Bad

A friend was saying how he and their family hadn't been to church in several weeks. And that, during the summer, they had skipped it almost the entire three-month stretch.

I told him I hadn't been to church in about a year and a half.

And he asked: "Do you feel bad?"

Bad.

From the outside, I appeared to be struck dumb as I sat there with my mouth hanging half-open. Inside, my mind exploded with a verbal montage - like those cheesy sequences in B movies, except without pictures - of responses.

I settled on: "It depends on what your definition of bad is."

A little background here... I was raised Catholic, and we've raised our children as Catholics. According to the Catholic faith, we must attend Mass every Sunday. But I had a bit of a lapse during the summer before last. That's happened before. In the past, I usually got back into the habit after a short hiatus. Just like my friend.

But this time, a few weeks turned into a few months. I did feel guilty at first. My upbringing and twelve years of Catholic education nagged at me to get back into church. Yet something else that I couldn't define also nagged at me. I didn't feel like I had a hole in my spiritual self that could be filled by the routine of church. In fact, I didn't feel a hole existed at all. I felt no more like a sinner for having skipped Mass than I felt before, when I attended regularly. So I didn't feel compelled to go.

During the following year, I spent much time thinking about good and bad - and good people and bad people. I found many examples of Christian people doing the right thing. Yet I found examples of people from many other faiths - or no religious faith at all - exemplifying what is good and right in our world. So "good" wasn't limited just to people who went to church every Sunday. Conversely, and sadly, I also found examples of Christians and non-Christians causing others pain.

I recognized that all humans, whether or not they believe in my God or any God at all, have great capacity for love and also for pain. During that year, my absence from church became not so much a lazy response to getting dressed up on Sundays, as a conscious, deliberate decision.

What, exactly, did I decide? That I don't need to be Catholic, or a Christian, or affiliated with any religion whatsoever, to be a kind person of strong morality. I can do good all by myself.

I can skip Mass if that's right for me, and you can skip or go according to what's right for you.

And I no longer feel guilt over my decision.

So no, I don't feel bad.

A Few of My Favorite Things

I have many lovely things in my life.

What may surprise some people is that, if I had to do without most of these objects, I would not feel a great void.

Some objects that bring me the most pleasure are simple, inexpensive, imperfect. Like the small pottery vase with the broken handle that belonged to my grandfather. The glass bud vase that was my grandmother's. Our photos, of course.

And this cup and saucer set - one of three that I found for just a few dollars in an antiques store several years ago. I could turn them over to see who made them, but I really don't care. Simply, I was drawn to them; I just couldn't pass them by.

I was so enamored with my acquisitions that I came home, put them in the cupboard, and resolved to use them only for special occasions.

Every morning for a year, as my coffee brewed, I opened the cupboard, admired the antique cups and saucers, and reached around for the plain ones.

Silly me.

How many "special occasions" exist at 6:00 a.m. in the morning?

So one morning, contentedly alone in space and time while the rest of the family slept, I asked myself: "What am I really waiting for? I'm wasting time waiting for the special occasion to arrive, when I can make today special." And I reached for one of the antique sets.

As I have done every morning since.

Voyeur

If you have ever watched one of those nature programs on PBS or the Discovery Channel, you might have noticed the researcher observing his subjects as inconspicuously as possible.

Yes, the animals/subjects may have peripheral awareness of the researcher's presence, but as long as he stays out of the way, is quiet, and doesn't interfere with the animals' mating or hunting rituals, he is allowed to live.

If he makes his presence known, however, the game is over. He's upset the balance of the animal's life.

I have my own social wilderness in which to observe: My son is the subject; his habitat is Facebook.

He knows that my husband and I can see everything in his account. At the time we allowed him to set up the account, this was a deal-breaker: Either he could "Friend" us and gives us full privilege to see everything that he posts or that is posted to his Wall, or no Facebook.

He agreed because he was 11 years old and he really wanted the FB account. And also because he's a good kid so he doesn't actually have anything to hide. Yet.

He explicitly understands our rules, but I also understand the unspoken rule of Parents Who FB Friend Their Children: although we can see everything on his page, we're not supposed to actually post anything to his page. Because anything we say can and will be construed as weird or embarrassing or outdated or something-that-we-think-sounds-hip-but-isn't. And then we will incur his wrath.

