Last week, after I posted the behavior contract, a very keen reader noticed and pointed out that the words I penned back in 2007 suspiciously skirted the topics of sex and dating.  While that may seem like a heinous oversight, rest assured that it wasn’t.  While I omitted that stuff from the ink, I certainly didn’t omit it from the discussion.  I will gladly tell you my reasoning, but first I have to give you a hint of background about the day that set this whole thing in motion.

Without going into detail, let me just say that on that day, I found something that shot like an arrow through my heart.  I read words that instantly grieved me because how could so treasured a child see herself without value?  {I apologize for the vagueness.  It’s necessary.}

And so, with the precipice of high school looming, I set out to drive home a message so important that missing it could make all the difference in the world.

Don’t mistake me for a moron; I knew full well that the existence of such a contract would not really bind anybody to anything.  What is was to do, though, was explain–in no uncertain terms–my expectations.  Too many times in this parenthood I’ve been handed the excuse of not knowing.  With my expectations listed and signed off on, the not knowing becomes a much tougher sell.

Still, in spite of having voiced squirm-worthy sex’ish words all the days leading up to this one, putting them on paper was a step I wasn’t willing to take.  Partly because I felt that by writing them down and making them off-limits, I was somehow posing a dare.  And that was the last thing I wanted to do.

When we sat across the table from one another, reading over this contract, there was much discussion.  Unlike the heart-to-hearts we’d had before, this one was far more formal.  Quite purposefully.  I’d meant for it to feel very business-like.  If the truths of my heart poured out in the past had fallen on forgetful ears, perhaps this signing on the dotted line would stick.

I wanted the words–the expectations on that paper–to convey a message.  That is: you matter.  The choices you make today will shape tomorrow.  Your choices matter.  You will have a curfew; you will contribute; you will be respectful.  You matter.  If the going gets tough I will not look the other way; I will press harder.  You matter.  I will not give up on you because you matter.  I expect a lot from you and I know you can rise to the occasion.  You matter more than you’ll ever know.

I hoped that that truth would permeate and that, in turn, she would value herself enough to make responsible choices with boys based on self-worth rather than a directive on some piece of paper her mom made her sign.  We talked then–and talk still-about what I expect of her in the dating department, but it’s easily one of the slipperiest slopes I’ve ever had to parent down.  On one hand I want her to know that sex isn’t okay right now, but on the other hand I need her to know that if she chooses otherwise, she can come to me, without repercussion.  How can you convey both without sending a mixed message?

I don’t know the answer to that.  All I know is that I’m doing my best.

Parenting has been hard since that very first contraction.  Seasons of hard.  The physical exhaustion slowly gives way to a weary one, and second-guessing comes battering like a downed tree at the heavy door of perseverance.  All I know for sure is that while I could be better, I’m doing my best.

I’ve got an eighth grader waiting in the wings; the behavior contract is about to make a second appearance.  With revisions, of course.  Because when you know better, you do better.

I can only hope–and pray without end–that my best is good enough.

3612 Dayton Street.  A town nobody could pronounce in a state known for it’s peaches and boiled peanuts and confederate die-hards.  30815.  I lived in a house that backed up to a pine forest–trees bigger than I dared to dream. The three babies under my feet left me worn and weary with their squeaky but mommy and how come? and but I’m not tired yet. I was a young Army wife, so many crooked lines from home that I probably couldn’t have found my way if I’d tried.  All alone in a place where the drawl of my neighbors sometimes pricked like an insult and something as light and airy as hope hung like an anvil around my neck.  I was tired.  So, so tired.

And then the years passed and the babies grew and the squeak in their voices gave way to eyes that rolled and doors that slammed before I could raise my hand to knock.

and I tell you the truth when I say that last week we bought my baby a car all her own.

There is a different kind of tired, here.  In this place.  One that sneaks in under the cover of time and steals away with dreams I’ve yet to dream because the canvas of sleep won’t come.  One that piles like a quarry in my stomach and fills up the space so much so that even hunger pangs go unnoticed.  Hungry and tired.  Lost and heartbroken.  And empty.  And maybe just hollow, it’s hard to say.

