You and your daddy were both sound asleep. He had been helping me at work. We were exhausted. You weren't sleeping through the night yet.

Christmas hit, and a snowstorm. Kiddo, actually, it was a blizzard. Your Uncle Toothpick and cousin Bames barely made it to our house. We all holed up together, laughing and playing Uno Attack until three in the morning. There is video footage of that night--we'll let you see it when you are older. Your Uncle Toothpick brought you a giant Curious George. You just sat there, looking at that monkey, wondering why he was bigger than you were.

Your Nana and Poppa didn't make it to town that night, and so the next day, Christmas Day, we headed to your Mimi's house. You spent Christmas morning with your cousins, and your Mimi. You weren't sure what to make of the chaos, and didn't want to nap that afternoon. We finally rocked you to sleep and you agreed to crash at Mimi's house, sleeping in the crib in the guest room. Meanwhile, Daddy and I had dug out our snow gear and went sledding like two kids on the hills at Mimi and Carpa's house.

We officially celebrated Christmas on the 26th in 2009. It was a Saturday, which made the Christmas holiday seem like a four day weekend. We put off having the feast until after your Nana and Poppa finally made it to town. There is also some video footage of that as well, complete with a full critique of the menu by your Aunt Dianna.

Later that night, we gathered around for some family photos. Notice the contrast of your glamorous Aunt B, versus your rather granola-y-looking-but-not-really-Momma:

Aunt B:

Your cousin, Pardner, held you patiently while we took photos, none of which turned out to be halfway decent. Cruiser sat by, rather disenchanted with the whole picture taking process. They were extremely tired cousins, on their best behavior.

It snowed again in January. There was a Thursday when we left work, knowing that a storm would hit, and we would not be in on Friday. I was relishing the thought of staying home with you. Your daddy was out of town--I don't remember why or where. We woke up that Friday morning to at least six inches of thick snow on the ground. I opened the curtains (after you woke me up) and we worked together that day. I laid blankets on the ground in the floor of my room, and took these photos of you.

We've had a couple of days like that, you and I. They are long and slow days. Your sitter isn't here, and the world is quiet. Sundays are like that when your daddy is out of town. The phone doesn't ring, we don't turn the television on...it's just you and me. I already regret that I have not savored more moments with you, that I have not turned the computer off more often, that I have not been here for your every waking moment.

I'm so glad I pulled the camera out on that snowy day. We took pictures for all of ten minutes, but I'll always remember those moments, frozen in time, with you watching me, watching Francie, watching the thick flakes fall outside. The world isn't always such a beautiful place, you will someday learn. Wars, greed, corruption and pain can encompass you if you let it.

Kiddo, I'm learning that you don't have to let those things encompass you. You don't have to identify with that pain, you don't have to become a part of the pain. You can become a part of the healing. And those quiet days--that snowy day--have been healing for me, in so many ways as well.

This morning, I talked to your Aunt B. We talked about how we can let the past define who we are, or we can let our choices define who we become.

Yesterday, one of those quiet Sundays, I turned off the computer at noon. You were fussy, were having none of your Bouncy Monkey, or your bottle, or your crib, or a schedule. So, we laid on the floor together, and talked to an octopus, and a hungry caterpillar, and a rather annoying vibrating and musical elephant. Francie curled up in a ball on her bed on the other side of the room, and you rolled over. And over. And over. On your back, you smiled up at me. On your stomach, you looked around, up, and wiggled on your legs, pushing to see if they would take you somewhere.

All too soon, Kiddo, you will be gone. Those legs will take you so many places in life. Never forget that the choices you make about where you go, what you do, who you associate with, will affect you for the rest of your life. Don't let yourself become mired down in the past, or in negative people. Always move up and onward.

So far, you're doing an incredible job of it.

Love always,
Momma

Tonight, I'm going to bed with so many questions in my head, and thoughts in my heart, most of which can be summarized by asking: how can a little ol' stationery company change the world?