Peace, love and road trip

Hello lovely readers and thank you for coming over to my blog, where we are kicking off road trip season with a shameless reposting of my Facebook status update from February 11, 2013. My road trips come hard these days, this one squeezed in-between $15.2 million dollars worth of deadlines (which I'm pleased to say have mostly paid off by now). On February 11, I had an opportunity to spend four hours and 17 miles to discover the highways and byways of this great country. It was awesome. Here goes:
 
Terri Mork Speirs, Facebook Status Update, February 11, 2013 -- You never know what will happen when you indulge in four hours of vacation time. This morning I pre-planned the morning away from work so I could take my daughter to get her driver's license. (Done.) To avoid the long lines we went to a courthouse in a sleepy little town outside of Des Moines, a quaint farm town called Adel. (I can't believe how few times we go into the countryside and we in Iowa for land sakes.)

Anyway, it felt so roadtripping-free to drive westward, even if it was only 17 miles. At the license bureau, a tiny multipurpose room with three clients waiting in line, we were both surprised that the clerk was a distinguished Latino with a whiff of gray hair. He was servicing clients in English while training in another clerk (who looked kind of Irish to me) in Spanish.

This is rural Iowa, friends.

I know some of you may be saying "why should a clerk speak Spanish" but I say why not? It was the most civilized drivers license bureau I've experienced. Anyway, afterwards we found a bookstore cafe a few blocks away and shared a homemade buttermilk biscuit and farm fresh eggs; tasted pretty much out of this world. And then, a book practically leaped off the shelf and into our breakfast table (see pic). To top it off, there was enough change on the bottom of my purse to buy it.

Congratulations to my lovely daughter, light of my life, for getting her license. Now back to work because, whoa boy, do I have deadlines. First, I'll read a poem while the girl drives us back to reality.

Below is the poem I read aloud (but not nearly as well as Alfre Woodard) with Teengirl at the wheel. More road trip posts to come. Where have you gone lately?

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

A loaded mother's day

Me with another one of my winning hair-dos, and the kiddos
circa 2007 in one of our favorite postures, reading in bed.
Please note my slit throat, which provided
a rare instance to feel badass.

The first time I got pregnant I was 33 years old, my husband Bob was 43. We were on the back end of our biological clocks (or at least I was), but we may as well have been teenagers. We were so excited and so naïve. We didn’t know about the caution to keep it quiet for the first trimester due to all the unknowns.

When we went in for our initial appointment, they gave us an ultrasound, which in hindsight was probably not necessary but evidently that’s what they did in the late 90s in downtown Brooklyn. (I would get many more ultrasounds in the next few years.) The six week ultrasound confirmed I was pregnant. It also discovered twins growing in my uterus. Twins! Bob and I were thrilled beyond belief. We had waited so long -- not by choice but more by circumstance, and now we were having twins.

It was worse than keeping a Christmas secret. We were having twins! We told my family, Bob’s family, my workplace, Bob’s colleagues, our church, our neighbors, people at the diner, people on the subway (kidding on the last one). We pretty much told everyone. We would have taken out a billboard had we thought of it.

You know where this is going.

I started bleeding approximately one week later. It was Memorial Day weekend 1995. When I realized the bleeding wasn’t going to stop, I posed a compromise to my body. You dispose of one twin, I’ll keep the other. I’d accept one baby. I’d be grateful for one baby. I begged for one baby. The universe could take the other, just give me one. But no, I kept bleeding. I can’t remember but I’m sure we must have called the doctor. I’m sure the doctor was not surprised and I’m sure the doctor said to just bear it out and come in first thing after the weekend. The doctor knew that up to 20 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage during the first weeks of pregnancy. They call it spontaneous abortion and there’s nothing fancy western healthcare can do. After two days of hemorrhaging I conceded that both babies were lost. There were no twins.

It was a sunny day when Bob and went to the follow up appointment. It was pretty routine. My health was fine. The babies were gone. Bob and I held hands as we walked away from the clinic. I would have liked it to be over starting exactly that moment, but dang, we told everyone we were having twins. Which meant we had to tell everyone that I had miscarried the twins. There was no way around it. I had wished so badly that we had kept our mouths shut because I wanted it to be over. 

