Mother's Day

Yesterday I changed my profile pic on Facebook to this one.

Since then, I keep looking at it, amazed that there was a time my mom and I were the same height. By the time she died, her osteoporosis was so progressed that she was hardly over five feet tall. Aging is brutal and death is terrible. Time does such cruel things to the body. I'm not talking about the cosmetic stuff--the wrinkles and gray hair and such. I'm talking about disintegrating bones, organs that don't work right anymore, teeth that can't chew, failing senses, a slowing brain, and weakening muscles. As those things wreak their havoc on the body, it can be easy for others to start seeing the person differently--to think that the 85-year-old is someone different from the 45-year-old or 15-year-old. But on the inside, nothing has really changed. That soul, that precious child of God, created by Him and loved by Him, is the same as it has always been. It still gets sad and lonely and afraid. It still wants its mommy. It still needs to feel that it is loved and accepted. It still needs a Savior.

This is Babsy. She is one of Jesus' little lambs, loved by Him fully and unconditionally. She's not sad, lonely or afraid anymore.

Delicious Irony

It just dawned on me that the piece I wrote for The Federalist has a rather wonderful ironic twist to it. In my article I took issue with the position held by Ezekiel Emanuel  that it is best for a person to die before he starts to experience a steep decline in health, mental acuity, and usefulness. As part of his argument, Emanuel cites research suggesting that most people peak in their forties:

. . . by 75, creativity, originality, and productivity are pretty much gone for the vast, vast majority of us. . . . Dean Keith Simonton, at the University of California at Davis, a luminary among researchers on age and creativity, synthesized numerous studies to demonstrate a typical age-creativity curve: creativity rises rapidly as a career commences, peaks about 20 years into the career, at about age 40 or 45, and then enters a slow, age-related decline. There are some, but not huge, variations among disciplines. Currently, the average age at which Nobel Prize–winning physicists make their discovery—not get the prize—is 48. . . . Simonton’s own study of classical composers shows that the typical composer writes his first major work at age 26, peaks at about age 40 with both his best work and maximum output, and then declines, writing his last significant musical composition at 52. 

For the record, the year your humble blogger turned 50 is the same year she sold her first article to a national magazine. Take that, Emanuel.

De quoi écrire

Hermann Fenner-Behmer (1866-1913)

Can Anything Good Come of Insomnia?

Apparently so. Two nights ago I was having one of those nights when my brain just refuses to turn off. I have learned that if I can't get to sleep in half an hour it's not going to happen for a while and I might as well get up. This time instead of turning on Nick at Nite and watching Friends (my go-to non-medicinal remedy)  I decided to write. The next morning I sent what I had written to one of my favorite online magazines. Imagine my surprise when several hours later I got an acceptance letter. Woot. My article went up on the site today (talk about fast turnaround!), so here it is in case you missed it and would like to read it.

Why I Want to Live Long and Burden My Children

Aging Brain

Several weeks ago I dug all our old photo albums out of the garage so I could scan photos for Caitlin's graduation slideshow (featured in the previous post). At some point I realized I was missing the album covering the period of Caitlin's life from around age 1 to age 2. I searched the garage and went through every box I thought it might be in and finally gave up and did the slideshow without it. (I did already have a few scans from that time).

Well, guess what? This morning I found the errant photo album under my bed. Then I remembered: I had been looking at it one day when Caitlin came to my room, and I quickly hid it and then promptly forgot I had done so. Sheesh. Another reminder that yes, there is such a thing as the decay of the flesh. But at least I am no longer missing a photo album!

Something Has Changed

Thirty years ago one of my favorite things to do was to take a piece of literature and pick it apart in that way that so many high school students despise. It was what led me to follow up my music studies with undergraduate and graduate degrees in literature. For a number of years I put those English degrees to good use, teaching first high school, then college English, and sometimes I even stumbled on students who seemed to enjoy the subject as much as I did. But the longer I taught English the more discouraged I became at the shocking unpreparedness of many of my students as well as the socio-political agenda that seems to drive many college English departments. I ultimately left English teaching behind and returned to my first love, music. 

