Beth Troy's Blog, page 7

Day 34: Some Tips

I missed a writing deadline on Monday – whoops – but then I remembered it was pushed to Friday because of quarantine – whoo! I just hadn’t updated my calendar.

It’s not that long ago that something like this would have felt loomy – you know, loomy … that heavy of something needing to be done mixed with the fog of how to get it done. I’m not talking scheduling logistics here so much as the ambiguous nature of creative work.

Over the past year, I’ve moved from having an awkward relationship with writing to a humming one, and I’m sharing my mode to help any of you who are feeling stuck by those (literal or metaphorical) blank pages.

Memorize the prompt. Creative work is mostly thought work – only a fraction of it lands on the page. The prompt for this magazine article was an original piece about being a boy mom, how you juggle being a parent and a career. I thought about the prompt while walking the dogs, doing the dishes, watching Tommy do math facts, driving to the creek, etc. Turn the prompt upside down. Truth #1: I did not like this prompt (which is probably why I put it off for the last three months). Truth #2: Allusion is key. My 9th grade English teacher gave us a one-pager on how to BS your way through any essay prompt, and I’ve applied its principles ever since. I did it in college when I hadn’t adequately studied the topic, and I do it now when I’m bored by the topic. Basically, you drop your keywords in the intro, treat it like a springboard to topics you can talk about with knowledge and flare, and return to the springboard in the closing. It works, every time, unless the person on the other side of your work was also the recipient of Mr. Michels’ one-pager.Draft. Starts are the hardest – I think because we want everything we write to stick. This is unrealistic. Drafting is like covering your wall in paint swatches. You’re giving yourself choices in a noncommittal way that will prevent you from purchasing two gallons of yellow paint that you thought looked like butter but really looks school bus (and now you’re out of money).Set a timer. I treat early drafting like speed dating. I don’t set aside 1-2 hours but instead 15-minute increments. If I like what’s happening, I’ll keep going. If I don’t, I have only a few minutes left before I’m released to the rest of my life.Pay attention to your procrastination. I was supposed to finish writing the article yesterday but every time I started to work on a couple of paragraphs, I’d Internet surf. After an hour of this I realized the reason I wasn’t interested was because what I’d written wasn’t interesting to me. Delete! I drafted a few more starts for that section, one took, and I finished the article this morning.

That’s how this girl gets it done, folks. Do you notice the lack of self-shaming in these steps? The openness to trying and deleting until something works? That’s a lot of failure, but in the absence of telling myself, “I’m a failure,” it’s not a Jabberwocky anymore. It’s a process, and I’ve gotten more comfortable with it by doing it a lot.

So … go forth! Fill up yer blank pages, me hearties. Not sure why I’m going pirate right now, and if I had more time, I’d scrap this conclusion and write another, but I don’t, which brings me to my last step.

Publish. Sometimes you get it good; sometimes you get it good enough. And sometimes what people like better is the good enough. It’s all good!

Day 33: My Oldest

Jesse is 12 today, and his kneecaps are bigger than mine. I noticed this at the dinner table right before he asked me a question.

“Mom, how come you had me in the hospital instead of at home like my brothers?”

“I wasn’t ready. Having you at the hospital helped me make that decision for your brothers.”

This, I think, is the relationship between a mom and her oldest. There is what I dream about doing as a mom and what I end up doing as a mom, and Jesse is my trial run for it all. Through him, I learned that birthing in hospitals wasn’t for me. Holding Jesse taught me how to hold a baby. It required me to shore up atrophied back muscles, and when those started twitching, the only place I could put him down without crying was in his bouncy seat in the kitchen. This is when I learned how to cook.

It’s a steep learning curve with my oldest and sometimes one Matt and I lead and sometimes one Jesse leads. Yesterday started with sharp words between Jess and Ez, and I set a time-out of quiet at the kitchen table, which didn’t work and didn’t work and didn’t work.