The next day I went in to the office and I felt funny. I was barren and everyone thought I was carrying twins. I didn’t know what to do so I went straight to my HR director and blurted out to her that I’d miscarried. I cried and told her I didn’t want to repeat the story over and over. That awesome HR director knew exactly what to say, offered her complete sympathy, and said she’d take care of it. (Thank you Ann, if you’re out there.) She discretely informed everyone at the office of the situation. As the day drew on, I couldn’t believe how many people, both men and women, came up to me quietly to confide that the same thing had happened to themselves or their wives.

This kept happening.

I wouldn’t have chosen to tell everyone I had miscarried, but hearing other people’s stories brought much healing.

I’ll never say that “it was God’s plan” or anything like that, because I can’t believe that any kind of divine power would intentionally take twin babies, or even one baby. But still, at this point I can’t imagine it any other way than having my Amanda and my Aidan. My heart goes out to all the mothers who couldn’t have children, who are separated from their children, who lost their children, or who have fallen out of relationship with their children. Same goes the other way. My heart is full for those who have lost their mothers.

Mother’s Day is loaded.

Mom and me 2012.

And so even as I give thanks for my kids, for my beautiful mother, and my dear mother-in-law, I commend these communities of mothers, in case any one of them might be useful for you:

Babies, Infertility, and Mother’s Day, a powerful blog post and resources from a fabulously talented seminary friend, Rev. Jodi Houge.

Motherless Daughters, a website, a book, and a worldwide movement, launched by Hope Edelman, a writer and teacher who I was honored to be mentored by for a year.

Little Seal, a blog turned book (“Still Point of a Turning World”) about the loss of a child, by Emily Rapp, another writing teacher I was privileged to learn from.

Thanks for coming by my blog. I wish you all -- whoever you are, and where ever you are with your motherhood -- a lovely weekend.  

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

See this film

Sokha was a Cambodian child of the dump:
orphaned and forced to pick through garbage to survive.
But, through a series of miracles, Sokha finds her way to school –
and, like a phoenix, she has risen to become a star student on the brink of
a brilliant and once unimaginable future.

Hello friends, 

If you're like me, you feel a mixture of horror and hope about the emerging story of the rescued women and the little girl in Cleveland. If so, may I encourage you to see this film, "Girl Rising." 

Bring the kids, bring your partner, bring a friend, bring your parents, or just go. Check out when it's showing in your community and go. (With thanks to Megan Clausen who introduced it to me. And with thanks to a group of lovely women who I was able to join for the showing.)

I hope to go again, this time with Bob and the kids, if it returns to Des Moines. The website including a movie trailer is here. 

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

Sisterhood

Margaret on the occasion of her ordination July 15, 2012.
I love this picture, it's all Margaret: "don't mess with me"
and "don't let no one mess with you."
As mentioned in this blog post for Kibira Films International, she
was a pastor long before her ordination.

I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes at my friend Margaret’s apartment. Curtains closed, the place was dark and quiet. A slab of freshly butchered goat meat waited in the refrigerator, splayed across an entire shelf. Margaret worried it would go bad, as it had been sitting there for a few days. It needed to be cut up for the freezer, but there was a crisis at hand. Margaret’s teenage son had been put into a medically induced coma the night before.

We had lived together in student housing at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minn., a few years prior to this emergency. My family moved on; Margaret’s was still there. When I heard about Margaret’s son, my kids and I returned because she had been a key source of support in my own crisis, when my husband, Bob, experienced liver failure. Margaret was like a liver-whisperer, knowing what to do and say when not even the Mayo Clinic doctors did. I couldn't think of anything else I’d rather do at that moment but wash her dishes and consider the fate of the goat meat in the fridge.  >>more

(Please continue to Living Lutheran for full post. With thanks to my wonderful editor, Jan Rizzo, and all the lovely people at Living Lutheran.)

Marriage by Numbers: Bob and Me

I'm so glad I don't get what I deserve because I certainly don't deserve this.
Photo is taken in front of our beloved student housing building at Luther Seminary in St. Paul,
circa 2007, right after Bob's liver healed and right before moving to Iowa,
thanks to a generous call from the lovely people of St. John's Lutheran church
in downtown Des Moines. For some reason, after Bob's liver healed I got  my groove,
which didn't go over so well at my workplace. So you could also say that this picture was
the beginning of the end of my 15-year-old job. (Another story.)
Aidan, 2nd grade, Amanda 6th. Darn, they are cute.
Love you babe! (For Bob.)