For the last ten to fifteen years I have worked much more in the musical than the literary realm, and the older I get, the more I think I want it to stay this way. These days when I read I just want to read. I have little desire for the sort of close, analytical approach I learned in my English classes. It's hard enough just to read! I also can't help wondering whether something has changed in me beyond the length of my attention span. There is something about literary analysis that seems inherently destructive. That is not to say there isn't value in it for the deep understanding and appreciation of a work. Sometimes to truly understand something one must take it apart. But I think I may be at a time in my life when I am much more interested in building up than in tearing down. And music is about nothing if not building. Whether it's the practicing, or the composing (which I don't do), or the putting together of all the parts within an ensemble, the goal is synthesis, the creation of something beautiful. In literary analysis, all the effort is in the opposite direction, towards taking apart rather than creating.

Maybe that's why I have also continued to blog. Even if I didn't have the few of you reading that I do, I would still get the satisfaction of creating something, however small. Maybe one of these days I'll write something bigger than a blog post, or maybe I'll learn a new musical skill. Then again, maybe I'll just do more cooking. . . .

Detour

I have previously written about my foot issues. I have managed them fairly well the last few years through the wearing of better shoes or shoes with orthotics. But last week within several days of returning from Washington, D.C., I was having the most trouble I've had in a long time. I can't point to any one moment the trouble started. I didn't notice it while we were walking around the city (other than what I would consider normal fatigue) or even for a couple of days after. But by Tuesday of last week I was having enough pain in my left foot* that it hurt to stuff my foot into a shoe and it hurt to walk and bear weight. I wasn't able to get to the doctor until Thursday. The x-ray looked good, so no fracture (I would have been really surprised if there had been one). I will have an ultrasound in a few days, but my podiatrist's working diagnosis is injury to my posterior tibial tendon.

If you look at the tendon in the drawing, the place where it curves around the inner ankle area before disappearing under the foot is the place where I am having pain. It may just be that all the walking on my aging, out of shape feet (walking that I did in my Birkenstocks rather than my orthotics) caused some tendonitis**. Worst case scenario is that my tendon is torn. At any rate, here is my new friend for the foreseeable future.

It does not surprise me that my left foot is the one that is protesting. It is the same foot that has the Morton's neuroma. The left side of my body is the side that provides me with all kinds of fodder for complaining. When I have shoulder, back, hand, or knee pain, it is on the left side. My D.O. (Doctor of Osteopathy) has told me that my left leg is shorter than my right leg. Kind of surprising that I lean to the right, huh? ;-) The hidden blessing is that since it's my left foot I can still drive and use the damper pedal! (The soft pedal is another story--sorry that final chord on the choral offering was louder than it should have been this morning, honey.)

The boot has helped a lot, making it possible to walk without pain. It has also complicated my life, making it harder to get around, harder to get dressed, and harder to keep my foot dry in snowy, rainy weather. But I'm walking, and that's a good thing!

*It probably did not help that on Monday I dropped an exercise weight on it.

**This is how I want to spell this word. I don't understand the logic of spelling it "tendinitis."

The Blink of an Eye

Yesterday my eldest child went back to college. He is a sophomore now! He came home in May and was here for three months and now summer is over. Where did it go?

The day before yesterday that eldest child's dog died. We got her for his 11th birthday. She was here, a part of our family, for 9 years, and now she isn't anymore and never will be again.

I remember a day when my oldest was only 9 and our previous dog died. She had been part of our family for 15 years and my husband's life for 2 years before that. It seems like yesterday that he got her. It has been 11 years since we touched her.

This past Sunday my husband played his last services at our former church. He began as Cantor there in January of 2000, almost 13 years ago, and now that time is done.

My youngest child is about to turn 9. He is the age my oldest was when our first dog died. I know there is going to come a day when I wake up to kiss him goodbye for his first day of college and return to an empty house (or maybe a house with another 9-year-old dog). I know it's going to come in the blink of an eye and so I try to cherish this time. And yet I don't know how. What does it mean to "cherish" one's days? It seems the best I can manage is to live them.

Besides, "cherishing time"--whatever that means--doesn't make it stop. I could wrap each day in a velvet-covered box and tie it with a satin bow and yet time would still do what time does, munching my row of pretty gift boxes like so many dots in a Pac-Man game. And once they're munched, they're munched, and before you know it, the game is over.