Somehow - I don't know how - I intuited this unspoken rule. The only thing I have posted to my son's account was a simple "Happy Birthday." Nothing clever or witty. No pictures of him as a baby.

I'm the social researcher/mom observing a subject/her son in the wild. If I'm too conspicuous, I will upset the natural balance of his social life. And then, one day as he gets older and wiser to the privacy settings of his account, he'll block me from seeing his Wall.

Oh, it's true. I've heard of this happening with other researchers/subjects - oops, I mean parents/children. Especially in those teen years.

Alas, my husband did not intuit this rule. Though he and our son are very compatible in the real world - our son inherited my husband's sense of humor, so they really do "get" each other - my husband learned recently that their relationship is quite different in the virtual social world.

His crime? While getting ready to drive my son to the allergist's office for his weekly shot, he posted this on my son's wall: "Time to get your tickle poke."

That didn't go over so well.

Yeah, it's cute when a girl my son likes playfully refers to shots as "tickle pokes." But mortifying when Dad announces it that way.

The post has been removed.

In the meantime, I'm sittin' pretty. Just inconspicuously reading and watching my boy interact in his social habitat. Not making a sound. Not drawing any attention. Hoping he'll forget I'm there.

If I play the game right, maybe he won't block me for another year or two.

It's the Little Things

Sometimes it takes big things to remind us of the little things.

Since my friend's 12-year-old was diagnosed with recurrent neuroblastoma three weeks ago, their lives have been turned upside-down. Again. No parent should have to go through this even once... but twice?

He was nine months old the first time he had neuroblastoma - cancer in his abdomen and spinal cord. After six months of chemotherapy, the dead tumor was removed surgically. For the next five years, he was tested and scanned every few months before he was finally declared cancer-free.

By January 4 this year, the cancer had returned - a rare occurrence for this type of cancer and in a patient so "old."

He spent five days in the hospital last week for surgery to remove as much of the tumor as possible. Over the weekend, he came home to spend time with his family and friends before returning to the hospital today for further testing and his first round of chemotherapy.

During those days at home, he spent time doing ordinary things - playing video games with his younger brother, texting his friends, watching football on TV with his dad. But in their new world of cancer, this family doesn't take even the ordinary for granted. In fact, the ordinary is extraordinary to them.

And my friend wants the rest of us to know this, too. That our seemingly tedious lives of school lunches, after-school activities, homework, dinners together, and - yes - even sibling bickering are rife with moments to cherish.

The things I can do to make our friends' lives a little easier help them, but what I'd really like to do is make the cancer and the pain go away. I can't do that, much as I would like to. But I can pass along her words of wisdom - from one mom to another to many.

She's busy taking care of her boy right now. But she'd want you to know: appreciate the little things in life.

And hug your children.

Dearth

From the time my children were able to write their names, they've written their own thank-you notes.

(Admittedly, we're still - as a family - working on the timeliness of those notes, but within a few weeks of any birthday or Christmas, the notes are in the mailbox.)

To make note-writing a little more "special," I typically custom-order personalized notecards for each member of our family. The advantage is that the kids have greater enthusiasm for writing notes that have their names or initials printed or embossed on them. The disadvantage is the lead time necessary to reorder the cards. Sometimes we unexpectedly deplete our supply and I have to find alternatives.

Such was the case this Christmas. The girls had a few of their personalized notecards left, but my son had completely run out. And with his birthday occurring right after Christmas, he needed double the supply that the girls needed.

No problem, I thought. There wasn't time to place a special order, but I figured I'd buy some nice non-personalized notecards locally. No problem, indeed - for the girls. There's plenty of funky or pretty or cutesy stationery available for girls of all ages. There was a problem, however, with finding appropriate cards for a tween boy. In my visits to multiple stationery stores - of all price ranges - I found there's a dearth of ready-made cards appealing to males between the ages of 6 and 50.

They've got the little boys covered - they're the cards with the little frogs or baseballs on them. And they've got the older men covered - as long as you like the formal look. But if you're in between? Slim pickings.

In the end, I finally found some cards on cafepress.com that have cool geometric designs on them that my 12-year-old "approved" of. Ordering online necessitated a lag time of a few days, but at least it didn't take as long as fully-customized notecards.

So we're back in business - problem solved.