Tired that seeps into my pores and melts inside of me and turns to liquid and spills out my tear ducts until they dry up.  Tired that berates  and scolds and points a blaming finger.  Tired that threatens never to leave.  Never to relent.

In a part of me that doesn’t want to admit it, I maybe once have wondered how differently my life’s minutes might pass if never a child passed through me.  If never a life came from mine.

but because I’m nothing at all if not her mother and her mother and her mother and his I know I would grieve the loss of every single exhausted moment.  Each missed sigh.  And maybe only then would I really really know hollow.

There aren’t any trees out the back windows anymore.  Just dust and desert.

Nowhere to go but up, up.

And away.

Hey Peeps – Torri here. You’ve heard a lot about me, but recently I’ve been so moved by a cause that Mom decided to let me do a guest blog post to look for support and spread the word.

It’s called World Vision. Every August, they hold a big event called the 30 Hour Famine to raise money for children living in famine every day all over Africa. During this time, people all over the world give up food for 30 hours to raise money. I’ve decided to join them with my youth group; I’m going to starve for 30 hours so that other people don’t have to. In addition to that, we’re all supposed to find sponsors to support us. So a few days ago, I decided a quick and easy way to find some sponsors would be by going door-to-door.

Everyone was polite. If they were unable to give, it was really not even a problem. Until I got to one house. I walked up to the door, rang the doorbell, and waited. Once he opened the door I introduced myself and gave the speech that I had gotten quite a bit of practice at. Once I had finished, though, the man looked at me with utter disgust. I have to say I was rather surprised; nobody had reacted like that so far.

“This money goes to Africa, you say?” he demanded.

“Well, um, yes, to uh, feed the starving children…”

“Wow. This is absolutely ridiculous. You should really be doing something better, focusing more on America for a change.” And promptly slammed the door in my face.

Uh… okay?

I did my research, though. And I really hope that, by some chance, that man happens upon this blog. Because America spends about 42 billion dollars a year trying to lose weight after having consumed too much food. This includes diet pills, diet plans, and surgeries. Yet about 1,712 children die ever hour from starvation.

That sounds so silly to me.

So I’m going to try and put my dent in that number. I’m still looking for sponsors. If anyone is willing to donate, it truly does save lives. Thirty dollars feeds one child for a whole month, however, every penny counts. Any amount is hugely appreciated. Let’s make this the time to stop world hunger.

*Note from Darcie: If you’re willing to sponsor Torri as she takes part in the 30 hour famine on August 26th and 27th, please leave a comment on this post or send me an email (address in the contact tab above).  We’re accepting donations through my Paypal account and I will be replacing all the fees Paypal deducts from her pledges.

**Another note from Darcie: For the record, Torri tips the scales at a whopping 87 pounds.  At least if you or I consumed nothing but water for 30 straight hours our bodies could feed off our own fat stores.  Torri’s body?  Not so much.  Even five dollars to help her reach her fundraising goal of $180 is sincerely appreciated.

It’s been almost two years since The Accident.

Almost two years since I wrote this post.

My friend, Steph, left a comment on that post, promising me that over time the images trapped in my memory would lose their sharpness.  They’d grow dull.  Confession: I didn’t believe her.

Turns out she was right.  No longer do I close my eyes and see him there.  Not that I can’t, when I try, but they don’t pounce like they once did.

I’m thankful for her rightness.  But I’ll never forget.

Next month a group of Tucson bloggers and friends will gather for a CPR class, that my friend, Becca, (who I was with that day) has gone to a lot of trouble to organize.  If you are local to Tucson and:

• a friend of mine
• a lurking reader of this blog
• a mother
• an aunt
• a grandmother
• a babysitter
• a person who comes in contact with water, ever–even if it’s just in a bucket in your backyard

I invite you to attend.  There is a cost of $10 that will cover materials.  Shoot an email to becca AT ourcrazyboys DOT com with your RSVP.  If you are not local, call your fire department and ask if they can set you up with a CPR class.  My hunch is that they’d be happy to do just that.  It’s easier than you think.  And more important than you might realize.