The Lost Art (For Me) of Reading

I used to read. I suppose I still do. But for years now my reading has been geared primarily towards the utilitarian and practical: I read for the purpose of receiving and transmitting information, not to muse, ponder, and consider. When I was a little girl I could spend the entire day reading; now I find it hard to sit still with a book for 15 minutes. What gives? One of my courses of study in college was literature. I loved it so much that I put up with several years of postmodern, deconstructionist gobbledygook in order to earn my Master's. I spent about 15 years teaching English at the high school and college level. And now it takes me a year to get through one book. What happened to my reading self?

The answer is complicated. Life happened. Adulthood, responsibility, motherhood, middle age--they have all taken their toll, as has the information age. I do think there is something to the theory that electronic communication has made human beings less able to concentrate for any length of time. We are truly addicted to our machines and the constant barrage of little informational spit wads they shoot our way, and we are so consumed with cleaning up those spit wads off the floor that we can't stop long enough to pick up something more weighty.

I say "we." But I know not everyone has this problem. I have friends that actually still do read, and I envy them. I want to be like them. I want to read again and I am trying to figure out how to make it happen.

Perhaps this is a rationalization, but I think my reading difficulty arises in part from my current season of life. It is known sociologically as the "sandwich" phase. I do think that all other things being equal, middle age is probably the most difficult and challenging period of life. It is the time during which human beings have the greatest number of demands being made on them and the greatest number of people depending on them, all while they are dealing with the shocking realization that all that stuff they always heard about the decay of the body really is true.

So not only do I find reading mentally difficult, but I also find it very hard these days to justify sitting down and reading a book for an hour. There are so many other more productive things I could be accomplishing! And yet I easily justify taking a five minute break to check my email or look at Facebook or read a blog post. Because it's just five minutes, you see. But I'm fooling myself, because those five minutes so easily turn in to ten or fifteen or thirty, and certainly when you string all those five-minute diversions together they easily add up to an hour or more per day.

I think I also sometimes revert to electronic reading because I am so used to being interrupted that I am afraid to commit myself to something that is going to require more than five minutes for it to be meaningful. I can spend five minutes in my email or on Facebook or even a blog and come away feeling like I really did read something (however worthless), whereas to really get something out of a book I need a half hour or more of quiet with it. So rather than be thwarted, I choose not to try.

But here at the age of 47 I am starting to ask myself, with regard to many things from exercise to reading to fun, "If not now, when?" My weak physical condition has convicted me of the need to recommit to an exercise program (with my husband's help I am working on that), and now I am ready to acknowledge that my weakened brain is in dire need of some conditioning. And what better way to exercise it than to reintroduce the best and most enjoyable form of mental calisthenics I know: reading. The trick is making it happen. I have decided that like most things to which I want to give priority in my life, I need to schedule a time for it, preferably in the morning (I wish I could live my whole life in the morning). My plan is to set aside a half hour that will be only for unplugged reading of in-depth material. Food packaging, medication bottles, and mail don't count, nor do magazine surfing or reading aloud to Evan. I'm talking big, thick, book reading--you know, those things with, what are they called? Oh yeah . . . chapters.

This post has gone on too long already, so I will report back later with a little more about my efforts (they have already started) and how they are going. I am interested, though, to hear from anyone who has had a similar experience to mine. If you are someone who used to read but who now doesn't, on what do you blame the change? And if you have managed to rediscover your love for reading, how did you do it?

Beyond His Years

Last night we had my youngest child's 8th birthday party. His birthday was actually last week, but we couldn't work it out to get together with friends until this weekend. We invited two families to join us at a nearby bowling alley for arcade fun, bowling, pizza and cake. My kid is the one with the goofy smile.

Last night on the way home in the car--it was just me and Evan because Dad and sister were in another car--Evan's joy was palpable. I am reminded of that old song, "My Cup Runneth Over." Evan's cup was definitely pouring out all over the back seat. He kept telling me how much he loved me and what a great day he had had and at one point said, "I'm happy I'm alive." I told him that he had many blessings and a thankful heart and he agreed.