“Mom, this isn’t working,” Jesse said as I went to re-set the timer for the third time. “I have another idea. How about Ezra and I see if we can play a game of Sorry without fighting instead?”

It worked!

Jesse is 12, and I feel him pulling away from me in a way that is right, but it puts me right back in that place of unknown as his mother because he’s no longer looking to me for everything. He’s on the lookout more for Matt’s presence and Matt’s opinions. As a toddler, he would empty the pots and pans and mimic what I was doing at the stove, but now the person he wants to reflect is his father.

What do I do now?

The circumstances have changed, but the question is an old one. I asked it the first night Matt and I brought him home from the hospital.

What do we do now?

The immediate answer is to make biscuits. I’m back in the kitchen this morning because Jesse wants egg, sausage, and biscuit sandwiches for his birthday breakfast.

After that, he’s going to work and lunch with Matt, and I think I’ll start dreaming again. New phases are blank spaces. I need to ask new questions.

Who is Jesse growing into? How do I embolden him to keep stepping away from me?

How do I step back and support Matt as he steps forward?

What does mothering look like from this vantage point?

Who am I outside of my son? How do I start stepping into that person?

The ideas are coming. It’s okay that I’m taking them in today with a bit of a lump in my throat. Jesse’s birthday ice cream cake will help it to go down.

Day 32: The Daily

I get up, and I make coffee. I used to take it to my basement writing room, but now I’m enjoying it on the couch in the family room. Before quarantine, I didn’t spend much time in here. I’m taking care of this space better than I have in years – vacuuming it and dusting it every week. I’m even thinking about painting over the ceiling patch from last November, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I focus. Right now, this looks like some combination of reading the Bible, journaling, listening to a sermon/devotion, and praying. How long this takes varies, depending on the day before and what I understand about the day ahead.

I write – mostly for the blog. You know, I always wanted to write and post every day, and quarantine was the best and worst time to try this. “Best” because there’s a lot to process and writing is how I process, and “worst” because there’s not much going on in my world. I can’t rely on dramatic plot lines right now, so I’m honing my observation skills and trying new approaches for how to express what I see, hear, feel, and think. It’s been fun.

I go for a walk with 1-2 dogs, depending on where I’m going for the walk.

Some days, I shower. Other days, I throw on a hat and fleece. I’ve worn make-up once in the last 6 weeks. I’ve tended my eyebrows twice.

School time! Jess is independent in this, but Tommy and Ezra require supervision. Yes, there have been frustrations, but overall, I find it fascinating to see how they learn. They say there are 9 types of intelligence; Troy boys are a solid representation of 5.62. I’ll let you guess which ones.

Mid-afternoon is outside, lunch, and rest for the boys and university work for me. Evaluations won’t come until semester’s end, but until then, I’m assuming my students are completely charmed by the boys’ and dogs’ video-bombs.

After rest, it’s a wee bit more school + an excursion, sometimes around the neighborhood, sometimes to the woods, and last week to Graeter’s before we went to the woods! Mom, can we have a cone with sprinkles? Absolutely, my quarantine scholars. I had a double scoop of coconut chocolate chip in a chocolate-dipped waffle cone. Because that’s what teachers do.

Dinner time! I love dinners in and cooking every night. Yesterday was punjabi red beans and tonight is chicken and mushrooms in the cast-iron skillet. I don’t even mind the dishes because I listen to jams while I do it, and Matt takes charge of the kids.

In the evening it’s more meetings with students and by 9:30, I’m in bed with a book. Right now, it’s The Nightingale. Hat’s off to you, Kristin Hannah – this story has solid pacing.

Then, I fall asleep.

Day 31: Option #3

The question usually goes: Ocean or Lake? I’ve never understood why creeks don’t make the cut.

Truth: My boys put up a fight every time I suggest we go. Yesterday was no different, but I’ve learned to ride the wave because as soon as we get to the creek they be like.

