Peter Britten 3.5

Mom and (super cute) son

It caught me by surprise, because I’d always been the ever-popular Mama, whose arrival in the room was heralded with loud hosannas. If Steve or the older sibs were shunned, I didn’t really register it.

But I remember going through something similar with your big bro Aiden at ages 1-2 or so. I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for the Hurt Feelings I know they experienced. Ditto my Mom, who was with us in Lewes the summer young P.J. decided he did NOT like her. Sorry, Mom, for dismissing your tears, for encouraging you to brush it off, to remember he was still little. I have gotten my comeuppance for sure. 

Even if I were not relatively thin-skinned, I would have been crushed by the daily (non) greeting I received for nearly a year: I would enter the room each morning, and you would say, “Go away, Nana!!!!” accentuating your comment by pushing me away with your tiny hands, David vanquishing Nana Goliath (who truly meant no harm). 

 When did things change for us? 

It was a gradual thawing of Cold War tensions. One fine day you refrained from shoving me out of your line of sight (Victory #1!). Then, weeks later, you allowed me to talk to you without protest (I still treated you as I would a skittish young deer I was trying to befriend). It was one step forward and two back for us, my little dance partner: just when I thought we’d sealed the friendship deal, you’d level a steely gaze my way, and once more I’d have to prove myself to you. 

 I don’t know if it’s our current enforced togetherness, but all is really good with us these days. You not only let me kiss you, you sometimes initiate the smooch! Which is extra-meaningful now that I am not allowed to embrace anyone outside our immediate circle. I watch you at play with Aiden (who you usually call Gege, Chinese for big brother), or serenely occupying yourself at the dining room table with playdoh or sand or paper and markers, and memories of your Evan Shushu come right back to me.

Like you, Ev guarded his Door of Intimacy zealously, not letting many pass through—me and Dad (usually), Sheridan (always), Rose (rarely). Ev was a man of few words, but, like E.F. Hutton, when he talked, people listened. Evan at 33 is still an enigma wrapped in a mystery in large part. While I feel closer to him than ever (ironic, since he now lives 3000 miles away), there’s still that reserve. I can easily envision you, my Peter B., acting the same three decades hence (not that I will likely still be kicking around, but I can hope). 

What will the world be like in September, when you turn four? All bets are off. But for now, I will treasure our new bond, and thank God that you are with us, with your beautiful, inscrutable face, and equally beautiful heart.

Soulmates

Late March Round Up

Today I thought I'd look back at my final March entry for each year I’ve blogged...

March, 2012: Celebrating April  

"March is nearly over. Women's History Month is almost history. For the past 28 days, we've been deluged with stories of valiant women, women who Made a Difference, from Joan of Arc to Lady Gaga. Where would we be without women? Answer (Biology 101): we wouldn't."

March 2013: Accentuating It

"Most of all we love those Downton Abbey British accents. They make the speakers sound intelligent and witty, no matter the content of their conversation. To my mind, anyone from the U.K. can recite the phone book (remember them?) and be positively spellbinding."

March 2014: Throw Back Thursday

"My little tiffs with my sibs would begin with a snarky comment or a "borrowed" dress, and escalate into screaming matches, complete with doors slammed so hard they almost came off their hinges, and rivers of tears. We always made up quickly, though, and I well remember how good and right the hugs felt at the end of battle."

March 2015: Purely Research

"The World Wide Web is both paradise and pitfall for an ADHD sufferer. I never would have taken the time to go to the library and look all this stuff up, back in the day, so I got a lot of actual homework done in school. I would probably be a straight D student now (unless I could do a senior project on “Kris Jenner, Momzilla”).

March 2016: Can You Keep a Secret?

"I remember a homework assignment from one of the nuns in school, asking us to interview our parents about their lives. When it was Dad’s turn to be questioned by me, he said, “Tell Sister Brendan that it’s none of her damn business.” Then he left the room. I think I ended up telling Sister that Dad was out of town that week."

March 2017: In the Soup

"Fanesca is a time-consuming soup that is hugely important in Ecuador, especially during Lent. Families make fanesca together, prepping the multitude of ingredients over several days. As it just happens to be Lent, when our church offers weekly potluck soup suppers, I hatched my ambitious plan. We would make fanesca!!"