Last night when it was time to go to bed we "snuggled" together for a long time. Suddenly Evan turned serious and mused aloud, "I guess I'll be too big for the children's museum soon." I told him of course he wouldn't--that there are adults going to the children's museum all the time. Then he stated, "I miss my younger days." I told him I did, too, a little. He responded: "But we can't reverse the days."

No, Evan, we can't.

"We can't time travel."

No, Evan, we can't time travel.

I asked him what he missed and he said he missed some of his old toys and sitting on my lap and his preschool class (even though we homeschool our children Evan went to the half day preschool at our church for a couple of years). I told him he could still sit on my lap and he said, "Yeah, but pretty soon I'll be too big to fit." Then he started to cry: "I miss Mrs. Bolt [his preschool teacher, who died several years ago from breast cancer]. And I miss Grandmother and Granddad. And I miss Trevor [his brother, who is away at college right now]." The sobs became loud and furious.

I hugged and comforted him, of course, and once he calmed down we talked. I told him I understood his sadness because the passing of time is a hard thing to accept, but we have no choice but to do so. God made him to grow and to some day grow up, and that is what he is going to do. I told him that parents are sad sometimes to see their babies grow up but that at the same time they are overjoyed to see all the wonderful things that come with those babies growing up and that I was so excited to see where life would be taking him. He took all this in and then said, "Some people don't have children."

"No, Evan, some people don't."

"That's sad."

"Yes, that's sad. But some people have a different calling. Not everyone gets married."

"But some people get married and still don't have children."

"That's right. For reasons we don't understand, God does not send children to all married people. It might be that He has other plans for them--other things that He wants them to do." I gave him the example of a faithful Lutheran couple in his life that do not have biological children but that have many, many people that they serve and care for in other ways, including spiritually. And then I told him that there are seasons of life--that there is a time for having babies and a time for not having babies. He looked up at me questioningly:

"We're not going to have another baby."

"No, we're not going to have another baby. Right now Dad's and my job is to take care of the babies we already have."

At that point the conversation took a different turn--I think it may have been to tell me about the Sponge Bob episode he watched earlier--and I instructed my newly minted 8-year-old to get his pajamas on and brush his teeth. We met in his room a little while later for bedtime story and prayers and I pulled out a family favorite: Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. I couldn't remember if I had ever read it to Evan. If I had, it had been a long time ago and he didn't remember either.

We started to read the book and already on the very first singing of the "Love You Forever" poem on the first page I started to choke up. But we forged ahead. I told Evan to keep his eye out for the kitty in the story, which is on every page until the boy in the story grows up and moves away from home, at which point that first kitty is nowhere to be found but a brand new baby kitten can be seen at the now grown up man's new house. Evan had fun looking for the kitty but I could tell he was taking the book very seriously. As we neared the end--the page where the man visits his old, sick mother and holds her on his lap--I wondered to myself, "Oh dear, what have I done? What was I thinking in pulling out this book?" I offered to put the book away and told Evan we could finish it another time. Amidst his tears, he said no. He wanted to read to the end.

I think that to the extent that an 8-year-old is able, he understood the book. He understood that some day that old lady with gray hair and glasses will be me and he will be the grown-up man who holds his elderly mother on his lap and sings her the "Love You Forever" song before going home to sing it again to his newborn baby girl. After we finished reading, tears streaming down both our faces, I told Evan that this book is about the passing of time and how we grieve the things we leave behind but how we pass those things on to our children, and our children pass them on to their children, and how it goes on forever and ever until the end of time. The book does not come from a Christian viewpoint, but I reminded Evan that the love that gets passed down through generations started with Jesus and will end with Jesus when we join Him in heaven.

With watery eyes, Evan looked at me. "That's a sad book, Mom."

"Yes, Evan, but it's a happy book, too."

"Yes, it's sad and happy. It's almost got too much sadness and happiness to take."

Welcome to the rest of your life, Evan.

He went to the shelf to get another book.