And.

This, too.

The scene of our excursion was Indian Creek – about 15 minutes south of Oxford on Oxford-Reilly Road. I know my creeks, and this is one of the best. There’s shallow parts and some rapids (in the context of creeks). There’s a deep pool that had Jess wishing for his swimsuit. There’s rocks to tiptoe around, rocks to skip, and a sandy beach.

There’s a mud cliff on the opposing side for those brave enough to cross the rapids.

There’s danger.

And wild animals.

Day 30: Reminders

When quarantine first hit, I cleared the Google calendar for the next three weeks. It was a clean delete without deliberation … basically what I want to do with my inbox every.single.day.

The first reminder popped up on Monday, April 6 – Ezra, Orthodontist. His sweet little (emphasis on little) mouth needs it, and it’s going to cost 5K for Round One. Who has that kind of money? I’m happy to push this off.

On Tuesday, April 7, it was Danielle, Babysitting. It takes a special person to handle Troy Boys, and one of the perks of teaching 120 college students/semester is the pool of potential babysitters. In 4 years, I’ve found 2 who jive with our after-school dystopia. Danielle, we love and miss you (me the most. Why did I not have you quarantine with us?)

On Wednesday, April 8, it was Jesse – Climbing. My extroverted, energetic almost 12-year-old man-child needs a wall to climb, followed by a grab-bag of other adventurous alternatives to put his survival on the line so he’ll stop messing with his brothers. I’m about ready to bust into the Rec with a hose full of Purex to spray that sucker down. First, I need to get a hose. I also don’t have Purex.

On Thursday, April 9, it was Danielle – Babysitting. Danielle, you’re just taunting me now.

On Saturday, April 10, it was Bible study in the morning, which we’re doing (thank you, Google Hangouts) and church in the evening, which we’re doing, but now on Sunday mornings in Bean socks and bathrobes.

Last Sunday was Easter (wrote about that) and last week, the reminders were in full mode, popcorning my days with dings about everywhere our family was supposed to be if it weren’t for where we are.

[insert existential pause]

So basically I’m Gwynth Paltrow in Sliding Doors – a 1998 chick-flick that shows a dual life based on whether Gwynth makes it through the – catch it – sliding doors of the subway on one fateful day. Now, my dual life doesn’t have the mixed love interest (I’m still married to Matt in both versions) or the cool haircut (I did in the 90s!) but …

But …

It’s definitely a mood (as my students would put it if we were in office hours, which Google tells me happens today, 1-4PM). It’s a little funky, but I’m going keep the reminders coming because who doesn’t like to be in the center of their own Choose Your Own Adventure that none of us chose?

Still.

Where else are you supposed to be today (if it weren’t for where you are)?

Day 29: Portion & Cup

I had a conversation with a friend this week about our portion and cup, but not so explicitly. That’d be strange.

It started with a simple question, “How are you?” and initially I got a simple answer. I think I gave a simple answer when she asked, too. But then we remembered who was on the other end of FaceTime, and we kept telling our kids five more minutes to answer the question in full.

There is the how of the moment. Quarantine for parents has freed up the evenings and filled the days. If there is quiet in the house, it has to be found at odd hours and in obscure corners. Schooling at home brings anxious questions of enough? and then there’s the question of what to do the rest of the time. My boys need to go outside, but today’s high is 45. It’s rainy. Outside will be a hard sell.

There is the how of our lives – the things my friend I have been talking around for the last 10 years. Some of it’s amazing; some of it’s debilitating. There is the fluctuating and the chronic. Over some of it, we have choice and over others … we deal.

That’s when the image came. The verse from Psalm 16 followed.

Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure.

Sometimes we can say this with gladness, and sometimes we say it to brace ourselves because what’s in that cup has not, is not, and maybe will never go down easily.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.