March 2018: Happy/Sad/Happy World Bipolar Day

"So on this World Bipolar Day, I stand with my bipolar brothers and sisters. I pray for healing for them. I thank God every day to be in a better place, and remember that my job, now and for the rest of my life, is to reach out a hand of love and support to others."

March 2019: Visiting the Band (and Our Daughters)

"Often, random encounters spark these lasting relationships (I met Holly when she, the pastor’s wife, watched tiny Rose in the church nursery at Christ’s Lutheran in 1989). I am forever grateful that we bump into each other on the road of life, stop and recognize that we are companions."

March 2020: Coming soon! Very soon! Like, tomorrow!

Self Improving

Which to choose?

The way things are right now, it would be all too tempting to succumb to the siren song of bad reality TV, the lightest weight chick lit offerings, wearing sweats 24/7 and eating ice cream straight from the carton. But instead, I‘m trying to get dressed every day, eat decently, and read, watch and listen to more erudite material than usual. It happens to also be Lent, which traditionally is a time for reflection in preparation for Holy Week. So, I’ve been reflecting on some of my habits and let me tell you, they need a major re-haul. And when better than now, when the supermarkets are mostly out of ice cream anyway? (I hear there’s still PLENTY of tofu, though).

Every summer when we head for the Delaware shore, I optimistically pack several canvas bags full of books, Darwin and Dickens and Dostoyevsky—and that’s only the D’s! I start off strong, lugging these weighty tomes down to the beach with me every morning. But, alas, the classics and Coppertone don’t mix very well—within the week I’m devouring the latest volume of Bridget Jones’ Diary instead. In late August I return home, shaking the sand from the unturned pages of Proust and putting Marcel back on the shelf for another year. 

 But this feels different. I’m so lucky to be healthy right now, and able to work from home. This block of extra time is rare and precious, and should be filled with only the very best in activity, information and entertainment. And so, two weeks ago I began my self-improvement journey. 

I was off to a roaring start, learning all kinds of new stuff and keeping to a pretty good schedule, but today I noticed the first signs of slippage. I had signed up (and paid for!) an online hour of Healing Meditation this afternoon. Next thing I knew, I was 15 minutes late to log on for the class. I then tried to join, but the class was “shut” and I had to leave the website, un-meditated. Demoralized, I turned to—what else?—the Healing Power of Blueberry Cupcakes. Once I’d headed down that Buttercream Road, I gave up on the day, and sought solace with my old friend Bridget Jones. 

Now, I know I could yet salvage something of March 29, 2020—at least, write out my Great Big Self-Improvement Plan for March 30, 2020. But I’m tired tonight, and those cupcakes are sitting heavily in my stomach. Far better to begin afresh in the AM! A shower and nice clothes (no sweats, please!), and a tasty tofu omelet. I’ll dig into Finnegan’s Wake again (twelfth time is the charm, right?), while listening to that new album by the Tibetan Throat-Singing Monks. 

Who am I kidding? My bad habits are cozy and comforting touchstones in a very disorienting time, yes they are! and I’m not ready to give them up yet! Tell you what--I’ll improve myself when the world straightens itself out. 

Deal?

Those wild and crazy Tibetan monks! Gotta love 'em!

Pooterisms

Screaming! With delight! I think!

The miserable rain today eliminated the possibility of a walk, and I’m caught up on church work, so this afternoon I decided I’d write about my kids when they were small. The first child I thought of happened to be Patrick, and instantly I knew he deserved his own stand-alone post. 

As the fourth child in our noisy family, it might be assumed that P.J. either faded into the woodwork, or acted out defiantly for a share of attention. Neither was the case. While he certainly made his presence known, he got along really well, with everybody.

He was a late speaker but an early screamer (more often shrieks of joy than anger). When he finally became verbal, he made up for lost time, and I’m so glad I scribbled down some “Pooterisms” (yes, for a while we called him Pooter, and it is a tribute to him that I can share this nugget now, without infuriating him.) 

