The Urgent VS. The Essential - thoughts from the Polar Vortex

What was supposed to be a 3-day weekend has, thanks to the Polar Vortex, become a 5-day weekend. While normally this would be cause for excitement, the walls of our house seem to be closing in ever more quickly. And, despite popular assumption that extra time at home results in more productivity, this is a complete logical fallacy. The more time spent at home, the needier my children become and the deeper their inability to tolerate each other (and me). The longer the length of time spent away from the "real" world and the workplace the longer the "To Do" list grows and the heavier my anxiety about how to get it all done.

Last night, while laying in bed and thinking through the myriad things to which I needed to attend, I came close to tears from the overwhelming mass of it all. I actually couldn't keep track of all that I had to be worried about, the list too long. Between grad school deadlines and piles of grading and the details of travel plans not falling into place, I wondered when I would get to the grocery store to get more strawberry jelly and coffee creamer.

I hear a little whimper, then a hoarse cry. "Mama." I get out of bed and walk to my 4-year-old's room. She is sick, has been sick for 3 days. I lean over her bed and touch her cheek. She lifts her eyelids for only a moment, then reaches out and grabs my hand.

"I want you to lay down with me."

I lay down beside her, tucking silky blonde strands of hair behind her ear. Her breathing evens. I think she has gone back to sleep. I watch her chest lift up and down for a few more minutes, then sit up to go back to my own bed. Again, her little hand grabs mine.

"I want you to lay down with me forever."

I lay back down. Kiss her warm forehead. "I promise I'll love you forever," I whisper.

"Me too, Mama," she whispers back.

I lay still beside her, listen to her soft snores, and wish  I could promise to lay here forever, to keep her safe and warm next to me, to kiss away fears and fevers. But there is too much that is beyond me, too much I can't control, too much outside of this moment vying for time and attention. Too many days and years bearing down upon us. But I have this moment. A quiet moment in the dark, snuggling with my sweet, snoring baby to remind me that all that stuff I worried about moments ago isn't nearly as important as what I'm holding in my arms.

My days may be filled with deadlines and To Do lists, but my arms, my heart, my life is filled with those I love. And I'm ever learning how to set aside the urgent in order to attend to that which is essential.

Ode to the Artificial

This year, in the words of a friend, I "caved to the convenience" of an artificial tree. Guilty as charged.

Growing up we had a "real" tree. It smelled of pine and left sap residue on your fingers. Once Jonathan and I married, I informed him that we too would be having a "real" tree. This tradition continued through 11 years of marriage, 3 children, and a cat.

This year I nearly had a panic attack thinking about getting a "real" tree. I couldn't bear to think about trudging through the cold to pick out a tree that no one will unanimously agree on, which inevitably, in a family of all girls, leads to tears and personal effrontery. Upon getting the tree home we'll de-tangle the yardage of hopefully-working lights and wrestle them onto the boughs while warding off eager fingers wielding fragile ornaments--one of which, at least, will be broken in the interim. . . which will lead to more tears and accusations.

Once the lights, garland, ornaments are on, we have the added pleasure of continued maintenance of the tree throughout the Christmas holiday and even a couple days into the New Year. Checking water levels. Sweeping up pine needles. Keeping the cat from drinking the sappy water. Cleaning up cat vomit when he does manage to drink the sappy water. Finding ornaments mysteriously scattered in random places around the house. Readjusting the garland for the 834th time because the cat or my 4-year-old thinks it's fun to pull it and watch the whole tree shudder and hear the little bells on the ornaments tinkle. Ah, a pleasure indeed.

As I write this, I again feel hot all over, sweat breaks out on my brow, my chest starts to constrict, and my heart begins to race. Then I remind myself: It's okay, Anna. You caved.

It seems that many people have quite a strong opinion when it comes to live or artificial trees. As I said, I was chastised and told I "caved to convenience" when I went from "real" to artificial in my choice of tree decor.

But I am unmoved by this rebuke.

I applaud all of you who get "real" trees and survive the holidays with sanity intact. But the fact that this year, for the first time since our cat and children appeared on the scene, I arrived home from work with the tree assembled, the lights aglow on the branches (Oh, yes, it's pre-lit, baby!), and my children and husband all smiling and in festive spirits. We had a delightful, tear-free evening of Christmas music and tree decoration, documented with photos rather than emotional scars. If an artificial tree is what it takes for our family to enjoy a moment that is meant to be enjoyed, then I'll take artificial any day.