Letting Go

Lately I have had a recurring dream about moving from one house to another. The houses in the dream vary. Sometimes the house I am leaving is one from my past; sometimes it is the one I currently live in. The house being moved into is always one that I don't recognize--a figment of my imagination. I have had this dream at least three times in the last week and on at least one night the dream seemed to pick up where it left off the previous night. There are several recurring aspects of the dream. One is a sense of relief--that I am leaving some problem behind with the old house. But that is always balanced with the realization upon moving into the new house that there is something not quite right about it--something I didn't anticipate.

Another recurring feature of these dreams is the process of unpacking and trying to figure out where things go. This is complicated by the fact that the previous owners always seem to leave things behind. Sometimes I like what they have left; sometimes it is in the way. I remember one dream in which the bathroom was filled with someone else's toiletries and cosmetics. Oftentimes it is the curtains, and I have to decide whether to keep them or replace them. In my dream last night it turned out the previous owners had left a bunch of stuff in the basement. Some of it was very nice--for example, an antique sewing machine (even though I don't sew!--why would I dream about a sewing machine?)--and I wondered if I should call them to come get it or if I could keep it. But some of it--for example, some old toys and a big stash of Christmas wrapping paper and decorations--was just taking up space that I needed for our own things and I was annoyed to have to figure out what to do with it.

It is said that dreams tell us things about ourselves--that they reflect things we are struggling with or reveal our minds trying to work through unresolved questions. I don't know if that's true, but as I was thinking about my dream it occurred to me that I am definitely at a time of life where it seems lots of things I have long held on to are asking me to let go of them and I am trying to figure out where the things that remain are going to fit. I am reminded of what a friend told me recently. She said that she has been surprised at this point in her life (she is a few years younger than I) to find that she is in some sense turning her back on many things that heretofore had defined her. I wonder if that happens to a lot of people in middle age. We spend the first half of our lives acquiring things--knowledge, skills, jobs, careers, opinions, friends, spouses, children, possessions, wealth, etc.--and drawing our identity from them. Then in the second half of our life we find ourselves to some extent needing to let go of many of those things (hopefully not the spouse!). Our "career" (whether it's in the workplace or not) takes a turn we didn't expect. The acquisition of knowledge and skill is no longer so important or intense (thank goodness, since it becomes even harder to do!). Instead we find ourselves passing our knowledge and skill on to others. Friendships change, children grow up and leave home, parents die and leave us behind, and siblings drift away. The closer we get to the grave, the less important our possessions seem, and the wealth we have (if any) becomes merely a tool--something that we may need to spend to take care of ourselves our remaining days on this earth. Whatever degree of physical strength and acumen we may have attained starts to dissipate, as does our "beauty" (as defined by the culture). No wonder there is so much written about the so-called "mid-life crisis." We find ourselves at the theoretical midpoint, having attained so much that we have spent our lives seeking, and as we watch it begin to depart from us we ask, "Now what?" What comes after all the seeking?

I think I'm in kind of a "now what" place. In some ways it's nice. It's nice to not have to try so hard, to not have the pressure of needing to prove oneself that seems to accompany youth. It's pleasant to think about slowing down--about sliding down the hill instead of climbing up it. Climbing is hard. But it gives one a focus. And it feeds that dearly held human desire to feel in control.

Now what? Twenty years ago I would have thought I was the one to answer that question for myself. Now I know better.

Making Some Changes

I have been working on Christmas cards the last few days. (They're all in the mail! Yippeee!) As usual, we are sending out a family photo (actually, this year it's just the kids) along with a year-end family newsletter (you know, the kind that it's lately become fashionable to ridicule).

I approached the letter a little differently this year. Instead of organizing it by person or chronology, I decided to approach it thematically. And without a doubt, our family theme the last few years has been change. So the letter introduces that theme, talks about how humans in general don't like change, outlines some of the major changes in our family's life, and points the reader to the One who doesn't change. "If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny himself." (2 Timothy 2:13)

I'm not going to rehash all of that. If you're a very close friend you probably know some of it. If you're not, count yourself blessed to be out of the loop. But I thought I would share a couple of more trivial areas of my life in which I have this year come face to face with the unavoidability of change and the consequences of trying to ignore it.

First, my feet. For the past year or two I have been experiencing foot pain that started out slowly but has gotten worse and worse. So how did I respond? As any self-respecting middle-aged woman with too much to do would, of course. I ignored it. I kept on wearing the same shoes and behaving in the same ways as I have for my entire life. After all, my feet never hurt before. Why should I have to change the way I live and walk and care for them now?