 Playing miniature golf, he would say every time before putting, “10-9-8-1-2-3-shoot!” Fishing with his dad, he would pull up his line every minute or so, exclaiming delightedly, “I caught another worm!!” He thought the State Park summer camp the older kids attended was called “Jurassic Park Camp,” and expressed a bit of concern that dinosaurs would eat his siblings. He loved our children’s theatre plays, and understood the plots quite well, though he insisted on calling the ogre in Puss in Boots the Wicked Yogurt. When I took Rose for a shopping date, he asked if he too could have a date to shop with me—for bananas. 

 P.J. was willing to fill any supporting part required in the older kids’ imaginative games (he spent MONTHS playing the thankless role of Rose’s pet dog, Strawberry.) There would come a point, however, when he’d had enough. One day the kids were bickering over who would get to board a friend’s boat first. Patrick waved a sibling ahead, saying, “You go first. Then, if the boat sinks, it’ll be my turn.” 

Where did the years go? Soon, he was in elementary school, and the Pooter days were over. He decided when first grade began, that he wanted to be called “Pat,” which I informed our neighbors. The next day at the bus stop, Mark said, “Good morning, Pat!” He was rewarded with puzzled silence, as little “Pat” had totally forgotten his new name. “P.J.” our son remained through college, when at last he did switch to “Pat.” 

I don’t see nearly enough of him these days, as he lives in Downingtown and keeps absurd chef’s hours at a restaurant. When life is just too much, and my anxiety level goes through the roof, there is nothing in the world like Patrick’s hugs, and the gift of his supreme good nature. My blood pressure is going down just writing this! 

 Thanking God for #4, and the thoughts of his sweet, sunny disposition that banish the gray clouds on this gloomy day. I’m one lucky mom.

At the restaurant with Pat and his lovely girlfriend Meg

Once More, With (Same) Feeling

Yaj snapped this social distancing shot in store parking lot

We have officially munched our way through the ton of groceries Ya-Jhu bought, in six days. I had foolishly thought we could stretch the vittles to 14 days—seven original meals, seven leftover meals, because Yaj is now our official shopper and I didn’t want her making any unnecessary trips. But with six hungry people in the house, each entree just didn’t stretch past Dinner #1. So off she went to Shop N Bag this morning with a big list. I felt irrationally sad to be missing out on this trek (irrational because I really do NOT enjoy food shopping). I think it’s the knowledge that I am pretty stuck in the house (save the odd neighborhood walk) that makes the Produce and Deli departments suddenly so appealing to me. 

 Looking back, there was another, extended time in my life when I could not get to a grocery store whenever I pleased. During my earliest years in Manhattan, Mom would go out at night when we were asleep and hit Gristede’s or D’Agostino’s markets, so for all I knew, the Pantry Fairy came regularly to restock our cupboards. It was when we moved out to the ‘burbs (Ardsley, NY) in 1965 that I came to know and love supermarkets. By sixth grade I could walk to school, and my path home nearly always involved a pit shop at Louis’ Market for soda and something sweet. I felt very adult there, making my selections, then spilling my change on the counter. 

 But then we moved to a place where walking to a store was impossible: Atlanta, GA. Joanie did not drive a car, so we were completely dependent on my dad to ferry us around—and he’d taken a job as a traveling salesman, gone Monday morning through Friday night. Therefore, all food had to be purchased on Saturdays. Dad and Mom had a system: Dad would sit in the parking lot, smoking, while Mom pushed the cart around inside. But here’s the kicker: Mom insisted on finding bargains, so they’d drive from Big Apple to Ogletree’s to Kroger to every week, buying eggs one place, chicken another (which came first?), ground beef at a third emporium. It took almost the whole day, and of course they didn’t really save a dime when you added in all the gas used. But I recall the wonderful feeling of freedom to travel around a bit, after a week of limitation. 

 Over the years, and as a driver, grocery shopping really lost its luster. I came to dread repetitively filling carts with boxes (and boxes) of Pampers, boxes (and boxes) of Honey Nut Cheerios. When the kids eventually got their licenses and actually volunteered to pick up the milk and bread, I rejoiced.

