SLOW

3 a : moving, flowing, or proceeding without speed or at less than usual speed

The girls and I are trying something new this week with our school schedule.  We stop whatever we are doing at 10:00 and go for a walk around the block - to get some fresh air, some sunshine, and just to take a break.  I got this idea from a wise friend of mine and I've waited until now to attempt it in the hopes that I could join my daughters for a small trip around the block.  But even before I got to the end of our street, I knew it wasn't to be. The first sign was a throbbing ankle, then a knee that didn't want to bend joined the chorus in my mind saying, "Slow.  Go slow."  Resigned, I told my daughters to continue on without me and meet me back at home.

As I walked slowly home, I thought about how often I've been getting this message to slow down.  When my ankle started hurting in July, I limped for several days before going to see the doctor.  During this time, I had to walk slowly.  My body simply would not let me walk at my normal pace.  On a trip to Lowe's, I realized why this was hard for me.  In addition to the physical pain (which I certainly can bear), there was what I came to think of as the embarrassment factor.  I walk quickly so that people have less time to notice me.  I felt like a spectacle limping to the van from Lowe's that day.  That feeling has only increased as I've had to field countless questions about the large grey air cast I have to wear to support my fractured ankle.  I have been a walking spectacle over the last month.  It's not a feeling I enjoy.


Some people like being seen - or even need it.  It validates them and lets them know they are doing the right things.  I have a friend who once commented that her children would not be overlooked by people - she would see to that.  I immediately thought, "There are worse things than being overlooked." And while I want to be sure I see my children for who they are, I am not preoccupied with them being seen by others.  I try to not prevent that when they seek it, but I don't seek it on their behalf.

Yet there is this tension in me about being seen vs. blending in.  I don't want to be noticed most of the time, but I can't deny that it feels good to be known.  Yesterday as I hobbled up to the communion rail, my priest raised a questioning eye at my cast (he'd been out of the country visiting family these last weeks) and then after he gave me the bread, he prayed for healing for me.  It touched me that he not only noticed my condition, but immediately lifted me up to God for healing, right there at the communion rail.

Later that same night, J was asking me whether he might enjoy a series of books I've read.  I told him I didn't think they his type - more historical fiction than fantasy/sci-fi.  He then asked whether A could read them.  That got an adamant head shake, accompanied by "No," mouthed quietly as A sat nearby.  A and J then laughed about the way I say No when I want to give it force and emphasis.  J turned to me and said, "Isn't it nice to be known?"

It is nice to be known.  Being known requires being seen.  The enforced period of slowness and healing I am in is teaching me many things.  Chief among them, that I can (and perhaps should) risk the pain of being seen for the joy of being known.

The timing of this injury is interesting since it's hardly a time I want to slow down.  I would much rather be moving quickly between school work and house work, readying our possessions for selling or packing and moving.  Surely the timing is no coincidence.  In forcing me to slow down just when I have the most to do, it makes me aware not only of my own limitations, but of how my limitations make me feel.  Because I am good at the thinking, not so great at the feeling.

So as you perhaps bustle through your day, getting things done in a pleasing and satisfying way, think about what it might mean to slow down.  What would it cost you?  What would it give you?

REST

: repose, sleep; specifically : a bodily state characterized by minimal functional and metabolic activities

For the first time in the seven years that we've been a family of five, our entire family caught the same virus, one after the other.  The sickness started two weeks ago and first made its way to J.  K came next and missed two days of school with a fever.  Before long, A had a sore throat and I wasn't far behind.  I had hoped B would escape unscathed, but it was not to be.  Even strong-willed, strong-bodied B came down with it.  

Here's what I've learned: rest when you need to rest.

On Saturday, A danced (sore throat and all) in her ballet school's fundraiser.  I was there as a table host, hoping that adrenaline would get us both through the morning.  It did.  We then ate soup for lunch and crawled into bed with books.  Sunday found us much the same: we were napping by mid-morning while the rest of our family went to church and hung out with nephews.  By Sunday evening, we were on the mend, but B wasn't feeling well.  She ended up sleeping 14 hours and didn't awake until after 10 Monday morning.

Given that A and I were mostly feeling better by the end of day Sunday, I could have pushed through and had school (at least with A) on Monday.  Instead, I called it a sick day and we all three took the day off.  Healthy K was carted to school and then we rested.  We read.  We watched one documentary on Egypt and then I napped while they watched two more tv shows for fun.  (What's a sick day without a few tv shows?!)

It has taken me a while to learn that illness is your body's way of telling you to slow down and take a breath.  Perhaps this seems obvious to many of you.  If so, be thankful you've learned this lesson.  Years ago, I would push through at work, taking over the counter cold medicines and not missing so much as an hour of work.  I saw sickness - and my body itself - as something to endure, something that should be put into submission.  It took a while, but I finally learned that was no way to heal.  If I keep going like I'm not sick, I stay sick far longer.  Likewise, treating my body like something that is merely worth tolerating is not the solution.  As I've learned to listen to my body, I've found it is often wiser than my mind.  My body knows when I need to rest, when I can push and when to do what needs to be done.