Go ahead.  Save a life.

I am from glowing candles on a Van de Kamps cake, from Ford and rollie pollies.
I am from the mint green duplex on the corner… 415…the cracked stucco, the stoop with no rail.
I am from the lilac bush hollowed out like a fort, the purple petals raining down like wishes falling from the sky.
I am from Christmas Eve with olive fingers and rides in the wheelbarrow,
from Averys and Ezells and Coopers and Millers.
I am from writhing tempers and status-quo keepers.  From never back down.  Explosive.
From shhh, Daddy’s sleeping! and if you step on a crack you’ll break your mother’s back.
I am from hymnals and creeds.  Hear the pennies dropping.  Listen as they fall.  All of them for Jesus, he shall have them all.

dropping…

dropping…

dropping…

dropping…

listen as they fall.  From sermons at the pulpit and cookies in the parish hall.  From Sunday school mornings: a crayola Moses in Joseph’s borrowed coat.  From wafers and red wine communion.

I’m from the pass of the Oaks.   Hills crawling with vineyards.  Almond blossoms and ocean air.

Grilled steak tasters.  Homemade vanilla ice cream licked off the paddle.

From grunion runs I could never stay awake for.  The campfire sing-alongs when I always wish I knew the words to Last Kiss.

I am from the barn’s second story.  The dust and the moths.  The boxes of old nothings.

I am from oak collage frames on the wall, faces staring out dotted with Mickey ear hats.   And heads poking out of sand graves with seaweed drapings.

From a tangle of love and anger.  From braided rainbow rugs and the plastic ride-on horse.

From innocence seeping through drafty windows, out from under the cracks.  From pigtails that gave way to Aqua Net that gave way to a baby bump way too soon.

I’m from where you came from is never as important as where you’ve come to.

When I was little, my mom and my Grams used to take my brothers and I to church on Good Friday.  It was the most somber service of the church year.  We’d enter in silence to find the altar draped in black cloths.  The pastor read passages from Scripture and after a selection of verses they would make a loud banging noise and extinguish a candle.  This continued until every last candle was extinguished.  And then they’d take down the lights in the sanctuary until it was pitch black and there would be more banging.  As a child, it was my favorite service of the year if only because it was so out of the ordinary.

Still, today, the Tenebrae service is one of my favorites.

I’ve always felt that those who go to church just on Easter aren’t getting the whole picture.  It’s like starting a book halfway through.

On Good Friday, we leave the sanctuary feeling heavy.  Broken.  And–truthfully–those deep feelings permeate all weekend until we return on Easter Sunday to hear the rest of the glorious story.

Attending Tenebrae services is a gift I’ve passed on to my children.  That they, too, will never take for granted the reason we rejoice.

Tragedy in Tucson, or so it has been dubbed, brought the nation to its knees last weekend when a senseless young man so callously committed a senseless act that took the lives of six upstanding Americans.  But it didn’t stop there; when he took aim at those people not only did he end their lives, but so too did his bullets ricochet and shatter the lives of hundreds more, causing a domino effect that will change those families for generations to come.  It was one of those events that leaves a gaping hole in us all because each of us is helpless to defend that which one insane man sought to destroy.

My heart ached that day, for those people.  It broke for a fiancee whose left ring finger will likely always carry an invisible weight, whether she moves on or not.  It broke for the sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters of the elderly victims, now left  to cope with such an abrupt absence.  But perhaps more profoundly, my heart breaks for the mother and father of nine-year-old Christina Taylor Greene who will no doubt be forever changed.  It’s likely my station in life at this moment that leaves me broken most for them.  I can so vividly imagine the images that must haunt that mother in the black of night: wondering if her baby cried out for her, imagining the fear of her final moments.  I don’t know that mother, but I can say with certainty that she tortures herself with if-onlies.  If only I’d been there.  If only I could have done something–shielded her, protected her.  If only it would have been me, instead.