Now here I am, feeling that old stuck, dependent feeling again, wishing mightily that I was standing in that sloooooow checkout line, flanked by the racks of gum and the National Enquirer. 

 I guess the Acme is always greener! Or something!

One of Mom's go-to Atlanta supermarkets many incarnations later, as it looks today 

Throw Out Thursday

Sure am glad for an extra copy of this one!

It’s like Marie Kondo on steroids around here today, folks. Steve’s skipping the questions for his belongings (“Does this bring me joy?”) and just flinging them into garbage cans. Steve, it turns out, is much more unsentimental than I am, so for him there is no soul searching involved--it’s just a matter of digging out and pitching. He has a closet in his office that hasn’t been sorted in a decade, ditto an old metal file cabinet. Now that schools and camps and libraries are closed and he has no one to call to book shows, there is suddenly time to attack every nook and cranny of his Family Stages Cave-and he’s approaching the task with gusto.

I have no issue with the recycling of 20 copies of Steve’s play My Name is Lewes—indeed, I only vaguely remember the show itself. He can jettison the handwritten household budget sheets from 1992 with no objections from me, as well as the file folder marked “WFTF” --at first glance it looked like he’d labeled it with a curse (“WTF is this file folder doing here?”), but no, it stood for “Winter Family Theater Festival.” 

 It was only when we got to the personal files that I implored Mr. Trash Guy to put on the brakes. He did ask me to sort the 16 year old Christmas cards (aww, what a lovely card from the Walshes! A keeper for sure, thought I, racking my brain for some memory of who the Walshes were). So in the end I’d disposed of a mere handful of holiday greetings. 

But I’m glad I was paying attention, because across the room my hubby was poised to ditch folders containing:

 *Paperwork from Evan’s volunteer stint with Habitat for Humanity in Kenai, Alaska when he was 17 
*Flyers from random Boston restaurants and museums, souvenirs of a family trek to Massachusetts when the kids were little 
*Recipes sent to me by Philadelphia Youth Orchestra parents for the PYO cookbook I produced when Sher was in said ensemble (I accepted ALL of them, including the one beginning “Take a hunk of hamburger out of the freezer, and scrape off pieces into a skillet as it thaws”—yum!)
*Two ancient medical bills and one Social Security statement of my mom’s, circa 1997 

You get the drift. Thank the good Lord I was there to save it all!!! 

I recognize that the upside of this enforced home time is the chance to weed out our possessions, and I applaud the efforts of Stevo to weed out his. However, MUCH of the destined-for-the-dumpster stuff is technically “ours”. Like the executive branch, I have veto power and I’m not afraid to use it. 

So I’ve basically just moved our flotsam and jetsam from the office to our bedroom. Someday (perhaps during the next pandemic?) I will revisit and reassess these salvaged treasures. But for now, the score is Trash Can: 5, Elise: 6,172.

Job well done! Off to test that frozen hamburger recipe!

Overflowing trash can. Better go out and double check everything!

Peak Performance

What a story this will make!! Or not

It’s 7:15 PM now, and I’ve been awake since 4:45 AM. It’s been a hectic day, with three Zoom conference calls, plus one regular call from Evan. I made dinner, then Steve and I took a walk in the neighborhood, during which we waved (from a safe distance) to a variety of local peeps also out for very careful strolls. It was probably not the best idea to join an evening online writing group based in California starting tonight, but join I did.

 “Come write with us!! Tuesdays at 5:30 PM!” That was the come on, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker, conveniently forgetting that they meant 5:30 PM Pacific time, 8:30 PM here. I’ve been through this before, with an online writing class taught from San Francisco two summers ago. My fellow students (all young  West Coast residents) were super perky each week, whereas I could barely make it to the critique session that lasted until 10 PM. Mine was usually the last piece to be dealt with, and by then  I was so beat that neither praise nor criticism affected me in the slightest—I just wanted to sign off and go to bed. Two years older now, I anticipate a similar late evening slump, so it’ll be interesting.

I envy writers who know what time of day is optimum for them—their peak performance window. They either rise with the roosters and dash off a scintillating chapter or three before the world has awakened, or else they burn the midnight oil, churning out masterpieces into the wee hours. As for me, well, I remember a comedian saying, ‘I’m not a morning person. I’m not a night person. When AM I a person??” This is my question as well.