I grew up with great ambivalence about my body.  Looking back, I think two main things conspired to make this the case: I went through puberty fairly early and my body rounded out before it lengthened out, resulting in a pudgy 4th and 5th grader.  I also didn't play any sports in middle school or high school.  I'm not a natural athlete and I let my insecurity about my body (a holdover from late elementary school) dictate what I would and wouldn't do.  Rather than persevere and learn a sport - any sport - I opted out.  It's only been in my 30s that I've learned my body can do some things.  I'm still woefully uncoordinated, but my recent morning runs have reminded me that I like to run.  I don't run fast.  I don't run with other people.  I don't ever hope to compete.  But the act of climbing out of bed, pulling on clothes and heading out the door to a sleeping world is the most pleasant way to wake up.  I love the time alone, the quiet of watching my neighborhood wake up around me and the feeling that my body is more than something I lug around to get my soul from place to place.  My body is worth being thankful for.

Both the return of outdoor running to my routine and my recent cold have reminded me that my body and soul need rest.  I've been trying to be open to change - trying to let go of behavior patterns that are ingrained, but not helpful.  I've discovered that change is hard work.  And hard work means rest should follow.  I need rest.  I suspect we all need rest, but I'm perhaps just more attuned to this need.  So the next time I get a cold, I'll take the Zicam in hopes of avoiding the full blown yuck of it.  If that doesn't work, I'm grabbing a cup of hot tea, finding a good book and taking a sick day. Rest is good for me - body and soul.

COPE

2 b: to deal with and attempt to overcome problems and difficulties —often used with with

We all make choices everyday. Some are small choices, some are bigger. For a few weeks now, I haven't been to the acupuncturist. While those visits help my headaches a lot, there have been some other places I wanted to divert that money. Things that I need and want to do for my soul instead of my body. I knew this wouldn't be an easy choice.

But I had forgotten how bad the headaches can be without any acupuncture assistance. Yesterday and today have fully refreshed my memory. This morning as I stood in the (very brief, thank you water conservation) shower, I felt like I could feel the places in my skull where the bones are fused together. And I thought to myself, "This choice between body and soul isn't an easy one."

Instead of treating my body to avoid the headaches, I'm trying to cope with the headaches right now. I've done this for years, so I'm sure I'll settle into a routine. While I had forgotten just how much the pain interferes with my life, my daughters remember what my headaches are like.

Yesterday after dinner was ready and simmering on the stove, I laid down in K's bed to rest my head for a few minutes. K tucked me in, pulling the blanket up to my chin, getting a stuffed animal for me to cuddle with and then gave me a kiss on the cheek before leaving me in a quiet room. While I rested for about twenty minutes, she went and prepared a treat for me. (The treat consisted of plain bread, raisins and crackers, so in this case it was the thought that counts.) I'm convinced K will make a great doctor, nurse and/or mom someday. She's a great caregiver. All was well until one of her sisters tried to come and see me in her room. From the dim room, I heard K's voice raised to its upper limit, "You can't go in there! Mom has a headache!" Thus ended the reprieve.

Yesterday's coping took the form of a quick nap. Today's took the following form:


I've said before that Coke cures everything. My head is still hurting with about six ounces left in the bottle, so it may not sure the headache, but at least it's helping me cope, as is supper swap, where each family makes one entree time four and shares with three other families. I cooked yesterday, so tonight will find me heating up D's salmon, S's frittata or H's soup. Either way, I won't have to cook. This helps me deal with the headache and I'm already a little sad that supper swap will be on hiatus for the summer. I've loved cooking once weekly and enjoying new foods from friends. I guess during the summer I'll have to cope with headache week by having J bring home take-out.

Even as I write this, I feel selfish and frivolous. People in Nashville are coping with far worse than headaches. They are dealing with ruined homes, lost possessions, shattered dreams and more. So while I deal with my own small pain, I'll try to remember their greater hurts and keep it all in perspective.

ELIXIR

1 a (2) : a substance held capable of prolonging life indefinitely b (1) : cure-all (2) : a medicinal concoction

I'm not a snake oil salesman, but I do have a magical elixir that I drink for nearly anything that ails me. Headache? Backache? Stomach ache? Yes, yes and yes. Here's a conversation I had yesterday with my cashier at Walgreen's:

Cashier: Wow. I've had a headache for three days now.
Me: Have a Coke.
Cashier: Hmm. You know, that just might be my problem.
Me: (nodding knowingly) Yeah, I've had a headache for three days, but I had a Coke with lunch. It's amazing how quickly it knocks it out.
Cashier: I might just have to have one.
Me: I know. I can understand why they sold the stuff as medicine years ago. It cures all my ills.
Cashier: (chuckles) You know, that's true!
Me: (satisfied that I have shared my vast knowledge of the medicinal properties of Coke) Have a good weekend - and I hope you get rid of that headache!