I learned that the answer to that question is that if I don't change I am going to be crippled some day. So finally, unable to ignore the pain any longer (it's not normal to be nearly unable to walk for the first 5-10 minutes when you wake up in the morning), I went to the foot doctor and discovered two things. First, I have something called a Morton's toe, which has led to a complication called Morton's neuroma. Some Morton's neuromas require surgery; mine is not too far progressed and should respond to PROPER CARE.

The second cause of my foot problems is something I already knew but didn't connect to my feet. I am getting old. I have flexible feet that flatten out when I stand or walk on them. Over my 46 years of life, I have done a lot of standing and walking, and the combination of that and aging means that the natural cushioning in my feet is playing out. It's like a mattress that has lost its spring or a pillow that has flattened out over time. So, as the doctor described it, when I walk on bare feet it's like walking on bone (and it feels like it). There's no cushion there anymore. He made an analogy to trying to support my body weight on knees and elbows. It would start to hurt pretty fast. That's about where my feet are.

What does this mean? Three things, essentially: better shoes, orthotics, and no more barefoot walking. I am going to be working on the first item on the list over time, trying to replace some of my shoes with better ones. (Might be a good idea to start by replacing those Skecher sandals that I have worn every day all summer for the last 5 years or so.) I have already been measured for orthotics and last week received a call from the doctor that they are in (just haven't had time to pick them up yet). And I have become religious about not going barefoot, ever. Not even to walk from my bed to the bathroom in the morning when I wake up. My slippers are ever-present. I even took them to a friend's house this week so that I would have something to walk around in after removing my snow boots. It's interesting how after only a few weeks of this new habit it feels normal. Now if I go barefoot I feel literally naked. And it's helping. My feet are feeling better. (Except when I spend all day walking around in unsupported, orthotic-less snow boots while running errands and Christmas shopping. Ouch.)

This post has actually gotten longer than I anticipated, so you will have to wait to hear about the other change I mentioned earlier. Here's a hint, though: it also has to do with aging. Imagine that.

Flashes

You know how sometimes the facts that live in your head just hit you all at once in a different place?

I had one of those moments today. I was dropping my senior-in-high-school son off at his college math class. As he walked away from the car he turned around and gave me a little wave. It was right out of the movie Big--you know, that moment at the end when Margaret Colin is watching grown-up Tom Hanks walk down the leaf-strewn street, only to briefly glance away and look back to find that he has changed again into his little boy self?

I had a flash like that today. For a fleeting moment, I saw in my great big 18-year-old man the little boy he once was.

I cried all the way home.

How Times Have Changed

Me and Trevor in December, 2000, at a Young Naperville Singers choir concert for which he sang and I played

Me and Trevor in October, 2010, following a Chicago Blaze chess team match in which his win helped secure the team's berth in the 2010 United States Chess League playoffs



Can someone please tell me where the years have gone?

Vanity

You know you've reached a new level in the aging process when you go from worrying about lines in your face to worrying about droops and sags and folds. Suddenly those lines don't seem so bad!

This is pathetic

I have been trying to get more exercise this year. And although I'm still not getting as much as I should, I have taken a step in the right direction. It has helped immensely that back in the fall my family joined the local community recreation center, removing the excuse of bad weather. I think the fact that we are exercising together has helped, too, by introducing the element of peer pressure and cameraderie. We don't all go together all the time, but usually whoever is going has a partner. Finally, having an mp3 player has been a great motivation, since going to exercise also means an opportunity to listen to my favorite music or podcasts.

So in spite of the fact that I'm still not where I would like to be with respect to my fitness, I've been feeling pretty good about this whole exercise thing. The fact that I'm exercising at all is a great improvement over last year!

But a few days ago I experienced a major downer. My main goal in exercising is not to lose weight but to increase cardiovascular fitness and strengthen bones and muscles. As a small-boned person I am at high risk for osteoporosis (my mother already has it), and exercise is one of the best weapons I have in that battle. So in addition to spending some time on the treadmill, bicycle, and rowing and skiing machines, I am trying to introduce some weight training into my routine. So far I have mostly lifted free weights (very little ones) to work on arm strength. But this week for the first time I tried an abdominal crunch machine. Heaven knows, if there is any part of my body that could use some toning, it is my middle.