The problem with me is inconsistency. I have written good stuff at 6 AM and 11 PM, at dawn and dusk. Ditto dreadful stuff. Do I feel on top of my game early, or late in the day? Depends. While as a rule I am no longer usually very creative after 8:30 PM (so, naturally, that is when my online class will commence tonight!), on occasion I have an inspiration during the evening, and then am on a writing roll until long after the fam is slumbering. There is no rhyme or reason for the variance—it does not relate to quantity of sleep the night before, or my caffeine intake. And it goes beyond writing: I’ve exercised in the morning, afternoon and night (not on the same day, silly!) and I cannot tell WHEN I am more coordinated. So I have found it simpler to just refrain from exercising altogether.

Peak performance, for me, is an elusive butterfly: in theory you can catch it, but it’s darned hard, and just because you catch one doesn’t mean you’ll ever succeed again.

The assigned writing prompts for tonight’s class include a lemon, a photograph and some coffee beans. Not feeling very “peak”-y at the moment. Any ideas?

Elise's Review Corner

or you could always read!

Hi ho, fellow shelter-in-placers!

There are oodles and oodles of home entertainment choices these days! And thank heavens there are, now that we’re all home, looking for entertainment. Those poor folks living though pre-TV pandemics had VERY few options for whiling away the days and weeks stuck indoors!

But wow! Navigating it all can be a bit overwhelming…HBO! Netflix! Amazon! Not to worry, though, I’m here to help. Here are my reviews of some popular current series offerings. I have seen about 10% of these, but I’m certainly not letting that stop me from sharing an opinion!

GRACE AND FRANKIE: The misadventures of two gal pals of a certain age.  Jane Fonda is 80, and looking at her STILL makes me feel ugly and out of shape, the same response I had to her in those ridiculous workout tapes. Watch only when feeling very self-confident!

THE MARVELOUS MRS. MAISEL: Mrs. M is an up-and-coming comedienne in the 1950s. My mom dressed like this, but Mom never hung out with Lenny Bruce.  Suggestion: How about Sarah Silverman in a flash forward episode as Mrs. Maisel’s granddaughter? Lenny Bruce is Mister Rogers in comparison!

THE CROWN: The charmed yet challenging life of Queen Elizabeth II through the decades. Must-see TV for Anglophiles (I’m one for the most part, but I draw the line at their horrible tabloids and their even worse Marmite on toast).

THIS IS US: I’ve never watched a minute of this very emotional series, but since tissues are in short supply right now I’d better not start. Did Jack die or something? I don’t know who that is but I’m crying already!

THE HANDMAID’S TALE: A nightmare vision of a future where the women have lost every bit of their power, and only exist to serve the men. Unlike with Grace and Frankie, though, you will feel much more stylish when you watch this, along with horrified.

SCHITT’S CREEK: If you can get past the bizarre caterpillar eyebrows of Eugene and Dan Levy, this is really funny. If I lost my fortune (assuming I had one to lose), I’d be content to end up in this quirky town whose name is pure fifth grade boy humor.

STRANGER THINGS: Again, never saw. Apparently a missing kid is involved, and supernatural stuff happens, yada yada. It’s incredibly popular, like Game of Thrones was, but unlike GOT I can sit in a room with fans discussing it without wanting to jump out a window.

That should give you some informed viewing choices! But wait, resident junior critics Aiden and Peter want to weigh in with their top recommendation:

PEPPA PIG: “We like to binge watch 40 episodes at a time, because jumping in muddy puddles never loses its appeal. We also love the British accents, and can’t wait be old enough to watch The Crown. We used to watch stuff like Moana and Robin Hood, but since they involve no muddy puddles, we don’t anymore.”

Happy viewing my friends! Pass the popcorn!

I'd rather watch Peppa.

Happy Medium

What's worse? My corduroy jumpsuit or the pathetic Christmas tree? Toss up?