Coke is good stuff. I'm not taking about Diet Coke, Coke Zero or Pepsi. Coca Cola original is my magical elixir. And I can't accept any substitutes. For one thing, I can't really drink any of those other sodas I just named. All of them taste funny to me - because they don't taste like Coke.

I've come a long way since growing up a tiny town in southern Alabama. There, everything bubbly was Coke. When you asked your friends if they wanted a Coke, you then asked them what kind (Sprite? Dr. Pepper? Coke?). So Coke is just a part of me. It's not just my favorite soda. It's comfort in liquid form.

I don't drink Coke every day. I love it way too much for that. But if I have a headache, it helps far more than ibuprofen or acetaminophen. Don't bother telling me that it's the caffeine in it that gets rid of the headache. That may be true on a rational level, but I don't choose coffee to get rid of my aches and pains. I choose Coke. There's probably a psychological component to Coke's healing powers for me. And while I've yet to let my daughters try this precious beverage (no caffeine allowed), I have no doubt that they, too, will grow to know and love the magical elixir that the world calls Coca Cola.

ABSOLUTION

: the act of absolving (setting free from an obligation or the consequences of sin); specifically : a remission of sins pronounced by a priest (as in the sacrament of reconciliation)

Last night, my children ate cereal and canned ravioli for dinner. Not together, mind you. K had ravioli while A and B had cereal (again). J was at a company meeting, so he actually ate a balanced meal. When he returned home shortly after the girls' bedtime, I was telling him what I fed them for dinner. Yesterday was a rough day in the pain department, so I'm sure I was less than upbeat as I shared our evening's menu. He opened his arms to hug me and I said, "It's times like these that I wish I was a Catholic. I need absolution."

J, being the guy that he is, offered to absolve me on the spot. He even reverted to his long-ago faith and thought up a penance for me - I seem to recall it including a few Hail Marys, which I don't know. But even as I was joking about this with J, I knew in my heart that what needs absolution is not feeding my children less-than-healthy meals, but what I do to myself for this lapse. It's not really a sin to feed my children cereal or canned pasta. But it is a sin to castigate myself so thoroughly for it, especially because I do so out of pride.

It's been made crystal clear to me over the last two weeks how I have taken something good (a joy in cooking) and turned it into something... something I don't even have words for. I've turned it into an idol, I suppose. Instead of the meals I serve my family being part of what I do to care for them, they've become part of the definition of who I am. So when I can't stand, don't have the energy to shop or cook and can't meet my own standards, where does that leave me? Miserable, apparently.

Even though I know I am being too hard on myself, even though I know my kids don't care, even though I know this is not the end of the world, it matters to me and I continue to berate myself for not feeding my family well. A lot of my feelings about this are painfully tied up in my own self-image from when I was the ages of my daughters. I've always believed if I feed them well-balanced meals, offer them healthy snacks, serve them fruits and veggies at every turn, that they won't be mocked by their classmates for looking like jello when they run, as I so vividly recall. So what I have to come to terms with is whether I can cut myself the slightest bit of slack and believe that they won't turn in to me as a result of a few poorly planned dinners.

Because that is really the bottom line: I want to save them from being me. I want so desperately to let them make their own mistakes and earn their own scars and not mirror my own. I want them to make better choices than I did at the dinner table and in life. But I need to set myself free from my self-imposed obligation to cook something new, creative and healthy every night. And I need to remember that I don't really require absolution... that is, after all, what Jesus died to give us.

Maybe if I can learn this lesson, this additional lesson amongst the many I have already had to learn during this season of recovery, maybe then I will finally be on the road to mental and physical health.

STANDARDS

3 : something established by authority, custom, or general consent as a model or example

I am finding again and again - even more than a month after my surgery - how humbling it is to be unable to care for my family in the way I desire. While I am extremely grateful to be feeling a bit better nearly every day, I still can't do laundry, sweep the floors and cook dinner all in the same day. I've found that even when I don't realize I'm doing too much, my body informs me the next day by providing a rope of fire along the tendons in my lower leg. I respond by resting, again.

Yesterday was a good case in point. I awoke with a plan to test myself on the treadmill for the first time. I had very humble ambitions - to walk a mere 1/4 of a mile or stop if my leg protested before that. Sounds reasonable, right?

I dressed accordingly, then noticed as I came down the stairs that my leg was tight. Not paying this much heed, I got the girls ready for school, all the while expecting my leg to loosen as I kept moving around. On the drive home from dropping the girls off at school, my leg tendons burned from merely depressing the accelerator. And so I resigned myself to another day of rest, another day without exercise, another day spent with my leg elevated. It's not all bad - I do have a good book I'm currently reading.

But I had wanted to cook dinner. I didn't have high ambitions here, either. Merely a pork loin cooked in the crockpot, along with some veggies. As the day wore on, my leg continued to complain about being used. So A and K ate left-over pasta for dinner while J, B and I had jalapeno pimento cheese sandwiches. This is not exactly what I had in mind.