You can judge me. That's a constitutional right somewhere, I'm sure. But I am unabashed in my affection for the artificial.

And now I just discovered that Netflix has an hour-long video of a fire crackling in a fireplace that you can play with or without Christmas music accompaniment. So I've been setting up that fake flame on my iPad whenever I'm sitting down to read a book or to do some writing. I listen to the crackle and pop of the on-screen fire. I read by the glow of my pre-lit tree. And I smile because, at least where I'm concerned, there's a little bit more peace on earth this Christmas.


Oh, and PS: When I informed my parents that we wouldn't be going with them to purchase a live tree this year, they're response? "Oh good. We've wanted to go artificial for years."

Look at that sweet girl! I know you can't see it, but she's grinning wildly.

Remembering October 26: my greatest fear realized

October 26, 2007 was a dark, rainy day. I was 8 months pregnant with my 2nd daughter and teaching in York, PA. I had gone home that afternoon, then had to return to school later that evening for a fundraiser I had organized for an upcoming trip to London with 20 of my students. Jonathan was far from pleased that I had to return to school because it was also our 5-year wedding anniversary. But duty called. So, since Jonathan was still at work, I loaded my then 19-month-old into her car seat in the back of our little 4-door Honda Civic and started the grueling trek across the river from Lancaster into York.

It was during rush hour, which meant bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go, crazy traffic. Bit-by-bit we edged our way toward our destination. Then I looked down at my temperature gauge and that little, orange needle starting climbing its way to "HOT". No, I groaned. No, I am not overheating in this traffic, not with rain beating down, not with Jonathan over in the next county and unable to come quickly to help us. No! So I took a left and headed through the city to try and 1) keep the car moving to possibly cool the engine and 2) avoid some of the piled-up traffic on the highway.

While sitting at a stoplight, my phone started to ring. It was my mom who was with my sister in Virginia. My sister was also pregnant and had gone into labor earlier that morning. I had been waiting all day to hear the news of my nephew's arrival. I put my cell on speaker-phone.

Me: Hey, mom!

Mom: Hey, Sweetie. (her voice was low, soft, scratchy, and not at all like the voice of a grandmother who had just welcomed her third grandchild into the world.)

Me: Everything alright?

Mom: The baby is here . . . it didn't go well.

Tearfully, she described for me how my nephew's shoulders got stuck and we nearly lost both my sister and my nephew during that delivery. It was excruciating for my sister, excruciating for her husband and my mom who could only stand by and watch, helpless.

Mom: Praise the Lord, they're both safe.

My throat was tight and I blinked back tears as I drove. They're both safe. I hung up the phone, reached back to my daughter in the backseat and squeezed her little baby calf. I was so thankful everyone was safe. We were nearly at school and the car hadn't overheated. Phew. I slowed the car for a bend in the road, saw a car coming toward us in the opposite lane. I realized with horror that he was not going to make the turn. I didn't even have time to scream as his car slammed straight into ours.

A deafening noise of wheels screeching, the crash of metal against metal, glass shattering. Then a moment of utter stillness, with only the sound of rain on the windshield. My daughter started to wail. My very pregnant stomach had hit the steering wheel and immediately started to contract. I could not breathe. For a moment I could not bring myself to look back at my daughter for fear of what I might find. But I forced my head to turn, to see. Because she was screaming. She was scared. She needed her mama. I looked back and saw my sweet little girl, her face red from screaming, but unscathed.

I couldn't reach her. My contractions were painful. I couldn't get my seat belt off. I panicked, tried to push my way out of my door which had been crunched into its frame. The driver of the other car got out and started yelling, "No! Stop! Don't get out!"

I stared at him, unable to understand--why he is yelling? Why won't my door open? Why can't I breathe? Then I saw two cars--the cars who had been following me down the road--drive right through the accident scene to go on their merry way. (To this day I seethe at the thought of their dismissal of others' pain and fear for their own pressing agendas.) Once they passed, the driver of the other car--a young man whose face looked pale and scared--pried open my door. Another man appeared--an older man who lived in a house nearby, heard the accident, and came to help--and asked, "Can I help the little one?"

"Can you--get her out--of her seat? I can't--reach her," I wheezed.