You know that friend? The really stylish one? That friend whose gifts choose themselves, because when you walk into a shop, that scarf or pair of earrings screams her name? She has a carefully curated wardrobe, and her hair and makeup choices are equally well-thought out. She knows, instinctively, when she’s too old to wear something—though she never, ever dresses “old”—and she segues into jazzy tunics and leggings when the time for short skirts has passed. You know her? 

I ask, because I am, emphatically, not that friend. 

I’ve never had much personal flair. Growing up, I always jumped on the bandwagon of a fashion trend just as the rest of the world was jumping off, headed for the next big thing without me. Photos of me in my thirties and early forties are pretty cringeworthy, between the ugly ugly maternity wear, and the tragic mom jeans. Rarely, I’d sport something eye-catching--though not for the right reasons. At one point I had bright yellow sneakers, which I wore with everything and actually didn’t go with anything. 

But then came my mental illness, cleverly disguised as a Midlife Crisis. Suddenly I was all about looking young and trendy, my bedroom closet bursting at the seams with my impulse purchases. I probably looked a bit ridiculous, but I thought I was adorable—and NO one could say my fashion choices were the least bit matronly. 

I had hoped, as the gap between my current life and those horrible years in the late 2000’s increased, that I’d be able to revisit my bipolar manic mood swings without becoming nauseated. But the feelings persist, like an aching tooth that you can’t stop poking with your tongue. I try to avoid my triggers—for instance, I cannot walk into Bloomingdales, ever again, nor Sephora, nor any of my other retail haunts from that crazy time. I gave away my 30 pairs of stiletto heels as part of my recovery, but still, now, even seeing another woman wearing high heels can be enough to bring those bad feelings back.  

Therefore, for about a decade, I’ve been in limbo—once again dressing for inconspicuousness, but not yet ready to wave the polyester flag of surrender. 

But there are signs of a late-life awakening, the discovery of a middle ground where I can embrace my style (indeed, learn what that style may be), without plunging back into madness. Recently, I have started buying clothes and accessories again (all online, see above). I notice myself gravitating towards certain colors and fabrics, and am enjoying little things like buying a cute vintage change purse and nice sunglasses. I don’t dress to attract tons of attention, but neither do I dress to blend in with the scenery. 

It’s all part of redefining sixty-something Elise, and it’s pretty neat. And while I still look back with regrets, I’m focusing more these days on—these days, and the me that is living them, right now.

Snazzy change purse and all.

Ta-da!

Timing is Everything

From our long ago comedy revue "Parents R Us" 

Here’s a chuckle for you:

Me: "Ask me 'what's the secret to comedy?'"

You: "Okay, what's the secret to..."

Me: "TIMING!!!!"

I have to say my timing is pretty good. As an actor, I prided myself on delivering punchlines correctly, also never stepping on someone else’s laugh (the cardinal sin when playing a funny scene). Indeed, I have been told more than once (maybe it was just once, but whatever) that my timing is perfect (aw, shucks!), and therefore I believe it wholeheartedly.

So why am I cursed with so many ill-timed problems?

Minds you, I bring calamity on myself by refusing to “be prepared “(I bombed out of Girl Scouts and never joined the Coast Guard, so I don’t have this pertinent motto to fall back on). I once watched the jaunty red “check engine” notice light up on the dashboard for miles, thinking: What a fine idea! One of these days I’ll do just that! –not realizing that it was a command, not a suggestion. Which is why I ended up stalling out in the middle of an intersection in Maryland, in the rain, when I was already late to drop Julie off at summer camp. I tend to launch into recipes without checking the pantry and fridge, long after Shop n Bag has closed for the night. Ever try making a cheesecake with only a quarter-box of cream cheese? I don’t advise it.

Early this month, I was preparing an essay (on deadline) for a magazine, notes for a speaking gig, and the agenda for our church women’s retreat. So, naturally, I attempted to boot up my laptop, only to see the computer equivalent of “check engine”: a scary, pulsating question mark on the screen. I couldn’t start the Macbook Air that had served me well for years, just when I most needed start-age—and I hadn’t bothered to do a backup of files in weeks.  Timing!!!