Throughout the last week I’ve stopped mid-activity to pray for the second string of victims.  I’ve stopped mid-sentence because I’m too choked up to continue.  I’ve stopped to plead that my Father in heaven would wholly restore Gabby Giffords, if it is His will.  That He lift up and strengthen and heal the Greene family.  And the other families.  All of them.

I share this with you because I want it to be clear that I’m neither cold nor callous.  That indeed I sympathize with–and have immense compassion for–each and every person who was personally touched by this incomprehensible act.

With that said, though, I respectfully admit that my life has continued.  I did laundry on Monday.  I lamented over having to rise before the sun.  I posted vacation pictures to my blog.  I tickled my little man.

My life went on.

I bet yours did as well.  As it should.

{This is me, about to tiptoe into that thing I have to get off my chest.  That thing that isn’t so PC to say.  That thing that might rub some people wrong}.

There are those who–seemingly–don’t want us to move on.

Every day this week I’ve turned on the same radio show I listen to each and every morning only to be met by more sorrow.  More woe.  More talk of the “city needing to heal”.

There are grief counselors available, they tell me.  Callers ring in with tearful voices and dramatized tales of their own grieving processes.  Everywhere I turn there are those who almost revel in this tragedy, seeking out their own seven degrees of separation: my cousin’s neighbor’s daughter went to the same school as that little girl.

But it goes beyond the confines of this southwestern Arizona city.

The national news continues to dredge up the residual scum of the shooting.  And anyone and everyone who might offer a crumb of detail, no matter how dramatized that detail might be.

It’s nothing new, this tendency to pounce on despair and lick it to the bone.  Hurricane Katrina.  Presidential indiscretions.  The storms of the century.

Why do we do that?  Or perhaps, more accurately, why do we allow for that to be done?

Partly, it’s the reality that any one of us could have been there that morning, at Congress on the corner.  Any one of us could have worked in the twin towers.  Any one of us might have sent our kids off to school at Columbine.  Any one of our children might have been enrolled in that Oklahoma City federal building daycare.

And so we obsess.  We thirst for details.  We run them over and over in our heads trying to assign some degree of reason when clearly reason is nowhere to be found.  It scares us–terrifies us–that such horrifically random tragedy could be lurking around any corner.  At any grocery store.

I’m here to state the obvious: we’re not assured a tomorrow.  We’re just not.  We can dwell on the tragedies of today, we can pick them apart and run circles around them in our sleep, but it won’t serve to immunize us against the possibility of our own potential catastrophes.  Nothing can do that.

I humbly propose something different.  Let us not waste our todays on the tragedies of yesterday.  Of last week.  Of last month.  Let us not forget, by any means.  Let us pay our respects and pray our prayers and offer our most heartfelt condolences.  But then?  Let us go on.

What if we turned off the news, refusing to listen to a broadcaster who would bleed every last drop of emotion from a tragedy?  What if we turned off the radio when it became apparent that the DJ’s were wallowing rather than encouraging?  What if we simply ignored the newspapers and live feeds and tweets that want nothing more than to pull us deeper into a quicksand of despair?  What if?

What if we focused, instead, on hope.  On Encouragement.  On the silver linings.  Imagine what a difference that would make.  What a changed world we’d live in.

I’m going to try it.  I’ve already turned off the news and the radio.  I’ve ignored those Facebook posts that seem to scream out, “look at me!  I’m part of it all!  I live there!”

I’ll turn to the Bible for my answers.  I’ll offer silent prayers to my Father.  I’ll start by looking onward.  Upward.

I’m tempted, at times.

Like when I’m making out my still need to buy list on an itty bitty 3 x 5 card and I don’t really have room to spell the whole thing out.

Or when I make notes in  my checkbook register as to why I spent $87 at Old Navy.

Quickly scribbled recipes for cookies.  The subject line of an email.  To do’s in the margin of my datebook.

So many times I’m tempted to shorten it.  To simplify.

But I never do.  I can’t.  When pen comes to paper (or fingers to keyboard as the case may be) I cringe long before I can bring myself to pen–to type–that X: the letter that threatens to negate Him.

Christmas.

There’s no other way to write it.