He retrieved my daughter, handed her to his wife who had joined the scene with an umbrella. Then he came around and, with the other driver, helped me out of the car. The rain beat on my head, ran down my face and neck. I double over with the intensity of the contractions. My right knee had hit the dashboard and, already swollen, was too painful to walk on. With my arms draped over their shoulders, they helped me into the man's house where an ambulance and my husband were called. I couldn't remember my husband's cell phone number, they had to look it up on my cell phone. I couldn't remember anything. I just needed to hold my daughter who was still screaming and looking for me.

They sat me on a forest green couch, propped my feet up. I pulled my daughter against me and spoke softly to her. "Mama's here. It's okay. Jesus kept us safe." We sang a little song. I put my hand on my stomach, felt the tightness of it, prayed that my other baby was safe, and tried not to panic. Another woman from a car behind me (who actually stopped) also joined us in the living room. She came over, sat beside me, and asked, "Can I pray for you?"  She placed her hands atop mine on my taut abdomen, and she too prayed that no harm had come or would come to my unborn child.

An ambulance arrived. By now word had spread to my school (which was right down the road) of the accident, and one of my students had come to see if she could help. When she realized I was part of the accident she ran up as they were rolling my daughter and I on a gurney out to the ambulance. She offered to ride along with us to help take care of my daughter. Oh, bless you, yes. She played and sang and told stories to my daughter the whole ride to the hospital so that when we arrived my 19-month-old was happy and giggling and had completely forgotten the horrors of the day.

On and on the story goes of those who saw a need, stepped forward, and extended help. That same student--who is still a dear friend to this day--stayed with me at the hospital for several hours until my husband arrived, sat with me through an ultrasound, and cried in relief with me when we were told my baby was fine.  She and a friend then went and purchased a new car seat for us so that Jonathan could drive home with our daughter . Another of my friends slept on an uncomfortable pink, vinyl chair all night so I wouldn't be alone in the hospital once Jonathan left to take our daughter home.

Then I called my mom to let her know that we were all safe. We both sobbed, well aware it was a day that could have ended so very differently.

October 26 is a day of remembrance for our family. A day Jonathan and I dared to commit a lifetime to each other. A day we celebrate the birth of our sweet and vivacious nephew. A day we are reminded of life's frailty. And a day when I look at my family with awe and unbounded thankfulness.

A Reay of Sunlight

Cromarty Firth

No. I didn't spell a word wrong in the title. Reay is my dear, dear mum-in-law. And although I regaled you previously with my love of Inverness, I want to speak of the true highlight of my visit to the Highlands. 

This is going to sound a bit bizarre, but something that Jonathan and I chide Reay about every time we visit is her compulsion to do almost-constant laundry. However, we don't stop her from the laundry-doing because the clothes she returns to us are the cleanest, sweetest smelling clothes I have ever experienced. (Drowning in a sea of Reay's laundry is almost as appealing as getting lost for days in Leakey's floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.) I joked of this love of Reay's laundry to Karen before arriving on our recent visit, and Karen laughed. Only to quickly swallow her laughter and plead with Reay to wash all of the clothes in her suitcase so she could carry the scent of Reay's laundry home to the US. True story.

Ah, laundry drying in the Scottish air.

However, her laundry-goddess status is not the reason I love my Scottish mum. On the night of our arrival, she took us on a walk down to the Cromarty Firth (though I will neither confirm nor deny whether we hurdled over 2 train track barricades. Nevermind, I'll confirm it.)

Look at that agility! Fearless Reay.

Reay pointed out Fyrish up on the hill (which I'll talk more about in my next post), introduced us to the farmer's wife and the two farm dogs, steered us across the road because we still got confused about which direction to look for oncoming traffic, and blazed a trail through the reeds down to the water's edge. 

Reay and Karen

I stood on the cusp of the firth, looking across at the Black Isle, smelling the cool briny air, hearing the wind rushing past my ears, feeling the wildness of the clouds and sea and land draw me into itself. And I knew, as I always do, that I had come home. The Rabbie Burns poem plays through my mind at moments like these: "My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go." 

Thank you, Karen, for this great pic!

But my heart is in the Highlands, not because of the beauty or wildness or even the laundry. My heart is in the highlands because it is filled with the people I love. Those who have made me a part of their family--even when I was an awkward 23-year-old who had no idea what it meant to be married, til now as a 33-year-old aspiring writer and mother of 3 who peppers them with questions and keeps showing up on their doorsteps. I am honored to be part of this family. And while many of you, dear family, may be thinking, "Ach, lass, don't be daft," I will say it and keep saying it: I love you all.