I rushed over to Best Buy, and gave my magic machine to their scarily youthful “Geek Squad”, telling them I was in a major hurry. Well, “major hurry” and “Best Buy” aren’t exactly compatible—three days later I had to drive back to the store, where a 12 year old Geek shook her head sadly and said, “Your operating system is gone! It can’t be found anywhere on the computer!” Did you know such a thing is possible? Neither did I, but it is: My OS had vanished, taking with it every file I hadn’t saved recently (meaning: every file I needed for the tasks facing me). After replacing the laptop (which made more sense than a $900 repair that wasn’t guaranteed to work), I then had to transfer all the stuff from my external hard drive to my new computer. As of this writing, I’m still not sure I got everything moved over correctly.  

There you have it!  MY timing is perfect (as you have told me), it’s the WORLD’S timing that is a mess!

Step it up, world!

New Mac! But Lousy Timing!

Sleepytime in Oreland

Sher and baby Aiden napping back in the day

Yawn.

Just woke up from a long nap—which would be fine, except it’s now 10 PM. Plus: I still have two hours to finish this post before the clock strikes midnight and my laptop turns into a pumpkin (and if that happens, then my hands will have all that seedy gunky stuff on them as I type). Minus: once again, my sleep schedule is all topsy-turvy. Now, why I’m napping so much, Lord only knows—I am getting VERY little exercise, even with a daily stroll around the neighborhood. But my body is behaving as if I’ve just returned from a flight to Timbuktu (incredibly jet-lagged). And the other adults in the house are similarly groggy, often sprawled on chairs and sofas, snoozing away at odd hours.

If only Aiden and Peter had gotten the memo! Then we’d all be blissfully Sleeping Beauties, dozing through the next several weeks, until awakened at last by the kiss of—well, I guess it’d have to be the kiss of Governor Wolf, right?  announcing that we no longer have to stay cooped up? As I have no particular desire to be kissed by Governor Wolf (or ANY local, state or federal official for that matter), this is a bad metaphor! But I digress…

Our resident 5 and 3 year olds are full of vim and vigor these strange days, from early til late. Even though their Baba and Mama make sure they’re outside playing ball in the back yard, or riding their bikes in the driveway, several times daily, the boys still have (tons of) energy to spare. Aside from their extreme youth, I think the main difference is that they really have no idea what’s going on in the world, hence are not intentionally escaping the existential madness via lots of extra sleep. Oh, to be carefree Aiden and Peter!

I was never a napper—not as a baby (according to Mom), not as a child, not as an adult. Napping was the unattractive thing Pop Cunningham did on the porch at Normandy Beach on summer afternoons—mouth agape, snoring loudly, newspaper pages scattered across his lap. Ugh! I much preferred to be up up up, sharp as a tack and ready to go at all times! The few occasions I did slumber during the day (such as during my bout with scarlet fever in sixth grade), I would wake up crabby and disoriented and the opposite of refreshed.

Now, I married a Champion Power Napper. Steve relies on his daily 10-20 minutes of shut eye for the second wind that propels him through his very productive evenings. I’ve heard that the length of the nap is key—shorter is better, waking before falling into the next, deeper level of sleep . I wouldn’t know, as I have no personal experience with the Power Nap. Once I’m out, I’m out for hours—which is why the whole idea of napping has never had appeal.

Until now.

Yawn.

Is it May yet?

Baby Me asleep--a rare event!

A Reframing Retreat

Confirmation Retreat 2013-working in a community garden

One of my favorite parts of my job at church has been leading lots of retreats. I’ve created retreats for Christian Education leaders, with sessions on teaching practices and art journaling. I’ve led retreats for youth leaders from area Lutheran churches. Confirmation retreats (whole weekends once), due to everyone’s crazy schedules, gradually shrunk to one night, until finally they stopped. In their heyday, though, the preteen Confirmands enjoyed them: ropes courses and silly games and night walks with flashlights.

We had a Mother-Daughter retreat at the Jersey Shore one year—don’t recall much about programming but I do remember we decorated flip flops (more fun than it sounds!) On March 8th I returned from a terrific Women’s Retreat in Lewes DE, in the very nick of time, just before everything shut down. We held one Family Retreat with parents and kids in the Pocono Mountains, back in 2011. This one was such fun that I’m not sure why we never did another one. Our theme was “Encounters with Creation”; we looked at the ground outside through magnifying glasses, wrote down everything we observed, then shared in family groups.

