Happy birthday sweetest James!

James turns two tomorrow.  He is angelic.  He willingly and eagerly eats vegetables, wants to help clean the house, is adoringly gentle and reverent of babies younger than him, and loves saying his prayers and singing Holy Holy Holy.  I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since he was 4 weeks and sleeping through the night.  Occasionally I drag my feet over introducing him to new situations because heaven help me if I’m the one to break the spell.

So we haven’t talked much about the dreaded P word.  As long as those diapers fit and he’s not overfilling them I haven’t felt the rush.  But others might.  James got some “big boy pants” as an early birthday present from his surrogate grandmother the other day.  She is a smart woman.  Not only are they big boy pants, incentive enough, but they have basketballs on them.  In James’ world that’s almost as magical a combination as the episode of Curious George where he rides a train.  I mean…wow.

James thought the briefs were cool.  But there were other more important things about, so I tucked them away on top of his dresser and forgot about them.  Until tonight, when I was visiting the room that contains the P word.  The door handle bobbed up and down, pushed in, and my angelic toddler entered.  (I’ve got to remember to lock the doors in this apartment.)  He quickly sized up the situation and motioned for me to hurry.  I completed my task and James told me (mostly through hand motions) that he wanted to take a turn on the P word. 

This is new.  He hasn’t shown an interest, I haven’t pushed, and the world has been fine.  But, we do have a little P word stowed away in a closet, awaiting its turn in the limelight.  So I asked James if he would really like to try the P word.  “Yaaahhhh!!”  I asked him why and he ran into his bedroom, stretched on his tiptoes, and pulled the package of big boy pants off the top, pointing eagerly at the basketballs.  Grandma Joy is VERY smart.  (And so is he.)

So we unpacked the P word and I plopped James upon it.  He sat there in awe, a look of wonder and determination on his face.  I totally expected that it would be a 30 second visit and then it would be over.  But no.  He insisted on staying put.  He couldn’t say it in English, but I am quite positive he was going to stay there until he “contributed.”  He had me read books, sing the ABC song 20 times in a row, and keep him company, periodically peeking between his legs to see if anything had happened.

I’m sure he would have sat there until the victory was won, but Uncle Lucas stopped by for a visit and he got the stage fright. 

I am STILL waiting for the other shoe to drop, because it can’t be that easy.  It won’t be.  But…with James.  You never know. 

Ten years

I began asking to get my ears pierced when I was three.  My mom had such pretty earrings that beautifully complemented her outfits.  I used to hold her jewelry up to my own ears, marveling at how improved I looked.  Earrings to me were the essence of beauty.  I asked over and over again if I could get my own earrings, and was always given the same old predictable, disappointing response, “When you turn thirteen.  We want you to be old enough to be responsible for them yourself.”

Those ten years took an eternity.  I think my parents would agree that I was mature for my age, and probably would have done just fine with earrings at an earlier age than thirteen.  But by then it was law, and consistency in parenting is very important.  (This we are discovering.)  Still, I ticked each birthday off and always thought, “X many years left until I can get my ears pierced!” 

Ten years is a very long time.

Ten years ago this weekend I moved into my freshman dorm on the campus of Roberts Wesleyan College.  That terrifyingly wonderful day tasted like an odd mixture of the first day of summer camp and going to jail.  This great fear of the unknown, which looked from all angles to be a pretty wonderful unknown, was entirely unexplored.  For somebody who had been homeschooled K-12 and never sat in a real classroom, college posed a greater mystery to me than most of my fellow freshmen.

I knew my roommate already, having met her at an honors weekend the campus had hosted a few months earlier.  We didn’t know each other at all, but hit it off during the weekend and decided that we should be roommates to avoid the risk of being paired up with psychopaths.  As potential honors students, this turned out to be a very good strategy.  Meg was bubbly, excited, self-assured, and smart.  We didn’t hold many of the same interests, but we coexisted nicely as roommates who didn’t need to be BFFs.

Still, other than a couple of professors and upperclassmen, I didn’t know a single soul in this new place.  My parents worked diligently over the day to help me unpack my belongings and set up my room in a way that looked homey.  My dad, ever the craftsman, went to Lowes at least twice to purchase materials to create extra shelving.  My mom made my bed with tears in her eyes, placing on top of my favorite comforter a new stuffed dog to keep me company in the ensuing weeks.