As I sat my daughters down to eat their dinner, which they uniformly ate without one word of complaint, I mourned not meeting my own standards yet again. Because what I have established by custom, model and example is that I will cook a meal - from scratch - three or four times weekly. This meal will be well-balanced and will always, always include at least one vegetable.

We've been truly blessed to have tons of friends bring us meals over the last four weeks. Our entire family has appreciated trying new foods and having the surprise of seeing what we'll be eating that night. But I (and I suspect all of us) am ready for a return to something approximating normal. I'm ready to plan for and prepare our meals. Heck, I'm even willing to make family favorites. (My loving husband complains that my obsession with variety creates a long lapse between servings of favorite family dishes.) But my body won't quite cooperate.

So I'm left wondering whether I should lower my standards and whether temporarily lowering them will be detrimental to all of our expectations. If I start serving sandwiches on a weeknight for dinner, will we all be satisfied with less than stellar food offerings? If I bend my self-imposed rules and get take out weekly until I feel better will my girls begin to prefer someone else's food to my own? I guess what I ultimately worry is that if I lower my standards now, will I ever be able to get them back up to where I want them?

I try to remind my inner legalist to offer myself a bit of grace. These standards are, after all, self-imposed. I set these standards because I love cooking for my family, I love offering them healthy food and I love expending some creative energy in the kitchen. And none of those things will change, no matter what standards I fail to meet.

GRATITUDE

:the state of being grateful : thankfulness

Saturday was the one-month mark for my surgery and I am grateful to be feeling a bit better each day. I've pondered and wondered about the best way to thank the many people who have helped me and my family over the past month. Traditional types would say I should write thank you notes to each person for each act performed. I've actually started this approach and floundered. There are, quite simply, too many people to thank. Too many people who have cooked for us, washed our clothes, driven our children around, done countless tasks to help us make it through. It is, in fact, overwhelming. Even as I type this, my eyes fill with tears to recall how long we have needed help and how willing people have been to give it.

So please bear with me as I express a bit of gratitude. It will be small in proportion to the help received, but I suppose that is always the way...

Thank you if you encouraged me

Just before my surgery two or three people e-mailed me to tell me how much they enjoy reading this blog. While I think it's important for me to stretch and share my writing with others, it continues to be a scary process. The encouragement came just when I needed it.

One friend sent me a card in the mail with verses she was praying for me during my recovery.

Another friend called on what turned out to be one of my worst recovery days and told me it wasn't unusual to feel so poorly a week after the surgery itself.

Thank you if you cooked for me

It's been more than a month since I cooked for my family. Even tonight, the first night we've been officially off of meal rotation, I heated up quiche from one friend and soup from another.

For nearly three weeks, it would have been impossible for me to stand for long enough to cook. For the first two weeks, I couldn't even heat the food. J had to heat it and serve it to me and the girls. Before the surgery, I thought we would be fine without meals. I thought we'd eat a bit of cereal and get back on track. Little did I know.

My kind friend who organized meals for the first two weeks didn't even ask me about extending our meals - she simply e-mailed me to tell me who was bringing food for the next two weeks. At that point, I was so tired, so discouraged and still in such pain, that all I could do was offer a humble thank you.

I have friends who made us dinner, brought me lunch, and even drove me to lunch when I was well enough to leave the house. You provided nourishment for our bodies and our souls.

Thank you if you drove my children to or from school or anywhere else

I've never realized how hard it is to be unable to drive or just how much driving I do. For three weeks, I couldn't drive at all. My girls attend a school with no bus service and also each take dance at least once weekly. You can do the math on all of the car trips required. And if you were one of the many, many people who helped our children get around, thank you for not only driving them around, but listening to K, who surely talked your ear off the entire car ride.

Thank you if you washed our clothes, unloaded our dishwasher, swept our floor or performed other thankless household tasks

Some things can wait until recovery is over. Laundry is not one of those things. J did an admirable job of doing not only his own job, but mine for weeks on end. But there simply is not enough time in the day, in the week, to do everything.

I have a high tolerance for dirt and did an admirable job of ignoring our floors when I could barely stand on them, much less sweep them. But I also have a black and white kitchen floor (a lesson in humility) that shows every speck of dirt, every flake of cereal, every drip, drop and drabble. And it needed sweeping long before I was able to do so.

Thank you if you called me, stopped by to see me, sent me a card or e-mailed me to see how I was doing

Even an introvert like yours truly finds more than two weeks of house arrest a bit stifling. And while there were days that I didn't even feel well enough to talk on the phone, I am so very grateful to friends near and far who picked up the phone to see how I was really doing and to let me know I was cared for, even when I felt alone.

If you e-mailed me and I didn't respond, thank you for forgiving my feeble brain and limited energy. Your words still reached me and helped me through a rough day.

If you sat and talked with me while I was stuck on the couch or in bed, you know you're a dear friend, because who else would do that for me?