As we all essentially are on retreat right now, isolated from our job sites and neighbors and familiar routines, I’m trying to combat my free-floating anxiety with a reframe: this is just another Family Retreat! But instead of focusing on birds and bugs, we’re concentrating on other creatures--us. I observe my grandsons: doing fine, sleeping better than usual and eating more (which for Aiden—as opposed to Nana—is a GOOD thing), their imaginative play a joy to behold.  I check on my grown children, Sher and Yaj in person, the rest via email, text and FaceTime. It’s been a real blessing (I’ve talked to Patrick more in the past three days than in the previous month). I appreciate my suddenly long-distance friends—it’s so great to still be able to laugh and share life, even remotely. And Steve and I actually enjoyed our anniversary, watching The Two Popes on the sofa instead of Company on Broadway (the original plan.)

Working from home is a huge challenge I know, especially with little ones running around. I get that this is not a retreat the way a relaxing getaway might be—but nonetheless, it IS a major change of pace, and for those of us who don’t have to venture out to our jobs, maybe a chance to spend some of what would have been time stuck in traffic, working on our inner lives.

So today, I invite you, at some point, to light a candle. Play some soft music. Get lost in a good book. Get back in touch with YOU. Take a little time to reframe, and reflect, and “retreat.” While circumstances may be forcing us into this unsettling new situation, by pressing “pause” on our regular lives, even briefly, we are giving ourselves a real gift--time to consider the questions: who am I (really)? And what matters most?

Lewes Women's Retreat--Can't get that close now!

Here Comes the Bride

Little did she know...

It is March 19, 1977, a cold gray day, end of winter. The 50 people in Saint Jude’s Catholic Church in Atlanta watch the small bridal party process down the aisle. The two bridesmaids are wearing turquoise dresses, each are carrying one red rose. The groom and best man stand up front, along with a long-haired, really young priest.

She doesn’t know to be nervous, so she isn’t. She stands, arm in arm, with her father. They never had much to say to one another, so the silence feels quite normal. When it is time to move, they walk slowly and a bit awkwardly, her gait hobbled by the four inch heels she unwisely chose to wear today. She notices the very few pictures being snapped by their photographer acquaintance. Oh, well.

It is a Mass with Communion, much longer than a Protestant ceremony. Finally, they join hands and say their memorized vows (they are both actors; learning lines comes easily for them). The priest picks up all his cues, even though the bride has edited the script (she refuses to “welcome children joyfully” to the marriage; she doesn’t want kids), and they are wed.

At the brunch reception at Brennan’s restaurant, the small crowd mills around clutching mimosas, an odd mix of twentysomethings and her parents’ friends. There is no dancing, just Eggs Sardou. There is no cake to cut, just Bananas Foster. They won’t leave for their brief honeymoon until evening, so no merry, rice-festooned dash to a getaway car. All is low-key, as the whole day has been.

Later, they drive north towards New York City before stopping at a South Carolina motel for the night—because they want to catch the finale of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And so 3-19-77 ends for the newlyweds.

43 years later, it’s another gray late winter day. A distressing number of those 50 witnesses to their wedding have passed away, including their parents, her sister Mo and too many friends. But they survive, and their marriage does too. They’d leave Atlanta two years later, never to live in the South again. God laughs department: after all their noisy objections to offspring, they ended up with five of them.

What would I whisper in her ear, that terribly young bride in the back of the church that morning? “Get ready for a tough time ahead”? “There will be so much worry and sadness and loss”? “You should have waited, finished college, had some time on your own”? Would she have listened? Would it have mattered?

No.

Would she trade one minute of these 43 years of ups and downs, births and funerals, laughter and tears?

No.

Because of the guy that stood there, waiting for her, at the end of the church aisle that morning. The guy who has stood by her four decades and counting. Who is here with her this morning in Oreland, and will still be here, please God, as the adventure continues.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

Dancing at Sher and Ya-Jhu's wedding