Beth Troy's Blog, page 11

Day Twenty-Five: Christmas Card

In the last 18 years, there’s been one Christmas card – just the one I made Matt write and then I re-wrote because no one wants to read a Christmas card written by a lawyer (you’re welcome).

Here’s No. 2 + the last 24 posts + the next 6 = The Troy 2019 Christmas Card! Which is why these Christmas cards only come out once in a blue moon.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Day Twenty-Four: How I Pray Through Psalm 130

To you, Lord, I cry out. I cry out to no other.

I cry out from the lows – these deep places where
circumstances loom and whisper. Help me to see the unseen over the seen. Help
me to see I’m more than a mix of disbelief and attempts.

I know you hear me. I know you don’t remember my yesterdays
like I do. You meet cries for mercy with mercy. You forgive. You make new. You
replace the dark with the light of your son to all who believe. There is no
record of wrong, just one of right.

So …

I wait for you, Lord. My soul waits. In your word, in your
promises, I put my hope.

My soul waits for you, Lord. I will see your glory rise like
the sun, overturning the dark.

I will wait for you.

Day Twenty-Three: Post-It Breadcrumbs

Down the street from my grandma Barovian’s house was a dead-end with woods behind it. This was the 80s, so a child wandering by herself outside without adult supervision was a thing, and I loved being in the woods by myself. It’s all about exploration at first – figuring a way in and figuring a way out – but I returned often enough to create paths. After a few visits, I knew how to get to the creek. I knew if I headed straight up the hill, the trees broke into a glade, making the perfect reading/dancing spot (my favorite mash-up).

I knew I wanted to finish the sequel to Lu this past summer. I’d worked on it intermittently over the last couple years, but writing a book to finish needs pressure. Either I would focus my time, creative energy, and financial resources to get it done, or I wouldn’t get it done.

I’d learned this from the first time around. Also, I’d
learned that writing a book to finish is like running a marathon, and if summer
was going to be a 26.2 than winter and spring needed to be training.

I started with three pages a day, beginning January 1, 2019. These weren’t Lu2 pages, and they weren’t typed. They were me starting the day with a cup of coffee, a journal, and a commitment to do nothing else until I’d written three pages. I’m no dummy. Why do you think my preferred journal size this year was 5.25 x 8.25?  Some days, I wrote my to-do list for the day. Other days, I scribed loooooong passages from the book I’d been reading the night before. A couple times, I filled the three pages with my audiobook director notes for Abby. This wasn’t cheating; the rule was to write three pages. As winter moved to spring, I found my breath as Laura said I would, and other people’s words gave way to mine, and writing about my days turned to thinking about Lu and her days and writing about those.

By summer break, I was ready to write Lu2 … sort of. First, I printed everything I’d written so far, shredded it with edits, and wrote it back together. Then, I tracked my time with Post-Its. I was paying for a babysitter four hours a day to write; I figured I should write four hours a day. Easy in theory and so hard to do, but I was honest and lined my Post-It timesheets on the closet doors of my writing room. They were a line of breadcrumbs for me … helping me find my way into the writing and helping me find my way out. Some days, I wrote only an hour. There was one day I wrote 8 hours – such a machine that day! And by the end of June, Lu’s story took over. There was very little journaling in that time and no Post-Its – just the story you’ll get to read next summer.

We’re at the tiptoe time of the year now, peeking to what’s next and hopeful for change. As you make your resolutions, remember to give yourself grace to explore how you will do what you want to accomplish, and the time to figure your way in and figure your way out.

Day Twenty-Two: Excerpt [Journal 2, Late Spring]

First day back to writing Lu2 yesterday, and I was
scared. The writing felt rough; I felt sluggish. I texted Laura about it, and
she reminded me that getting back to writing is like a first run.

“You’ll find your breath,” she said.

Lord, let me love this imaginary world into being. Let me
approach the work with love – love for you, love for how you made me, and love
for the people who will read it.

Help me to do my best.

Day Twenty-One: A Winter Cleaning Interlude

They say you should move every five years. Well, “move” – as
in, make like you’re moving and re”move” all you wouldn’t move if you were,
indeed, moving.

Ten years ago, I was a lean, mean moving machine. I didn’t
appreciate it at the time because it’s hard to appreciate moving three times
in seven months, but it made for a good case study in what stays/goes. The
dining room table – you know the one if you’ve been to my house – stayed. All
the drinkware – the margarita pitcher, martini glasses, crystal goblets – a
veritable dining room table’s worth (literal, not an expression) – gone. The
couch, gone (not a good gone, though. You should keep your couch). Prom dress,
gone. Matt’s weird, black pleather floor recliner, gone. Books we never read,
gone. Funky oversized pottery pitcher from Pier 1 that I wish I’d kept, gone. My
childhood blankie, stayed (flesh of my flesh, moon to my stars).