Thank you if you brought me a book to read

This doesn't really need much explanation, does it? I haven't yet read all of the books loaned and given to me during my recovery, but that doesn't mean I won't and it certainly doesn't mean it didn't make my heart sing to have friends who know the way to my heart is through a good book.

Thank you if you prayed for me

In person or in private

Whether I knew it or not

And, finally...

Thank you if you have stayed married to me or still let me be your mom

through sickness,

through whining,

through crying,

through frustration

and have loved me so well through it all.

HOBBLE

: to move along unsteadily or with difficulty; especially : to limp along


I've been hobbling around for nearly three weeks now and I would like to think I've learned a bit from it. If nothing else, I know that when I am finally able to walk with a normal gait, when I am able to move steadily and without difficulty, I will be inordinately thankful. Walking is something that the vast majority of us take for granted. We simply put one foot in front of the other and our body complies without thought, without effort. Having not had that luxury for many days now, I find myself marveling when I am able to walk from one room to another and roll all the way through the ball of my right foot with each step. This, for me, is momentous.

I have decided that the old saying about absence making the heart grow fonder is true. Many of my daily activities were taken away from me the moment the surgeon snipped three tendons. I never thought myself overly fond of driving, of grocery shopping, of taking care of life's little everyday tasks. Yet, I miss them now. As I pondered this last week, I came to the realization that I enjoy my mundane life as a stay-at-home mom very much. I am fond of making dinner for my family, whether I'm cooking a particular family favorite or something I'll likely never throw together again. I enjoy keeping our house orderly, if not clean. (Even three weeks on the sofa hasn't made me long to mop the floor or clean the toilets.) But most of all, I've realized how much I enjoy mothering.

For the first week following my surgery, I was able to do almost no hands-on mothering. I couldn't even let little K sit in my lap and read her a book. I have gradually been able to take part in some of the hands on tasks of motherhood, but many of them (giving a bath, preparing a dinner, picking up toys from the floor) are, quite literally, still out of my reach. And what I've realized with some astonishment is that I truly enjoy many aspects of mothering.

I'll be honest: At times, I have hobbled through motherhood. When my daughters were young, I struggled with the sheer physical demands placed on me. As my husband will tell you, with no small degree of sadness and a touch of frustration, I can only stand so much of someone touching me in one day. There were many days when my daughters were toddlers that I was willing to give him no more than a peck on the cheek when he returned home after a long day at work. I quickly found after leaving my job in the business world that taking care of two small children was not something that allowed you to mark things off of your To Do list. I washed the dishes, they ate again in two hours. I did laundry, they spilled chocolate milk on their dresses. I mopped the floor, they came running inside with glee and muddy shoes. All of this is obviously part of life and part and parcel of mothering. Since I didn't enjoy it, I decided I was a bad mother.

So I have been encouraged to realize that even though I can't do any of those things right now, I am still the only mother my daughters have. And they don't love me any less because I can't load the dishwasher right now. They do love that we can once again spend part of each day reading The Iliad together. They love crafting, assembling and creating Valentine's cards together. They love going through my closet as they try to determine exactly how a 100 year old person would dress (since I am the closest thing they have to a 100 year old!).

Hobbling through life has given me a gift: the gift of realizing that I am no longer hobbling through motherhood. I'm not a ball room dancer, either. I don't handle every twist and turn with grace and aplomb. But I do enjoy it and I am becoming more and more capable in the areas that matter most to me. So while I'll continue to hobble from room to room for a while longer, I'm going to remind myself that in the ways that matter, I am strolling along just fine.

My friend has been hosting a series of thoughts on what it means to be a member of the Imperfect Mamas Club. I'm definitely in her club, as this post indicates. Head over there to read more...

TOOLS

2 a: something (as an instrument or apparatus) used in performing an operation or necessary in the practice of a vocation or profession
b: an element of a computer program (as a graphics application) that activates and controls a particular function
c: a means to an end

I've had lots of help to get me through the last two weeks. I've used some big and small tools to get me through preparing for and recovering from my leg surgery. While I truly hope no one reading this ever has to go through anything similar, if you do, here are some tools I suggest you acquire:

Buffy The Vampire Slayer DVDs - OK, so I guess you can pick your TV series of choice, but I must say that Buffy has many merits. Upon re-watching this series, I am struck anew by Joss Whedon's genius. This series is about friendship, good vs. evil, what it means to grow up and what a healthy relationship looks like, amongst other things. It also offers the strongest female protagonist ever on a TV show: a character who is sexy without being sexualized and strong emotionally as well as physically. But even if - for some bizarre reason - you pick another TV series, a set of DVDs are great for those days when you're not tired enough to nap, but not awake enough to read.

One Caring, Involved Husband - I'm not sure where you can go to get one of these, but you'll find it invaluable. (I found mine at the library, but I make no promises about what you'll find when searching there.) My dear husband has not only done his job, but mine for many, many days now. He's put children to bed, washed dishes, sorted laundry, served meals, vacuumed and played nursemaid to a wife who has been alternately thankful, frustrated, in pain and weepy - sometimes all of the above at once. I don't know how I could have survived this without him.