But the bigger question, really, is that of etiquette - and from whom we expect it. {Just a second as I climb onto my soaopbox...} Are our stationery manufacturers implying that it's correct for girls of all ages - but only the very young boys or older men - to send letters, particularly the hand-written thank-you note, in this case? How will boys grow up to be note-writing men if they aren't encouraged to be note-writing boys?

I'm sure you'll counter that this is an electronic world. Invitations (e-vites) are sent electronically, letters (e-mails) are sent electronically, so logically it follows that thank-you notes should be sent electronically. And I'll concede that in some circles, that's OK. For example, if my son had pushed hard enough to send his same-age friends e-notes, I probably would have given in. I try to choose my battles carefully.

Miss Manners I am not. Nor am I an electronic prude. After all, I do publish my journal - this blog - online for the world to see!

But if someone takes the time to consider a person's hobbies and interests, then to purchase a gift, then to wrap and present the gift, shouldn't the recipient take the time to thoughtfully write a few lines on paper to show gratitude for the friendship and the thoughtfulness?

Yes.

And should such hand-written notes be limited to girls?

No. That's sexist.

As I hop off my soapbox, I thank you for listening. But now I have a few letters to write. With a pen and paper.

Google Dx

Well, I've done it again: I've given myself an overuse injury.

This time, my hip's okay. But my shoulder isn't.

I am 99% sure it's tendonitis, or "tennis shoulder."

How do I know this? I admit I haven't seen the doctor (yet). Unless you count Dr Google. I mean, c'mon... the entries for tendonitis completely describe my symptoms. And with playing tennis 3-4 days a week, it just seems obvious.

Once I got my Google diagnosis (without having to wait for an appointment, share a waiting room with germy people, or pay a copay, I might add), I began following the recommendations:

1. Refrain from the repetitive activity that causes the pain {I hate to do it, but no tennis for this week and maybe next, and no upper-body strength training}

2. Take anti-inflammatory medication {I'm popping some ibuprofen as I write}

3. Apply ice to the shoulder several times a day {Gives me a chance to sit and read a book anyway}

Well, there were some other recommendations, such as therapy. I don't know if this mild case of alleged tendonitis really warrants therapy. So I'm skipping that part for now.

Hmm... not so fast there, Kimmy. Perhaps some therapy is in order. Retail therapy. Now that I've got some free time, I hear the call of shoes. On second thought, yes, I really think some therapy would do me good.

Toxic Skies

Winter is my season of discontent.

Every year I go into it thinking, "This time, I'm ready for it. Many people like winter - the holidays, the snow. It's a good time to work on indoor projects. So, suck it up and enjoy it. Or, at least, get through it."

But once Christmas is over, and we've had our first and/or only big snowfall, the clouds aggregate to form one solid gray expanse, like a dome, trapping me in the cold and bleak midwest for months. They poison my optimism and steal my energy.

I bundle up to go outside - confined. I drive in my salt-covered car with the windows rolled up - confined. I move slowly in a world surrounded by shades of gray - confined.

My skin contracts and cracks. My bones feel brittle and my joints sound creaky. I feel a chill in my core that doesn't quite go away.

I've been an Ohioan all my life. I like the changing of seasons - well, the concept, anyway - and I should be used to the winters by now. I wish I could see the beauty in the barren branches and the unicolor landscape. Perhaps if it were a one-week destination vacation, I'd appreciate its novel appeal. Yet as a permanent residence that consumes 25% of my year, it lingers like guests who have outstayed their welcome.

Yet Ohio is my permanent residence, and I won't be leaving it anytime soon. Like quicksand, it holds me here by my family, my friends, the places and things I know. I don't have the energy to move, so I suffer a slow sinking.

I want to be where the skies are nurturing, where I receive my dose of Vitamin D not from a daily supplement, but from the life-giving sun itself. I want to feel the hot rays penetrate every cell of my skin, through to my central core, so I can in turn radiate heat and light. I want the humidity from the warm, moist air to plump and naturally moisturize my skin. I long for June.

What's that? Out of my peripheral vision, I thought I caught the skies lightening. To glimpse direct sunlight would be too much to ask (or would it?), but some diffused brightness might be a realistic compromise. Alas, no. It was an optical illusion. Everything is still - still gray, still stark, still motionless.

So I will choose to create my own brightness today. I'll wear hot pink. I'll put on bright lipstick. I'll lighten my hair. If I can't see the sun, perhaps I'll just be it.