Fast-forward ten years to circa now, and my beloved house of six years is asphyxiating me with its #$%&! The husband, the three boys, the dogs have piled.it.on. Maybe I’ve contributed. I’m getting mild asthma attacks every day, which probably has more to do with dust, but I’m going to start with room-by-room clean-outs.

Here are my 2019 rules for:

Decorations: Keep what I like now, not what I liked two years ago, unless I still like it now.Nostalgia from my yester-years: Must fit in one plastic milk crate (also from my yester-years). I’ve helped downsize three grandparents’ living quarters and wish they would have distilled their artifacts in similar fashion. You’re welcome, progeny!Old hobby supplies: Gone. I’m talking to you knitting needles and sewing notions. We had a good run, but I’ve moved on, and you should, too. Does anyone want these? Office supplies: We don’t need 80 pencils. Why are my boys always coming home with pencils? And, please – no more stickers. Troy Boys don’t craft.My closet: I have to like it, it has to fit, and I have to want to wear it again. No guilt pieces allowed. There are enough haters in the world; I don’t need to host them in my closet.My books: I have to remember what was in it and want to refer to it again.The kitchen: The item has to serve more than one purpose, and I have to have used it in the last year. Who wants my roasting pan? And my mini food processor? I could also be talked out of my mini-loaf pans.Under-the-cabinet stuff: Please tell me I’m not the only one with bottles of shampoo, lotion, toothpaste that’s two-thirds used and one-third … earning compound interest? I need to use ALL of these before I buy new bottles. Unfinished projects: The old laptop with pics that need transferring, the antique lamp that needs rewiring … Either I make tracks or they go.The boys’ rooms: Cut in half when their attention is diverted by video games.Matt’s stuff: Done and done. I’m telling you, this man has been a machine in 2019.Old journals: Burn.

Day Twenty: Excerpt [My Family Journal]*

My preference would be to have the whole family together –
all five of us doing all things as a unit, like those families in a picture
frame.

That’s what I want, but what happens with two, three, or four is actually better fit for a frame – not just in what was captured, but in what was, period.

Matt and Ez were out yesterday, and the remainder of us + the dogs went to the woods. It was clear, sunny, and cold that got colder as the sun went down. We had an hour – a decent amount of time when you make the most of it. They started at a run.

We ended at the creek, like always. I turned to see Tommy peeing in it, pleased as anything. This prompted Jess to do the same (but behind a tree – he’s slightly more modest). Then, they started breaking icicles and throwing them into the water. I think they thought the icicles were spears, and if the icicles were “spears” that made Jess and T … Warriors? Hunters? Wizards?

I’m happy to watch whatever they are.

*I don’t burn the family journals.

Day Nineteen: Tommy, from 5 to 6

“Today is Friday. Tomorrow no school and three boys go to
Nana’s house!”

“You can’t go to Nana’s house tonight, Tommy.”

“But I love Nana’s!”

Tommy shouts it, not in a nice way, and I want to shout in
victory because do you see what just happened? Tommy knew what day it was and
could put a name to it. Friday. He knew the patterns of a Saturday. No
school. He verbalized a request – three boys go to Nana’s house –
and when I responded, he responded. But I love Nana’s!

He spoke three sentences. One with three words. One with ten
words. One with four words. But who’s counting?

I am. I count Tommy’s words all the time, and it’s not just
me. Matt and I have a team of people who count and celebrate the count because
words are hard for Tommy. We don’t know why, not really. The last diagnosis was
a Global Developmental Delay, but those three words concatenate to a whole lot
of vague for me. From where? For how long? To what end? What does this mean?

2019 began with unanswerable questions – ones that trailed
from years prior, rewinding to 2014 when Tommy turned 1 and started communicating
in screams. The “pterodactyl scream” was what one of his teachers called it,
and it was frequent – set off by whatever set him off, which was a lot …
multiple times an hour. And there are so many hours in a day.

We’ve asked for help since then. We’ve assembled a team. We’ve
released the expectations of what we thought our family would be. We’ve set
boundaries of what we can and cannot do. We’ve talked about brokenness with our
boys – how it’s on everyone’s inside and sometimes on people’s outside. We’ve
mourned. We’ve explored new ways to be and built from where we are.

And we’ve learned. This boy with so few words has taught me the
most about them.

One, we don’t always need them. Tommy is strongest in his development when the words are few, and he has broad, quiet spaces to absorb and try.

Two, words bring power. The more Tommy articulates, the less
he screams. The more Tommy speaks, the more he makes himself – his knowledge,
his humor, his wants, his personality – known, and the better we can help him.

Three, words aren’t transposed. I would give Tommy all of mine if I could. It feels mean that this area where I’m strong and love to play is where he’s weak and struggles. I am not and will never be okay with this.