Rolling Office Chair - "Why?" you may ask. This odd accessory has been found in my bathroom since my first stressful post-op shower. That first day, I needed the chair nearly immediately. I was able to dry my torso, then needed help with my leg and, frankly, needed a rest. A chair with wheels was great for pushing myself around the room with my leg fully supported. Whether I was drying my hair, reaching for clothes or brushing my teeth, I used this chair.

Helpful Extended Family - My mom came up to help immediately following the surgery, allowing J to focus his time and attention on me instead of feeling spread thin between me and our girls and staying with me during the day when he needed to return to work and I was still groggy from anesthesia. My sweet sister-in-law has picked our girls up from school, washed laundry and cleaned out our refrigerator.

Many Loving, Sacrificial Friends - My friends have brought me food, driven my children to and from school, washed my clothes, cleaned my house, listened to me, brought me books, had lunch with me and taken my children overnight to preserve my sanity on the third snow day in a row. I suppose our family could have survived without all of this help, but we would have been less healthy, more wrinkled, more stressed and generally less well cared for. To say that I will gladly repay each and every one of them - and friends still unmet - is an understatement.

Trays, Trays, Trays - When your leg is in a brace that makes it impossible to bend your knee, bending over is a problem. I needed trays to hold my books, trays to hold my plate for eating, trays to hold the laptop and keep the weight off of my legs. J bought two new trays the weekend after my surgery. At the time, I thought this might be an unnecessary purchase. I was wrong, he was right. They've been immensely helpful.

Three Kind Daughters - Silly as it sounds, I was worried about how I would manage to make my coffee every morning when it was hard to stand for more than a minute or two at a time. A was quick to volunteer for this task and she has joyfully brewed my coffee for me each morning before leaving for school. She's also been incredibly gracious about sharing her bed with an invalid mom who hangs out there during the day while she's at school (though I suspect her hospitality is partly linked to the fact that my presence in her bed means she doesn't have to make it every morning). B has helped out by vacuuming and K has done anything she can think of, including serving me a lunch one day that consisted of oyster crackers, tortilla chips and two Reese's cups.

Travel Coffee Mugs - These handy vehicles have allowed me to enjoy A's brews each morning, no matter how much I jostle their contents as I hobble from room to room.

Books - It should come as no surprise that I needed books - lots of books - to make it through recuperation from surgery. I need books all the time, healthy or not. But it helped to have just the right kind of book - one that was easy to read, compelling and engaging. Blessedly, I found this time and again with Broken for You, Beautiful Creatures, Understood Betsy and Manhood for Amateurs.

A Blog - So maybe this one's not essential, but it has helped me maintain some semblance of sanity, provided an occasional distraction and given some of you the opportunity to encourage me ... and that's something worth having. Thanks for reading.

WEAK

1 : lacking strength: as a : deficient in physical vigor : feeble, debilitated b : not able to sustain or exert much weight, pressure, or strain c : not able to resist external force or withstand attack

My recovery has not been smooth sailing. It's not been steady or easy or consistent. The first twenty-four hours were predictably rocky, followed by three tough, but not impossible days once I got the post-op nausea under control. But then... then I hit bottom. Days 6 and 7 were honestly some of the most difficult and painful days I've ever experienced. And they caught me by surprise because I thought my recovery would follow some sort of predictable pattern. It hasn't.

This has been difficult not just physically, but emotionally. I don't know how to prepare myself for what the day will hold because I don't know what the day will hold. Circumstances have made this even more challenging. Last Thursday night we got the phone call I had been dreading: the one calling off school for Friday due to an approaching winter storm. I didn't know what to expect. The after school hours were tough for me, in part because I needed to be up and moving around when the girls were home. So what would I feel like after an entire day of the four of us home alone together? I didn't really have to find out because A went to play with a friend mid-morning and J got to come home early from work (huge blessing!), so I had help starting around noon.

Then the weekend arrived and it went pretty well. I spent part of Saturday helping B bake five tiny cakes to take to a birthday party she was attending. I was on my leg a lot and it went OK. I was tired, but not in a ton of pain, by the time we finished. I was feeling pretty good. So I thought I'd be fine to handle a trip to church this morning, followed by a visit from a friend.

Ummm, no. The car ride to church was tough. At this point, there is no comfortable way to sit in a car because my leg can't bend and just hangs there unsupported for the entire time. So a twenty minute car ride left me tired. And then I had to do it again in two hours to get home. I canceled our plans with friends in order to take a much needed nap, which I hoped would improve my mood, decrease my pain level and increase my emotional stability.

All was well until I received a call from the school system... canceling school for tomorrow. I cried. And I felt selfish for crying. I want to be happy that I get more time with my daughters, not fearful of how the day will go, anxious about my pain management and overwhelmed by the thought of ten hours alone with them while J is at work.