I was a total failure at using this machine. It's hard to describe in words how it worked; here's a link that illustrates it pretty well. I set the weight at what I thought was the lowest possible--ten pounds--and gave it my best shot. I couldn't do one single repetition. Well, maybe I could have, but I was afraid to force the issue for fear of serious injury.

The obvious question is whether I was using the proper technique. Both of my teenage children demonstrated and then watched me try to use the machine, so I think I was approaching it correctly. Still no success. What that means, of course, is that my abdominal muscles are apparently nonexistent.

So what now? I absolutely hate sit-ups & leg lifts and such (I suppose that's what got me into this situation in the first place). I guess I could just resign myself to a flabby middle (you'll still love me, won't you, family?). After all, I don't think there's such a thing as osteoporosis of the belly. But a flabby tummy now means a pot belly in twenty years, and I really don't want that.

So I guess I'm going to be hitting the floor. Maybe in time I'll be able to do a few reps on the crunch machine. My husband did inform me that I overlooked a 5-pound setting.

So, help me out. What are your favorite EASY abdominal exercises? Please, be kind.

Four Eyes

For most of my life I have not worn glasses. Then a few years ago it started getting much harder to read the the dosage instructions on medicine bottles and the ingredient listings on grocery store products. So I went to the eye doctor and was told I could use some reading glasses (translation: "You're getting old.") I got my first pair and gradually got used to wearing them. I remember feeling self-conscious the first time I wore them to accompany a choir rehearsal (as if anyone really noticed or cared--how silly is that? I guess we're all insecure adolescents at heart.)

A year or two after the first pair it was suggested that I should consider bifocals. Not only was the close-up vision deteriorating, but the distance was as well. (Translation: "You're really getting old.") The optician suggested progressive lenses ("a lot of people like them because they look younger and more stylish") but the insurance didn't cover them. So I picked out a frame and, lined bifocals in hand, entered the world of having multiple pairs of glasses. It was kind of nice. The first pair still worked, so I kept them by my bedside and carried the new pair in my purse.

Round three. At my eye check-up a few weeks ago I was told it was time for a new prescription. Seems my wayward eyes have still not found an oasis where they can just sit for a spell but are continuing to wander around the desert of deteriorating vision. But lo and behold, the insurance plan now covers graduated lenses! And the doctor said they would help out with computer reading (which I do a bit of), so I signed on the dotted line and awaited my new eyes.

When they arrived I tried them out in the store and they seemed fine. But upon arriving home it didn't take long for me to realize that they were not going to work. You see, the eye doctor doesn't have a piano or a Book of Concord in his lobby. So those were untested waters. And the first time I tried to play the piano in the new glasses I realized I couldn't see the top line of music without throwing my head back. Same thing when I tried to read my Book of Concord (it's a hefty volume, so I don't tend to read it sitting in a chair with the book in my lap but at the kitchen table with the book held up in front of me).

Back to the eye doctor I went, and discovered that the problem is those fashionable graduated lenses. You see, "progressive" means what it says. It's not just that the line is gone. It's that there is a gradual change from the top of the bifocal to the bottom, including a gradual increase in reading power. So one doesn't get the greatest magnification until the very bottom of the lens. If I am trying to read something that is directly in front of me or even slightly higher than eye level (such as piano music often is) I am going to have problems.

The glasses have been sent back and I am currently using pair #2 and developing a new appreciation for my friend, the bifocal line. When I look above the line, I can see far away. When I look below the line, I can read. It's simple and straightforward, and I can handle it. Who needs stylish?

Thanks, Ben (or whomever). And Dorothy, honey? You were wrong.

What's Going On With My Brain?

Is it aging? Or hormones? Or motherhood-induced ADD?

More importantly, is it going to get better someday?

Used to be that in choir practice if the conductor (a.k.a. my husband) directed a comment to me I was all over it. Heck, often I knew what he was going to say before he said it, like ESP.

But these days sometimes I feel like he's talking Chinese:

"We're going to start on page 10, second system, third measure, on the 'and' of two. Please play the alto line and then bring in the bass two measures later."

Huh? Could you repeat that, please? What page did you say? (Forget about the rest of it.)

So while the choir patiently waits, I try to sort through the multiple pieces of information wrapped up in that sentence and figure out where we are. (By the way, do you realize how many pieces of information that is? Page, system, measure, and beat multiplied by four? It's like having sixteen children all talking at once.)

Once upon a time I would have been there in a flash. These days I feel like a little old woman in slow motion. "What was that, Sonny Boy? I found page 10. What measure, again? Can you wait a minute while I clean my glasses and take a bathroom break?"

To my favorite choir and director--I'm sorry. I hope you can bear with me. Maybe in time this will get better. One can hope, anyway.

Wear and Tear

A few days ago I noticed some new artwork on the dining room table. And I literally mean on the table. Apparently a certain 4-year-old who lives in my house got a little wild with the markers. (Or maybe it was his big sister--she's been known to wield a marker or two herself.)

Then yesterday on that same table I discovered several well-attached stickers. Their decorative placement belied their unintentionality.

Anyway, as every parent knows, property damage in a house with a preschooler is not news. But I couldn't help taking note of my non-reaction to these most recent defacings. The marker is still there; I haven't even bothered to try to wash it off. The sticker was met with a yawn and a mental note to return to it later in the day (a little fingernail work did the trick).

There was a day that I bemoaned every little new piece of damage to house and home. But lately, I find that I just don't care much anymore. Reflecting on why, I think there are several factors in play. First, I would like to think that with age I am becoming wiser and more mature. After all, it's just stuff. In the grand scheme of life and death, what's the big deal?

Second, as I look at the items suffering abuse, I have to admit that their age and condition also contributes to my apathy. The dining room table in question is on its last legs (there's a pun for you, Elephant's Child!). The upholstery is peeling away and the chair backs are collapsing from the seats. What's a green mark or two?

I am hoping a new dining room table is in my future. On the other hand, a new dining room table means a renewed concern for protecting it, and I'm not sure I have the energy or passion to do so anymore. So maybe that dining room table is best postponed until we're through the most property-threatening years. (No, scratch that. If I get a new table, I will find the energy.)

You know what I find myself looking forward to lately? That day in the future that I will be able to be as blase about the newest wrinkles on my face as I am about the latest dings to my aging furniture. Do you think that day will ever come?

44 . . .

is how old I am today. According to this table, having made it this far means I stand a good chance of making it to at least age 82.

Sigh. That still means I'm over half done. Excuse me while I go live a little.

Mystery Solved

A few weeks ago I noticed a quarter-sized chip in the toilet tank lid of our upstairs bathroom. Further inspection revealed a couple of dings in the toilet bowl lid. This toilet was installed within the last year and until this time was in brand new condition, so of course I was dismayed and determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. First I checked with my older two children and was met with earnest denials. So it was on to my husband--he, too, was mystified. We mused that perhaps the tank lid was damaged or cracked during installation but that somehow that piece had held on until now. But that seemed awfully far-fetched--we're talking porcelain here.

Having almost resigned ourselves to not solving this mystery, it suddenly came to me. There is one more person who lives in this house. But come on, he's only four years old! Then I remembered him coming to me not too long before to say, "Mommy, the toilet hurt my finger." Hmmmm. Time for an interrogation. "Honey, let's go look at the toilet. Did you try to lift this lid off? You did? It's pretty heavy, isn't it? Did you drop it on your finger? That hurt, didn't it? Honey, this lid is too heavy for you to lift. Don't do that anymore, okay?"

Then in an effort to dissaude further investigation we invited him to take a long look at the inner workings of the toilet. Poor kid. He has grown up in a house of sub-par toilets and has many times seen his elders plunge them and lift the tank lid to poke and prod in an effort to get the darned things to work right. He probably thinks this is standard toilet operation. Or maybe he's got a future as a plumber. The good news is that we just this month replaced the last of our three toilets! We're a 21st-century household now, at least where toilets are concerned!

(You know you've reached middle age when you can get this excited about plumbing.)