Four, words go boldly before us. Every day I pray for Tommy,
and in praying for him, I’ve learned how to pray. There’s no wavering for me. I
pray God’s promises of restoration back to him, laying my hands on Tommy’s
head, ears, and mouth as I do. I’ve always believed in miracles; I pray through
them now for the complete healing of our son.

Five, words are to be celebrated. It wasn’t that long ago
that I broke down in Bible study because I wasn’t sure whether Tommy knew I was
his mom. He was three-years-old at the time. At the close of 2019, he knows lots
of names. Lately, he’s been calling me “Beth” instead of “Mom” because “Beth”
is what’s embroidered on my Christmas stocking, which he read. Yes! Tommy reads
– another reason to celebrate.

Six, words create community. There are so many people we wouldn’t
know or wouldn’t know in this way if it weren’t for Tommy and his words. For
years, I was in Bible study with a woman who was getting her Master’s in speech
pathology, and now, she nannies for us in the summers and comes once a week to
our house to work with Tommy. This fall was a series of misses, and she hadn’t
been here for a few months. She was astonished after her first session.

“Tommy is speaking in so many three-word sentences!”

A 6-year-old boy speaking in 3-word sentences. It’s everything for me, from mourning to celebration. It’s why I’ve learned to ask better questions and move forward without answers. I don’t need them to love Tommy, work with Tommy, and be expectant for Tommy … this boy with so few (but ever increasing!) words.

Day Eighteen: Ezra, from 7 to 8

Yesterday, Ezra came in with a sprig from a pine tree. He feels deeply for inanimate objects, in particular ones neglected, forgotten, or fallen from a tree. He gave this one a home in the dirt of one of our (still alive!) houseplants. It’s the one next to the garage door from the kitchen, and I smile at it every time I pass by.

Send Ezra to clean his room, and he’ll be there for two hours. He won’t clean the room in that time. Once, instead of putting his clothes away, he laid them out on the floor in various robot shapes.

2019 was the string of “Your Face” humor. Ask him about his
day, what he wants to eat, the color of the sky – anything – and he’ll respond
with, “Your face,” and cackle like it’s the first time he’s told the joke. He’s
like my grandpa in this way.

He’s also like his daddy. I think they have a secret
language.

His emotions are mine, though – big and sometimes hard to
control. The other day was a 4 at school – not good when you’re shooting for a
1. “It was a chaos day, Mom. Have you ever had those?” I put my hand to my
chest. “I have, but I never thought to describe them like that. You are so
smart.”

He doesn’t think he’s smart. Schools test a certain kind of smart, and his older brother shines there. I get that. “Is it true that you couldn’t read going into first grade, Mom?” he’s asked me many times. “Oh, yes. And once I got it, I got it. It didn’t matter I didn’t get it before that point.”

He falls asleep instantaneously, and his limbs go 50
different ways. It’s like a game of whack-a-mole trying to contain them under
the covers.

I finally got him to agree to a mohawk this year. I bought
him the gel, but then he never wore it that way. Joke’s on me.

He’s the only Troy Boy who will eat potatoes, beans, and
rice. He also likes dinosaurs – not to eat; I’m just thinking about his overall
preferences, right now. And Led Zeppelin, tuna on crackers, Sergeant Pepper’s, hoverboard
ping-pong, and playing with friends from the neighborhood. Also, cuddles and romping
like a puppy on the floor with the dogs.

Not baths or brushing his teeth or waking up early (unless it’s his idea, which always happens on Saturdays).

My boys are each their own. My prayers for them are different. I don’t think it’s in Ez to tow another’s line or shine in typical frameworks, which can mean … anything. Anywhere and anything for this boy.

Day Seventeen: Jesse, from 10 to 11

I can only get through about five pages before I fall
asleep, but I like to read with Jess at night. He’s the most like me in this
reading habit, pouring over the same books again and again, and reading at
night is how we share the hobby.

But one night he stopped me at his bedroom door, his plastic pirate sword barring the way.

“Mom, I need you to leave.”

“Don’t you want to read?”

“I’m imagining things. I’m talking them out loud, and I
don’t want you to hear me.”

“Got it.”

“Are you upset?”

“No, I love your imagination.”

“You can give me a kiss before you go.”

I give him a kiss on the cheek and close the door behind me. I did the same thing as a child, acting out the stuff I read, because sometimes the imagination was too big to fit in my mind. I had to speak it out loud.

2019 was the year I reversed the count for Jesse. Seven years until he’s 18, and how many of those will he continue to imagine, speak his imagination out loud, or choose not to so he can close his day reading side-by-side with me?

I’m going to leave that question be and take the days as they come.

Day Sixteen: Excerpt [Current Journal, Yesterday]

“Are you writing a story, Mom?” Ezra asked.

“I am telling the story of our family this last year.”

“Does it go something like fight, fight, fight, video games, video games, fight, fight, fight?”

A true joke, and it would have been a time saver 16 days ago. I’m promoting Ezra to Chief Writing Consultant.