During one trip of unloading the minivan, she whispered in my ear, “You know. I think you should get to know that girl.  She just looks like she would be a good friend.”  “That girl,” Megan, ended up being an instant kindred spirit, and a friendship that has continued to this day.  My mom has a great eye.  She also pointed out the gal living next door as a potential friend.  Adrienne turned out to be a fellow flutist and music major, which linked us inextricably to the other.

I remember other things about that day.  I remember one pair of olive green pants hanging in my closet.  They just disappeared later that year for no good reason (the psychopathic roommates perhaps), but I specifically can picture them in my dorm room that day.  I remember praying with my parents in the parking lot before they drove away, the three of us blinking back tears.  (Well, not so much Dad.  After all, he had conquered the shelving problem.)  I remember walking over to dinner in the cafeteria, still unsure of where to sit or what to do.  I plunked myself down next to another intimidated-looking girl and faked confidence, introducing myself and initiating conversation.  She looked as shy on the outside as I felt on the inside.  Years later, she would remind me of this exchange and what an impact it had on her.  I remember bumping into Mrs. Shewan in the cafeteria, one of a handful of people I actually knew.  She gave me a hug (I later learned that these hugs are rather rare) and bubbled about how excited her family was that I was moved in.

I remember longing for deep conversation and getting beyond the small talk.  I hate small talk.  What a waste of time.  There was an awful lot of it in those first days and weeks, but it did paid off.  So many friendships.  So many lasting memories.  Such an impact in my life.  It wasn’t but a week later that I had met my future husband and my best friend.  The cry of my heart before leaving was that Roberts would provide me with friends.  True friends.  The kind that last a lifetime.  The Lord answered those prayers abundantly.  And it all seems like it happened yesterday.

Ten years is a very short time.

Insomniac

So I'm in bed once again tonight, unable to fall asleep. The past weeks have been fraught with change. Decisions, information, questions. And I can't figure it all out, although I'm sure trying awfully hard to, particularly when I should be sleeping. So I pulled out my tablet and decided to tap out my frustrations, and with it my suspicion that these circumstances are revealing a weak part of my character.

I hate change. I hate it at all levels and I always have.  My poor mother couldn't get rid of me in the womb, probably because I was clawing to anything I could grab to avoid eviction from my first home.  I hate little changes.  I hate when the layout on Facebook changes and I can't figure out where anything is. I hate when my evening plans are altered at the last minute. I hate when the grocery store stops carrying my favorite kind of popcorn. These things shake me. And they're small.

Big changes are immobilizing. I'm the type of person who's pretty good at everything I try.  There's a reason for that. Before I try anything I sit back and watch good and long and figure out as much as I can about how it works before I dare try my hand at it. I research, think, reason, and then, maybe, I'll give it a go.  Usually all that anticipating pays off and people say I'm "a natural." I'm not. I'm just a decent observer.

So if you ask me to leave my job to do something completely new, or move to a new city, or think about something challenging in the Bible (sell everything...really?!?) I will fight it with every fiber of my being. I don't know if I'll survive. And I might not be good at it, which would clearly be the end of the world.

VWH and I are facing some change this year. Change that doesn't even mean leaving the state! But it does necesscitate leaving our house. And moving to the other side of the city, which means being father away from some of our dearest family and friends. Twenty minutes shouldn't really make too much of a difference, but it's CHANGE. So I'm squirming and fighting and not sleeping.

I think back to the biggest changes of my life. There have been a few. Leaving for college was a biggie, especially a college that was six hours away from my homeschooled life. I knew I wanted to go, but I cried and dreaded and mourned. Deciding to marry my husband was a pretty big one, no? I knew in my head that I wanted this incredible guy, but the swirl of change surrounding it was terrifying. Having our first child...how are we going to afford, will we have room, will our marriage suffer, what about work, etc, etc.  Commence dragging feet. Change=Scary.

I know scary doesn't necessarily mean failure. Or disappointment. Or even maintaining status quo. College, VWH, and James made, and continue to make, me THRIVE. I had to be talked into each of those things a bit, but I haven't regretted any of them for a moment. 

So why can't I trust people who tell me that it will be OK and that new changes can be a good thing? I mean, I have already survived big changes and seen how amazing they can be! But I still don't feel any different about new ones. I don't trust others enough. I probably don't trust God enough. And then I don't trust myself either, because I suspect that I'm not thinking clearly about the situation. It's a fragile and lonely dwelling place.

Lord, I ask you to fill me with truth. I ask for your eyes, and the eyes of others. Free me of the chokehold I put around those fleeting things I deem 'safe and secure.'  I ask for courage to let go of the petty things I hold too close. Help me to recognize wisdom, and receive it in humility. In gratitude I praise you for your blessings and abounding love.

Humor me

It’s time for me to once again put on my hat of sports commentator.  I just love this hat.  Bear in mind that I’m not a professional athlete, nor did I play sports in college, nor can I currently run more than like a mile at one time.  But that never kept me from speaking my mind about professional sports and pretending like I know at least as much as the doofuses (doofi?) on TV.  I know the most about professional football (boys are impressed), figure skating (can rank the jumps in order of difficulty, plus recognize them before takeoff), and gymnastics (my truest love, and the one I actually have dipped a toe into experiencing first-hand).  So naturally, when these sports are on television I make it a priority to clear my schedule and watch, ideally in solitude.  This eliminates unnecessary small talk about uniform color schemes, what kind of snacks are in the kitchen, and whether or not nude stockings look better over skates or not.  Honestly.

Last night I spent two hours absorbing every iota of NBC’s coverage of the 2013 P&G Gymnastics Championships. (The ‘national championships’ for you laymen out there.)  I didn’t tape it like I usually do, because the year after an Olympics is typically a snooze.  Everybody peaked 12 months ago, so the field is littered with either exhausted, half-in-shape older gymnasts, or younger, inexperienced ones.  At most you may have one or two who were born in the wrong year and whose careers will peak now and wane before 2016 rolls around.  But that’s just depressing to think about.  So, anyway, I didn’t tape it.  But that didn’t keep me from taking notes and commentating.  In many ways I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of performances.  It was not a splat fest by any means.  I know you’ve all been on pins and needles waiting for this.  Here’s my report card from the 2013 National Championships…

B+ to Simone Biles, all-around winner of the national title.  An up-and-comer, Simone had a total crash and burn a month ago at the U.S. Classic (a qualifying meet for nationals).  After a pep-talk from Queen Martha she bounced back and led this competition from the get-go, increasing her lead to almost 2 points before giving almost all of it all back on her final routine of the competition.  The pressure got to her once again, but her gymnastics and talent is off the charts.  She’s built like Mary Lou Retton with the mental toughness of a pre-London Gabby Douglas.  It will be interesting to see if she can hold out for another three years to Rio.  I suspect not, but time will tell.  An immediate asset in vaulting and bars.

A- to Kyla Ross, veteran at 16, and returning member of the Fierce Five.  Kyla is the only Olympian who continued training without break and it showed.  She floats.  Her grace, extension, and consistency will win her many international favors.  I look for her to do well at the upcoming world championships in Belgium.  Glorious bars and beam—hoping for some added difficulty in the next few years.

A to McKayla Maroney, other competing member of the Olympic team.  McKayla has survived a devastating Olympic vault final, numerous leg surgeries, and one viral meme in the past year.  She only competed vault and floor at these championships, but won both events and showed a new level of determination and awareness in her performances.  I look for her mental toughness to grow and for her to transition into the real leader of the United States team.  She wants redemption for her silver medal on vault in Rio…Maroney is the new Sacramone.  We’re impressed McKayla!

These three ladies are virtual locks for the world championship team.  Honestly, with only two per event, they don’t even need a fourth member.  I see the team shaping up like this:

All-around: Biles, Ross (if both hit, both could, and probably should, medal)

Vault: Maroney, Biles (if both hit, they’ll go 1-2 in the world)

Bars: Ross, Biles (possible shot for a medal, particularly for Ross)

Beam: Ross, Biles (this one depends much more on the rest of the world, but one could sneak in)

Floor: Maroney, Biles (both have a real chance for a medal)

So who does that fourth spot go to?  That, my friends, is what that final selection camp is for on the sacred Karolyi ranch.  Martha has tons of options to consider.  She can take another all-arounder and see what, if any, impact that individual makes.  She can take a specialist, although they’d have to be through the roof just to beat their American teammates.  So perhaps her best bet is to take somebody who needs the experience.  Somebody who isn’t going to peak in 2013 or 2014, but very well could by 2016.  If that’s the case she’ll want somebody young with lots of potential.  I’m not going to make a guess at this point, but if anybody reads this and actually cares, feel free to comment.

A bonus B goes to Nastia Liukin, for her surprisingly good commentary for NBC.  Nastia’s all grown up now, and whatever commentating training she’s done is paying off.  (Maybe she sits in her living room in solitary confinement and practices too.)  Obviously, I would have been willing to step in there and hold my own, but, you know.  Five Olympic medals compared to my 2 puny years of gymnastic lessons in middle school is a hard sell to Tim Daggett.  Still, if he could have watched me commentate I’m sure you would have heard things like “unbelievable, shocking, unreal, mind-blowing, out of this world,” and, my favorite, “if you had told me four years ago that Julie Smith would come in and commentate better than Elfi or Nastia I would have said, no way, it couldn’t happen.”

Oh, did anybody see the 13 year old on floor?  And did anybody hear what Tim said about her?  Yikes.

We love summer because...

VWH is home!  This means there is an extra adult around the house to keep track of one active boy, plus help with the dishes.

 Csehy Summer School of Music.  Two weeks of wonderful students, terrific ensemble rehearsals, sweet fellowship, and Ultimate Frisbee. And the inevitable heat wave leaving us stranded on the third floor of an apartment building in the middle of an open field with no AC. 

Outdoor orchestra concerts.  James and I attended this concert at the M&T Plaza a week ago with VWH (not visible).  You can't see the fountain in this picture, but let me assure you it was the only thing James was interested in exploring.

Fruit smoothies.  Just looking at this picture makes me want one.  Ours have been growing progressively greener, with slow changes to plain Greek yogurt, flax seed, and scary green things like spinach and avocado.  Yum.

Visits from best friends.  When bestie lives 6 states away summer is a grand time for happy reunions.  This inevitably leads to...

New tank tops, because shopping is a given when Jess is in town.  Once said top is purchased you can wear it to a...

Birthday bash.  When all of your friends were either born or married in the summer, it just seems a waste NOT to all get together and celebrate. 

Library trips.  It becomes much more feasible to visit the local library when you have two grownups to cover the small child who is in heaven because there are thousands of books at his level.  Must.  Pull.  Every.  Single.  One.  Off!

Annual summer TV show marathon.  This year we've diverted from Jack Bauer and are trying The West Wing.  I'm not sure we'll finish the whole thing, but it's entertaining and thought-provoking from time to time.

First words from little boys.  James has taken his sweet time feeling the need to communicate in English with us.  But today he said his first official word.  "Basketball."  No surprise, since basketballs trump food, normal, commonplace balls, and even dogs in James' world.  We quickly discovered that showing him pictures of basketball hoops don't count.  You have to actually SEE one in the wild. We went for a long walk and thoroughly inspected all neighbors' driveways within a certain radius for hidden hoops.  You've never seen two grownups more excited to spot a basketball hoop and immediately point it out:  "James, what's that?!?"  "It's BASketball!!"  <heart melts>

Post #100!

Subtitle: "On perfecting the MACCHIATO"

VWH is a coffee snob.  He drinks two carafes (it should be noted that in this blog you will see that I’ve picked up a wealth of vocabulary due to the aforementioned husband) of French press coffee a day.  We buy whole bean coffee that is freshly ground on our kitchen counter. The other day we were talking with somebody who discussed enjoying “gourmet Folgers coffee.”  VWH had to turn away to hide his smile.  He insists that I will end up drinking coffee someday.  I tell him he is crazy.  When we were first married I couldn’t even tolerate the smell of coffee.  (One of those for better or for worse things.)  Not a tea drinker either, I opted for hot chocolate or chai lattes if I wanted something hot. 

But then we moved back to upstate New York, where there is winter for 7 months a year and a coffee shop on every corner.  It became a desperate situation.  I was cold, darn it!  And I didn’t want to drink hot chocolate multiple times a week for the rest of my life.  It should be noted that I maintained my coffee virginity for over 5 years of marriage, a feat that I think ought to be commended.

 

My slow descent into the land of the beans is, of course, not my fault whatsoever.  I blame VWH for drinking vats of coffee around me.  I blame a dear friend from my camp counseling days, who told me about Starbuck’s salted caramel hot chocolate, which I indulged in several years ago and thoroughly enjoyed.  I then blame another dear friend, a barista at Starbucks, who informed me pf salted caramel mochas, which is basically sin in a cup.  I blame my pastor, who drinks caramel macchiatos and frequently uses them in sermon illustrations, essentially equating them to spiritual awakenings.

So when I tried the salted caramel mocha last year and it was delicious, I naturally wanted to figure out if I could make it at home.  This led to the purchase of a relatively inexpensive moka pot, which allows us to make espresso on the privacy of our stove top.  I also attempted to make my own caramel sauce on the same stove top, which was a disaster worthy of a separate entry.  So the moka pot was put away, and my first foray into coffee labeled a failure.

The same barista who introduced me to salted caramel mochas also is to blame for informing me about Tim Horton’s English Toffee cappuccino.  Less than half the cost of a pricey Starbucks drink, and the same wallop of caffeine!  All of the sudden my worship team rehearsals had more energy, my house was cleaner, and, quite frankly, I was a happier person.  The results couldn’t be ignored.

The English Toffee-Sunday-morning habit set me down the path, once again, towards experimenting with various coffee-based beverages.  I tried the sacred caramel macchiato, and its new twin, the hazelnut macchiato, which in my-honest-but-correct-opinion, wiped the caramel’s floor in sweet, nutty goodness.  Running errands became more tolerable if there was a coffee shop nearby.  “I deserve a $4 hot drink because of fill in the blank with some overly pathetic, yet at the time perfectly valid, excuse.” 

Yet, I knew I couldn’t keep it up.  We aren’t made of money, or espresso.  We dragged out the moka pot once again, and I remembered that once upon a time my best friend (also a former barista) had gotten me a milk frother for a birthday present.  Lo and behold, it creates delicious foam in steamed milk, which is a necessity for lattes and macchiatos.  

The internet provided recipe guides for making your own macchiatos, which looked pretty doable.  The past week or two I’ve been experimenting.  VWH has been a supportive husband in helping me make espresso in the moka pot, even though he won’t touch my beverage because it’s far too girly for a manly French press tough guy. 

My first recipe used 6 ounces of brewed coffee instead of espresso, and I thought it would be a lot easier than having to use the moka pot.  It was OK, but the drink seemed too watery without the larger proportion of milk.  Then we tried it with espresso, and it was closer, but the recipe we were using called for caramel syrup in the bottom instead of the vanilla syrup Starbucks used.  The result was a drink too bitter at the top and waaay too sticky-sweet at the bottom.

So I decided to make my own vanilla syrup.  This, for those of you who are still with me, is what leads me to today.  I made the syrup (equal parts of water and sugar, simmered for a few minutes, with vanilla extract added) successfully on the first try and set it to cool.  VWH offered to make espresso while I steamed the milk.  I wanted to practice steaming it on my own and getting it hot without boiling, which is harder than it looks when you only have a pot and a handheld milk frother.  The idea is to get the milk done right before the espresso so you can pour the milk into the cup, then add the freshest shot of espresso you can get. 

Things were going splendidly.  The milk was frothed (I hate that word, by the way) and I was just waiting a smidge longer for it to be warmer than room temperature.  I walked over to the sink to check something and in those 10 seconds the entire pot just…erupted.  There was milk everywhere…I had no idea it could be so invasive.  And, of course, since I had recently made vanilla syrup and the moka pot was on the back burner, the milk burned itself to every hot surface it could reach.  We cleared out the area as best as we could but attempt number one was an utter disaster.  VWH poured the spoiled espresso down the drain and settled down with his own carafe of perfect coffee. 

I'm afraid it was far worse than this picture that I found on the internet.  Much, much worse.

I opened the fridge.  He looked at me wearily.  “Are you getting some cake?” he asked hopefully.  “Nope!  The milk!  I’m trying again!”  His tired eyes clearly said, “that’s what I was afraid of.”  I assured him I could do it myself and would only ask questions if I got stuck.  He obviously didn’t trust me, because he generously hopped up and helped me clean the moka pot and showed me how to grind the coffee beans and prep the process once again.