Let's be honest: I don't want to feel weak. Even though I am still "lacking strength," I want to be able to do more. I am tired of asking others to help me. I wrote a post for a friend's blog yesterday about perfection not being my goal as a mom. I still believe all of what I wrote yesterday. I'm not asking for perfection. I just want to be able to get myself a glass of water, make lunch for my daughters and be able to function independently again. Please?

EXPECTATIONS

1 : the act or state of expecting : anticipation

As I've prepared for, undergone and begun recovering from my surgery, I've thought a lot about expectations. On Tuesday, I found out that my surgery the next day had been moved from a 3 pm surgery time to an 11 am start time. This news felt like a gift for several reasons:

1) J and I were still able to take the girls to school Wednesday morning, so no extra arrangements were needed
2) I was due at the hospital at 8:30 instead of 12:30, meaning I had far less time to W A I T that morning
3) the onset of a caffeine deprivation headache was averted by pre-op IV medicines

But the real gift was that an earlier surgery time exceeded my expectations. I had prepared myself for a long morning. I was planning to take the girls to school, send J off to work, do some yoga and distract myself from food or water for the remaining three or four hours. So it was a huge boon to be able to get right to the surgery first thing in the morning.

Shortly before I got the call from the scheduler moving my surgery up, I spoke with a friend who gently cautioned me on my own post-surgical expectations. This friend has undergone surgeries more serious and extensive than mine and she's had to rely on the help of others far more than she would like to. So she cautioned me to be careful about setting my own expectations that I'll be completely recovered and ready to go two weeks after this surgery. She said that if I keep telling myself two weeks and it takes two and a half weeks or three weeks, I'll feel like a failure.

She's right. When the doctor told me that I can't drive for two to four weeks, I planned for two weeks of transportation for my girls and I somewhat grudgingly accepted two weeks worth of meals for my family. So what happens when I hit day 15 and I'm still on pain meds and can't drive yet? I'll have to swallow my pride (yet again) and ask for help for a bit longer, feeling like a failure as I do so. I have tried - and am trying - to take my friend's advice and adjust my own expectations. I hope that I can graciously accepted help offered, humbly ask for the help needed and make peace with myself when I don't meet my own expectations.

In fact, I think that failing to meet our own expectations is often our greatest hurdle. On some level, we expect others to fail us. At least, I do. I've spent a good portion of my life guarding my heart from the pain of unmet expectations. And I'm trying to tear down those guards so that I can truly live and fully experience life's good and bad moments. This causes some pain.

Other people don't love my children the way I do. They don't see my daughters as the talented, creative, expressive, exuberant people that they are. Instead, they see the surface of who they are. This saddens me because I want more for them. I want unconditional love to be what my girls know - from their parents and from others. But this expectation is unrealistic. I'll just have to love them the best I can.

And even in this, I must adjust my expectations. I expect to be able to give my children my attention, my love, my time. And I'm frustrated when I must funnel my energy and concentration to something as basic as walking down the hallway without falling down. After all, what will they think of their mother as she hobbles around? Maybe it will make them lower their expectations of me, which could be a good thing, since I will inevitably fail them.

Hopefully it will make me treasure the moments of sitting with them in their beds, reading with them in my lap or playing with them on the floor when I can do those things again. Maybe this time of failing to meet my own expectations will give me new eyes to see. And maybe those new eyes will see not only others, but myself with a wash of grace to flow over the unmet expectations.

artwork by B, age 7

PLANNING

: the act or process of making or carrying out plans

I've done nearly all that I can do.

Rides are mostly arranged to and from school.
The house is cleaner than I normally have it.
Every scrap of laundry is washed.
Teachers have been notified of craziness to come.
Backpacks have been loaded with lists of who to look for each day after school.
Sandwiches are made.
Meals are coming.
Girls have been prepped for the need to do more for themselves, with less complaining.

And yet.

I know I've missed some thing. Many things. Because all of the planning in the world can't take care of every circumstance our family will face in the next week or two. At some point, the planning has to intersect with faith.

Faith that our friends will fill the gaps.
Faith that work will slack off enough for J to take care of not only three daughters, but an incapacitated wife.
Faith that my body will heal quickly and I will be able to drive after two weeks, not four.
Faith that this timing, this surgery, this inconvenience will teach me something I need to learn about empathy, humility and more.
Faith that I will survive and thrive after this surgery that is, after all, the removal of a benign mass, not a malignant one.

And I do have faith in these things. I've even had signs that my faith will be rewarded via e-mails from two friends who read and enjoy this blog. The timing of receiving these message within 24 hours of each other made me feel like God knows I'm discouraged and fearful. He used these women to comfort me. And so I keep planning, but with faith that where my planning leaves off, all will still be well.