CHRISTmas.

Already, He’s further than He ought to be in this, the season all about Him.  The days full of shopping and baking and mailing  make it nearly impossible to hear His whispered reminders, to feel the peace of His abiding love, to see the miracle of Christmas taking place all around us.  Already, He’s further than He ought to be.

And so in this one small way, I’m rooted.  Even just the few seconds it takes me to spell out the whole word serve as a cue–a little reminder to slow down.  To breathe.  To reflect.

There is but one reason for this season of celebration.  Just one.  ‘X’ has nothing to do with it.

It’s a small stance.  But one I’m unwilling to change.

It’s true that December wouldn’t be the same without the coconut macaroons and glittering packages and ringing bells.  But at the heart of my season is Christ.

And I want to keep Him there.  Always.  In all ways.

When I was little my family used to go camping every Memorial Day weekend.

We’d drive 70 miles up the coast until we reached our favorite spot of all: Plaskett Creek.  The sites there are grassy–some nestled right up against the woods.  Just across the highway is Sand Dollar beach.  Every year we’d pick up the tide table and every year I’d swear up and down that this year–this year!–I’m going to do the grunion run.

I never did.

I wanted to.  I wanted to see such a sight with my own two eyes: the iridescent fish littering the shore after midnight–setting the beach aglow.  Mirroring the starry sky.

But first there was dinner cooked over an open fire.  Uncle Monte’s ghost stories.  And S’mores.

In the end, I could never stay awake.  The grunion?  They run way past my bedtime.

The road–Highway 1–to the campground was windy and long.  It creeps along the steep coastline, where you’re but one wrong turn and flimsy guardrail away from careening off the rocky cliffs into an angry ocean hundreds of feet below.  The road winds and cuts deep into the cliff-side, each turn blinding you to what lies in wait ahead.  Until you round the bend and see that–in fact–it opens up again for a stretch.

Those cliffs have been on my mind.

Some days I feel like I’m trudging those hills–enduring those blind turns–anticipating the destination but wondering, all the same, how I’ll ever get there.

Other days I feel like I’m standing atop the highest point and I can so clearly see the entire road snaking along beneath me.  I can see the drivers faithfully navigating the path–blind to what lies ahead.  I want to shout to them: be careful.  Slow down.  You don’t know what’s up there.  I do.  I can see it from here.

There’s a middle place if life.  The time when you recognize that you’ve both been, and not been.  Seen but haven’t seen.  Know but wonder if you’ll ever, really understand.

Still trying for that grunion run.

Still swearing up and down that this–this!–will be my year.

I’m going to make it.  One of these days.

I decided long ago that I wanted to be a stay-home mom.  This–I decided–because more than anything, I wanted to spend my days tickling tummies and reading stories and bandaging the occasional boo-boo.  And I’ve done precisely that, for just shy of 16 years now.

Of course, there are also sheets to wash and meals to prepare and toilets to scrub.  These are the less glamorous of my duties.  But having eagerly accepted this role, I learned to take the bad with the good.

And then somewhere along the way, I got confused.

Somewhere along the way the laundry and shiny mirrors and crumb-less floors took priority over the tummy tickling.  Storytime was put off until the dishes were washed, dried and put away.  Impromptu chasing games had to wait until the bills had been paid and the checkbook had been balanced.

It wasn’t an intentional shift, but a shift nonetheless.

And then, to further complicate things, I got sidetracked by blogging and tweeting and status updating.

Not long ago I realized that all of this busyness had slowly but surely inched out my real responsibility: being a perpetually available mommy.

So here I am at a crossroad–wondering whether I should stay or go.

Selfishly I want to stay.  But–in all honesty–the inability to read and comment on your blog leaves me feeling icky.  I brought this site to life in order to establish a virtual community, not a soapbox.

I know that there must surely be a happy medium.  It’s just a matter of me finding it.

I hope you’ll bear with me over the next month or so – as I attempt to do just that.  And if–at the end of that month–I still can’t find it…well, then I might be slipping out the back door.

But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. :)

What do you think?  Do you struggle with the same issues?