This time I barely blinked as I frothed.  I watched the clock like a hawk.  Here is what I discovered (perhaps the entire purpose of this entry is to immortalize the following formula…):

It takes approximately 4 and a half minutes on my stove setting ‘8’ to steam milk successfully without boiling.  The moka pot takes 4 minutes on 8 to make espresso.  The order of the drink is : 2T of vanilla syrup in cup, 1 cup of steamed milk (2% if you have it, but I don’t so I did 1% with a splash of whole milk), 3 ounces of espresso, and a drizzle of caramel syrup on the top, ala Starbucks.  And it WORKED!  I’ve been enjoying it the past half-hour and calculating how much I saved by doing it at home.  (Not counting the first attempt, of course.)  At somewhere around 220 calories, it’s not an every-day thing, but I’d rather have a long, hot beverage than a piece of cake.

So, strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow, friends.  I’ll keep you posted if I start drinking coffee black, straight from the carafe.  I highly doubt it.  But, according to VWH, I’m already halfway down the path of no return.  I’ve gotta say, it’s a yummy path.

Ta-da!  A fitting way to celebrate 100 blog posts!

A snapshot in time

Some moments are impossible to encapsulate in words, to perfectly frame in a limited language.  But some moments, however fleeting to ensnare on a page, are worth trying for.  Because they are that special, that precious, that intimate.  Moving on too quickly would be a transgression.

I arrived home from a tiresome meeting this evening hoping to catch my baby boy before his bedtime.  Upon entering the living room I found the babysitter on the couch with a novel, a sure sign that I was too late.  We made the traditional sitter-to-parent exchange of goods: she gave me a summary of the evening and reassured me that my son is well-behaved, adorable, and intelligent.  And I gave her a check.  All’s well that ends well.

After she pulled out I debated making dinner and crashing on the couch with Netflix.  But it wasn’t yet 8pm.  I wanted to peek in on James.  And peek I did, secretly hoping he hadn’t fallen asleep.  He was curled up in his crib with Steven Bear, binky, and a big blue rubber ball…babysitter indulgence I suppose.  He looked quite peaceful as I crossed the room and gazed on his sweet little bare feet and perfectly-shaped head.  (It is perfect, and nobody can tell me otherwise.)  He looked up at me and sighed a happy sigh.  Mommy is home.  The world is right. 

Mommy asked him questions quietly.  How was playtime?  How was supper?  What did you eat?  He nodded his head in all of the right places and uttered his traditional, “yeah.” (Which sounds more like “yoell” when spoken with an inserted binky.)  All the while still snuggled up into a ball…around the ball.

Would you like to rock James?”  James wasn’t sure he wanted to leave his ball, until Mommy kissed him goodnight and turned to leave.  Then rocking sounded like a good idea.  And so we rocked.  He snuggled into me and we rocked and rocked and rocked.  My independent 18 month boy, who is far too busy to sit still for seemingly anything these days, pressed his body against mine for fifteen glorious minutes as I whispered words of love to him.  His arm blindly reached around his head to find my face and his perfect little hand stroked my cheek.  I smelled his hair and prayed for him, for me, for us.  Prayers of inexpressible thankfulness.  Pleading prayers for continued health in his little body.  Tearful prayers for wisdom.  Oh God, grant me wisdom.

The day we brought James home from the hospital I was utterly overwhelmed as I considered the awesome responsibility of being his mother.  This tiny little angel didn’t deserve me.  I felt that way again tonight as his big, perfect, eyes gazed into mine.  I once heard a song that said something about how there’s no other love like a mother’s love for her child.  And I ignorantly dismissed it as silly.  My love for my husband should be a love like no other.  And, so it is in a way.  But, oh, how those words are true.  How foolish I was.  The love a mother has for her child is unlike any other love she has experienced.  It makes you keenly aware of how fragile your heart is.  It is terrifyingly rapturous.

As I placed my James back in his crib, sorely tempted to rock the entire night away, I kissed his satiny cheek and wiped the tears from my face.  Sleep well darling boy.  Mommy loves you.  So much that it hurts.  The sweetest of dreams.  May we never forget this moment.