RELIEF

2 a : removal or lightening of something oppressive, painful, or distressing

I get headaches. Painful headaches that throb beneath the surface of my skull, making every little thing difficult. When these headaches arrive, nothing seems to really help. A nap might help temporarily. A cup of hot coffee might provide a few moments relief. But these headaches scoff at painkillers. Advil, Tylenol, Aleve. Nothing makes a dent. So when a friend mentioned an acupuncturist that has really been able to help her, I thought I would give it a try. At the time, I was having a lot of pain in my wrist in addition to the chronic headaches and back pain. So I gave it a try. And it's amazing to me that needles - something we often associate with pain infliction - can provide such pain relief.

I've been going to see Dr. Ly for a few months now. We've had sessions where he worked on my wrist, my back and my headaches, sometimes focusing on one area, sometimes addressing all three. But each session provides not only pain relief, but stress relief. Unlike western medicine, where we spend a bit of time in a doctor's office and then take prescribed drugs in the midst of the hurry and haste of our daily lives, a trip to the acupuncturist is almost as relaxing as a massage, with more lasting health benefits. I think this is partly because while receiving the treatment you must lie completely still.

I was amazed during my first visit that not only do the needles not hurt, I can't even really feel them. Unless I move. If I move, it changes the angle of the needle. So I lie very still. I think. I pray. I visualize the pain flowing through my body, into the needles and leaving my body. I relax. I wait. It's as much spiritual relief as physical relief. Because I know these sessions are good for my body. I know they help ease my pain. So I'm not haranguing myself with all of the things I should be doing instead of relaxing during a treatment.

Today as I laid on the table, I thought about how many of our fears about a practice like acupuncture are the same fears we experience in our everyday lives. We avoid acupuncture out of false perceptions of the pain of needles or a lack of knowledge about it. How often do we avoid growth opportunities in our own lives for the very same reasons? I've ignored opportunities for fear of failing. I've stayed home for fear of exposure. I'm shamed to think of the experiences I have missed out on, the things I haven't learned or done, because I am afraid to try. I'm afraid that trying might hurt. And it might. No one will tell you that failure is fun, but sometimes the pain is worth it. Sometimes a needle placed in just the right spot can relieve pain that you've carried for so long you don't even notice it anymore. And sometimes a failure at just the right time can spur you on to bigger and better things - those your soul longs to do.

So I'm hoping that 2010 will bring not just relief of my pain, but relief from the pressure I put on myself to do everything right the first time. I hope 2010 will bring a willingness to take risks in the hope of learning greater things. And I hope I'll take my own path to these things, not staying on the safe sidewalks, but exploring the uncharted areas that hold pain and lessons.

RECEIVING

1 : coming into possession of : acquiring
3 a : permitting to enter : admitting b : welcoming, greeting c : reacting to in a specified manner

It's amazing how sometimes a thought will bounce around in my mind until it crystallizes into the lesson I need to learn. God clearly thinks I need to learn about receiving, because I've had more than one instance to ponder what this looks like in my life and what it means for me to receive graciously and thankfully.

I spent Tuesday of last week thinking about how nice it was to receive: my daughters and I spent the day with a friend and her children. That was a gift in and of itself, but my friend made chili for us for lunch as well. Later that evening, our family joined another family for dinner and my kind friend's husband prepared a fabulous meal for us all. Since my daughters got their own breakfast, Tuesday was a rare treat: a day where I did not prepare a single meal. Even better, I was fully aware of the gift that this was. After a holiday season spent preparing food for my family big and small, I was especially grateful to spend one day receiving food that was good for my body and my soul.

Later in the week, I hurt my back when reaching for a napkin. It wasn't a heavy napkin, I wasn't twisting my body or contorting to reach - it was a perfectly normal movement that happened to send shooting pains through my back and keep my lower back in spasms for days. I've had this type of thing happen before and it scares my daughters: they don't like seeing me hurt. Last night, I was heading to bed early, the pain management having left me exhausted even after a day of little activity. So A & K came upstairs to check on me and decided to tuck me into bed instead of me putting them to bed. They each held my hand and prayed for me, kissed me and pulled the sheets up to my chin. As J left the room, I said, "It was almost worth hurting my back to get that."

Then today at church, we were talking about what it means to really love people. What does that look like? Where does it come from within us? And someone shared that he had recently read something that talked about how the only way we can love others is by loving ourselves first. Only by meeting our own needs can we have the spiritual and emotional reserves to meet the needs of others. His statement immediately took me to my thoughts on receiving and how blessed it was to receive food from my friends and care from my family this week.

I could easily have refused these gifts. I could have insisted on bringing dessert, if not a side dish. I could have pushed through the pain to put my daughters to bed. But you know what? I needed to receive. It was better for me to accept these loving gifts that came my way. I think sometimes we are selfish in a refusal to receive the offerings of others. Because we want to make it about how strong we are, how capable we are, how self-sufficient we are. We want to be the ones to help, not be helped. We not only refuse the gifts our friends and family offer, but the gifts our God offers - of his love, his peace, his comfort.

So I love that the definition of receive is not just to acquire, but to welcome, to greet. I don't intend to turn into someone who takes, takes, takes. But I do want to receive with open arms, open heart and open mind the gifts my loving friends, family and God send my way.