April 30, 1994 - April 30, 2013

19 Years together.

18 Thousand or so silly jokes (mostly Bob).

17 Thousand or so regrets (mostly me).

16 Years with a daughter.

15 Countries of influence.

14 Sisters and brothers-in-law.

13 Years with a son.

12 Nieces and nephews.

11 Years of seminary coursework. (Three schools.)

10 Jobs. (One of us got fired.)

9 Lutheran congregations.

8 Trips to the emergency room.

7 Times seventy the forgiveness, frustration, patience, aggravation, kindness, disagreement, compromise, difference, similarity, like, dislike, potato, potAto, unity, discord, and above all wishing the very best for one another no matter what.  

 6 Homes (one row house, three apartments, two mortgages).

5 Vehicles.

4 Cities (New York City, Baltimore, St. Paul, Des Moines.)

4 Surgeries.

3 Cats.

3 Pregnancies.

2 Births.

2 Master’s degrees.

2 Lovely mothers and fathers (one-RIP).

1 Organ failure.

1 Cancer.

1 Amanda.

1 Aidan.

1 Beloved Bob.

1 Infinity of collective friends.

1 Lucky me.



Evolution of a scientific calculator

1.      Girl needs a scientific calculator. Cost: approximately $150.
2.      Girl manages thus far via borrowing a school calculator.
3.       Girl needs her own calculator for the ACT test.
4.       Mother hopes for a long lasting relationship between girl and mathematics; agrees to purchase calculator.
5.       Brilliant idea: Buy a used calculator from amazon.com, one in quote “excellent condition” end quote and save $20.
6.       Calculator arrives. The screen is cracked. If the crack doesn’t spread, it’s OK. If it does spread, the screen will be unreadable.
7.       Do screen cracks spread? And where’s the return paperwork?
8.       ACT test is at hand. Girl needs calculator.
9.       Cracked screen scientific calculator would probably do for the test, if only Girl hadn’t figured out that it’s actually the incorrect calculator, because it has some kind of functionality is not allowed at the ACT test.
10.   This was learned one day before the ACT test.
11.   Mother prepares to bite it big and purchase a brand new scientific calculator. Cost: an additional $150. (Total cost at this point: approximately $270.)
12.   But girl has cheerleading practice and so cannot join the shopping spree, to ensure the correct calculator is purchased.
13.   “Your ACT is more important than cheerleading,” mother exclaims!
14.   Girl says she has a plan. Will discuss at 8:30 p.m., approximately 12 hours before the ACT test.
15.   Apparently the plan is, “I don’t need a calculator for my ACT test,” according to the Girl, late on the eve of the test.
16.   Huh? The universe is confused.
17.   Mother doesn’t understand the plan. She only sees dollar signs going in the wrong direction in terms of dashed hopes for awesome ACT score, thus generous scholarships leading to a prosperous life, resulting in fulfilled dreams.
18.   Morning of the ACT test: Girl brazenly struts into the massive brick high school building as if she owns it, sans scientific calculator.
19.   Parents wish to mind-control their children, but what do they know?

 

Us, declassified

Please allow me this confession. My blog post from yesterday has bothered me all day and so I'd like to offer this quick addendum if for no other reason but to clear my conscience. When I brought up the evidence of clinical psychotic behavior -- I mentioned it not in judgement, but in a weird mixture of hope, sadness and fear. (Read the heartbreaking article that I link to). I am an ardent supporter of mental health programming, and one of my fears is that there isn't enough (in fact its one of my primary grant writing subjects). Plus, the core of my Christian belief system is based on the notion that people cannot be classified, whatsoever. I think the classification of people is one of, if not the most tragic human tendencies throughout the centuries. To me, the DE-classification of human beings is the main point of Christianity, although it's mostly overlooked (at least in popular culture and certainly in conservative and evangelical communities). On top of that, the basis of my Lutheran faith is we are all simultaneously sinners and saints. I'm pretty sure Jesus didn't classify people according to pathological traits and I'm also sure that its a big reason the establishment hated him.

I wanted to entitle this post, "Do psychopaths go to heaven?" And then propose why we probably wouldn't like the answer to that question. And then explore why it's probably an irrelevant question. And then ponder why there's such a urgency to "charge" someone with a crime, even if they're perfectly innocent. But I don't have time and I just needed to attempt to get this off my mind. Anyway, I'm not trying to get all heavy, and there seems to be no good way to clear this up succinctly, so I'll leave it at that.

If that made no sense, please disregard.

My sincere thanks to everyone who sent me nice messages about my post yesterday. I really appreciate you and your consideration.

Time to find me some Tina Fey material. Feel free to post jokes. I promise to write something funny next time.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart