Mattresses

For many weeks now, I've tried to blog about what's happening in the Dykstra household. What's happening is immensely difficult and confusing and trying. It's really not bloggable. It doesn't fit neatly within any category and it only gives the hearer a sense of unrest. No neat little ends to tie up within, say, 5 paragraphs. 

So why am I blogging at all? 

If you're at all familiar with the phrase "go to the mattresses", then you'll have an idea.

When life is truly overwhelming and plans to be so for a long while, what do you do? To release tension? To remember who you are? For me, I often go to my cookbooks. 

When I want to remember the strength of my past, I like to dig in some old family recipes, collect new family recipes and try new ones... Food. 

The point isn't to eat the food in a gluttonous cry fest of anxiety. The catharsis comes in the thoughtful making of the food. This isn't a time for low-fat or quick-n-easy. It's not a time for gourmet ostentation either. It's a time of reflection, joy and nourishment.

In making the recipe of, say, my precious Great Grandmother's Caramel Frosting (to *die* for), I connect with her hospitality and grace. I remember her dining table stretched to its very longest length and card tables attached at the ends to extend it still further. I remember the joy of receiving a piece of this marvelous cake and feeling like I was well cared for. This woman knew how to bake, too. Her cheese rolls? Made with real lard and goo-gobs of sharp cheddar. Her kitchen was never really closed, it just took a nap on occasion. She loved people by making them really. good. food.

My grammy preferred baking to cooking. To this day, I think she makes a pie almost every other day. I watched her knowing hands take a simple fork and mix the crust the last time I visited her in Florida. I wanted to stay there at that very counter forever and listen to her pad around the kitchen and tell me tidbits about groceries that were on sale. She's the quintessential grandma with cookies in the oven, on the counter in a tin or in the freezer. One day, I may even share her simple Hersh*ey Kiss Shortbread cookies. *swoon*

My loving husband would  have me believe that he basically grew up on slabs of steak and sides of potatoes. He jests, of course. I know this for a fact because a few weeks ago I visited his parents by myself with the girls and copied beloved recipes from his grandmother and mother. (That's right, Dan. I got the noodles recipe.) And I got a few others. Pickles. Pies. Jams. Oh my. 

Life doesn't promise to be easy, so I have to keep moving forward and show my daughters the heart of our home. You know--it may just be in the kitchen.

Mark*lund Home

Today my family and I did something different for a Saturday morning activity. We visited Mark*lund Home, a home to many wonderful people, many of whom happen to be severely handicapped. 

Have you ever walked into a place and known that there was a spirit of hope there? At Mark*lund, the hope was more than just a whiff... it was seeping out from the mortar and bathing each resident there. 

Before I arrived, I was advised to find some less handicapped children to acclimate my 5-year old daughter to people with less mental and physical abilities. To be honest, I did it just as much for myself as for her. Can I confess? I was scared. 

Our first introduction was to a little girl, 'Tina"*, who was the only one who could wheel her own chair. She rode right up to Morgan and another little girl who came with us. Forget the adults... this little one wanted to play. Morgan was shy at first and stayed flatly against the wall. I understood.

The nurses there had us gather in an activity room where we met about 10 of the residents. First we did a craft. The children at Mark*lund have very little physical ability, so we did the craft for them and showed them the results. We wrote their name with foamy stickers on construction paper. 

As I got to know this group of 10, I saw less of their handicap and more of what a momma would see. I saw beautiful long eyelashes and stunning, deep eyes. I saw wide, open-mouthed smiles. I saw a hand reach slowly for someone else. I saw a tantrum. I saw an accomplishment. I saw kids with feelings just like everyone else, but with less ability to communicate those feelings. 

After the craft, my dear Morgan was still not excited about this morning venture. She sat in a far corner and stuck her tongue out, somewhat gagging. Morgan exemplified the feelings that I felt inside, but knew I had to overcome. "See the image of God," I kept telling her. I told myself the same.

The second hour we played a version of Yahtzee in which 6" soft die were cast by the children. Dan loved this game. The children loved the game. And my dear Morgan began to shed her fears and started to hand out the dice to the other children. She also began asking the nurses questions: "Why does he have that thing in his throat?" or "Why is there a tube on her finger?" The kind nurses helped her feel more at ease. 

At the end of the game, Tina wheeled up to Morgan again. Morgan donned an overly exaggerative smile and waved with her fingers. Tina waved back. The nurses became excited, "Did you see Tina wave? She hasn't done that in ages!" My heart swelled with such joy that my daughter would work past her fears to interact with someone quite different from her, that she would give and receive love.

The ride home from Mark*lund was pretty quiet. A heart can only hold so much and mine was overflowing with a cocktail of mixed emotions. 

I was amazed at Mark*lund home's facility and staff... so hopeful, so kind, so enthusiastic. 

I was darn proud of my Morgan for facing her fears and deciding to love, to be part of the game.

I was glad for my husband's support and thankful for baby Eve's quick smile to the residents there.

I was torn to see children there whose parents didn't want to be involved but who had wonderful friends in the staff. 

God, bless Mark*lund Home. Bless it, bless it, bless it.

* Names are changed.

Morganisms

While making egg sandwiches for breakfast:

Morgan: "Mom, why don't we let these eggs hatch?"

_______________________

We're putting in a garden today. In my excitement I said this prayer loudly and dramatically: "Lord! We thank you for this garden and pray that it will be fruitful."

"And vegetable!" Morgan added. 

Whatta kid.

Whatta Face!

You 'Kin Do It

Entry

This is one of the most important areas of our house. 

It's not the first thing our guests see, but it's the first thing we see as we come in from the garage. It's kind of my "control tower". The whole house can be messy, but this area must have some semblance of cleanliness to it.

I switch containers on this console every so often. 

This wood bowl is my former fruit bowl. 

Now it holds our mail and papers of that day.

I like it to be empty each morning.

It seems to say "What will this day hold?"

And by the end of the day, it is full of news once again.

Basket

I've lived in this house for about 2 years now. I've looked at a bare wall in my family room for those two years and wondered what to put there. It needed something.

I bought something from Pott*ery Barn but it didn't look right. At least not there.

My sister Noel can buy a house and have it completely decorated (fabulously, I might add) in about 3 weeks. She's amazing.

But I'm slower. I've tried to design more quickly. It's not my style.

__________________

A few weeks ago I went out with my friend Stephanie to Gen*eva. If you've never been to Gen*eva, Illinois... it's about the quaintest place on planet earth. Amazing finds. 

Steph may as well be my good luck charm, if I believed in them. Last time I went shopping with her I found a yellow clay urn in an antique shop. 

This time we found a basket. A really unique one:

It's from France (or so they told me). I think it's some type of harvest basket. Check out the size:

As soon as I saw it, I knew it was "the one" for that wall. I asked the cashier how much it was. It's probably uncouth to say to all of bloggyland how much this puppy was, but it was so reasonable that I had to hold back my shriek of delight. 

Don't know about you, but as a stay-at-home mom, I don't get much time to shop for good deals let alone really über cool decor. It's just not that time of life.

I felt like God was smiling on me, holding that basket there until I could get it. Do you ever have those moments?

The basket is mounted on the wall. The large scale speaks of bounty. I picture the many hands that may have held the 10 handles on this basket. Perhaps a family? I hope that the guests of our house feel the warmth it offers. 

(Thanks for the suggestion, Jenni... Here's what it looks like in our room.)

College

Emily: "So Daddy tells me you want to go to Ras*mussen College."

Morgan: "I saw it on TV. If you rewind (Tivo) you can see it, Mom! I want to go there."

Emily: "What's so good about Ras*mussen College? Why do you want to go there?"

Morgan: "So I can graduate." She says this confidently.

Emily: "Graduate, huh?"

Morgan: "And go to prom. You get to wear fancy clothes and (enter excited, hushed voice here) go in a limo."

Emily: "Wow. That sounds great. But what's the point of going to college?"

Morgan: "To learn about having kids and stuff."

Hehehe... You wish.

Emily: "Don't you want to go to Cal*vin College? Daddy and I went there."

Morgan: "No, I want to go to Ras*mussen. I saw it on TV..."

Mother's Day 2009

Me and Da Girls.

These Sweeties love each other.

Move over, Hall*mark. Homemade cards are the best.

The eyes say it all, don't they?

My daughter loves her sweets.

She's totally oblivious to anything except the cleaning of the cupcake wrapper.

I'll pour the lovin' on her anyway.

This baby has captured my heart. And her toes.

Mother's Day Eve

It's the eve of Mother's Day. 

I spent a bit of the evening speaking with my five-year old about how I'm not trying to frustrate her by not letting her spend every-waking-minute with her friend Emily. This little girl lives two houses down. The sun rises and sets with Emily according to my impressionable daughter. In fact, Morgan learned to spell my name (Emily) surprisingly early due to the fact that she writes Emily a friend letter nearly every day. 

Morgan was frustrated with me, though, because her shouts to Emily over the fence to get her to play were an exercise in futility. It could be that it was too late in the evening to play. Most likely it was that (I found out later) Emily was indoors and Morgan was shouting from two houses away from outdoors. 

*For the love of Pete*

I had Morgan come inside, sit on my lap and talked to her. 

I told her that when I was a little girl my mother seemed to always say "no". Seemed like mommies were better at saying "no" than "yes". 

As I was explaining why we couldn't always be outside or always play with neighbors, I was aware of how much I appreciate I mom. And how much MORE I appreciate her with two children as opposed to one. In fact, years from now I imagine I'll start a foundation in my mother's name when the girls are teens. The years and appreciation grow exponentially.

Being a mother, it seems to me, means spending the day weighing how to best spend time:

To read a book to child or to nap?

To exercise or spend time in prayer?

To "sneak chocolate" with daughter or to empty dishwasher? 

If life had any boundaries before children, they were washed away and made threadbare by the laughter, tears, pleadings and sighs of little ones. An hour allocated to washing the kitchen floor is loaned to a mother who needs to look long and wistfully at the pink eyelids of her sleeping baby. A stained shirt worn for 2 days straight by a weary woman is suddenly the perfect attire for attacking a puddle on the way to the mailbox. 

There are the phone calls to insurance companies, healthcare providers and schools.

There are the mountains of forms to fill out in triplicate.

The checks to be written to various foundations, committees and charities. 

And in between all the "duties"... there are the reason for the duties... the children who represent the strength of our virtues (we hope). If we're honest, we'll admit that a certain part of our parenting wants to be different from the way we were raised. And if we're blessed, we'll admit that a great deal more of the way we were raised can be imitated, passed on. 

For obvious reasons, I couldn't convey all this information to my squirming five-year old. She was still nursing her emotional wound and her ears were too small for these words.

One day I hope she'll hoist her own preschooler on her lap and tell her that, by and large, she had a good childhood and that she hopes her little one will have one as well.

One day.

Pics

Park

I was on my way to the grocery store this past week attempting to find a place to park. 

As I was finding my parking spot, I was struck by my criteria for a good spot:

1. As close as possible to the front door. Duh.

2. As close as possible to a cart corral. 

3. Not next to any white, windowless vans. Just a safety thing I fall for.

4. The quickest spot I could find.

Now to some of my friends, these criteria might seem like no-brainers. But as I negotiated my vehicle around the painted lines, pedestrians and carts, I was struck that I park very differently from how I grew up.

My mom wanted the closest spot available. Mom was willing to circle the parking lot several times and wait for someone to come out of the store. I recall Mom having coffee in tow so she was set as far as "the wait". Mom took the "whirly maple seed" approach. (Remember those maple seed "helicopters" falling from the trees above? Whirling, whirling, whirling...landing.)

Mom's approach drove me crazy because I was a bit more impatient. If God gave you two good legs, then just park. You can walk a bit. Plus, it's good for you. 

Some people I know are more methodical. They like a spot that is within spitting distance of the door. They've even methodically calculated the trajectory of said saliva in order to determine the best place to park their vehicle. The whole way to the grocery store they are thinking about-- no, more like willing-- the parking spot to be open. And the entire time they are in the store shopping they are thinking about how great it will be when they return to this spot. If there were an option to "rent" the parking spot in question in order to keep it just for themselves, they would. 

Now lest someone crows "don't be hatin'"... please be advised that I got lost in the mall parking lot last week for a half hour. I'm not the authority on methodical parking.

My husband is the kindest person I know when it comes to parking. He's not aggressive at all. Earlier in our marriage I tried to change him by barking orders like "Put on your blinker! Someone else is gonna get it!" or "Quick... zoom around... he saw it, too!" But then I realized that the gentleness that I love in Dan was evolving into an uptight version of the Dan I married. One time we rear-ended someone while he was driving out of a parking lot. This was entirely my fault as I was distracting him with random, type-A driving orders. I think that was the point at which I realized I had gone too far. *Loopy*

I'm pretty patient with most drivers at this point. I still get a little annoyed at those folks who --pull in, pull out, pull in, pull out-- in order to center their car exactly in the spot. If you're that poor at pulling in a spot, go to the back of the parking lot and practice. Away from my car. :)

So there's my take on parking. It says a lot about a person, doncha think?

Short but Sweet

Emily told Dan not to leave his shoes in middle of walkway.

Dan went out of town.

Emily saw Dan's shoes in the middle of the walkway *yet again*.

But Emily missed Dan.

She moved his shoes *once more* and smiled at the thought of him returning.

And leaving his shoes in the middle of the walkway.