Future hope doesn’t displace present struggle. It helps to know I serve a God who knows struggle. I don’t remember the verse where Jesus put on a fake smile, and what He didn’t do, I don’t have to do, either. This tells me gratitude doesn’t spring from setting veneers but from accepting the real places God – My Lord, My Savior – has set for me.

I will praise the Lord, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I have set the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.

I hung up feeling well. I shouldn’t have been surprised – conversation with my friend does this. Nothing changed in my portion and cup today, but I accepted it more readily – and honestly – then I have in awhile. It helped to know she was praying for me. It helped to pray for her. Bottoms up!

All of this is to say, maybe you should call a friend from one of your obscure corners today. Ask her how she’s doing. Tell her how you’re doing! Friends make these portions, these cups, easier to bear. I think there’s a verse about that, too.

Day 28: Flour

I ordered my first 50 pound bag of flour in years. If you’re in Oxford, it’s easy – one call to Moon Co-Op. It’s fast. I ordered it last Thursday, and it came on Tuesday. It’s cheap – less than a buck/pound. It’s good – King Arthur, which I think is what they made the Care Bear clouds from.

And it feels like an old friend. When we first moved to Oxford 10 years ago, life was messy, and I adopted some homemaking practices to cope. Questions of identity and ambition – both of which affected income – took some figuring. At least I could make bread.

Well, first I had to learn how to make bread, but after that, at least I could make bread! From there, I took up chicken broth, and then, yogurt. I touched down on canning (too much sanitizing) and pasta (didn’t have the right tools).

Then, I had to let it all go when life took me outside of the home. I wrote a whole blog series about it.

But now, I’m back home, and so is the 50-pounder! It reminds me of the time a friend from my early ’00 Muncie days moved to Oxford. We hadn’t expected the reunion, we didn’t know how long it would last, but we were game for fun while it did. We had good time in the year she was here.

So too are Flour & Me. We made biscuits yesterday and cornbread the day before. Today, we set two loaves of sandwich bread to rise, and we have pancake batter ready for breakfast-dinner tonight.

My thighs are jiggling just thinking about it.

Day 27: Okay

Sometimes we say, “Okay.”

We number 5 at the Troy house – 5 people, 5 constituencies, 5 lobbyists. Sometimes, we operate as a team, but for the other 23h59m59s we need the reminder.

Sometimes we say, “Okay.”

Yesterday, I woke up scattered. I made my coffee, opened my Bible, and read 2 Corinthians, Chapter 1. I read it three times. I was still scattered. Okay.

I moved to prayer, doing a basic breathing technique where I match a short verse to inhales/exhales. Focus usually follows, but not yesterday. Okay.

It was time to grade, and maybe this was the problem. The glut of student projects drives out life in normal times. Matt and I had reworked this week’s schedule so I could grade a set amount of projects each day and be done by the end of the week. Yesterday, I fell two projects short of the goal. Okay.

The boys started playing laser tag, and I started making soup for a friend. What normally takes 30 minutes took 90. I diced; I refereed. I sauteed; I mediated. I set to simmer; Tommy wanted a hot dog. It was 11AM. Okay.

Rest followed lunch, and I’d planned to blog during mine, but Jess asked if he could play a game with me, and Ez wanted in, too. No way was that okay after the laser tag brouhaha. So, I played Clank with Jesse and then half a game of Clank with Ezra. Okay.

It was time to deliver soup. Usually the boys bring books or stare out the window for longer car rides. This time, they wanted to hold 3 different conversations with me. Okay.

We dropped off the soup right before dinner, and I’d forgotten snacks to stave the boys’ hunger until we could get back to Oxford.

“Aren’t we near the Nelson’s Chik-fil-A?” Jess asked.

I thought about the remainder of soup waiting for us at home.

I texted Matt. You want a fried chicken sandwich for dinner?

Okay.

Once we got back home, the boys dug into the science kits Mom had dropped off for them. Within 5 minutes, it was apparent the “independent” fun would require parental supervision. Matt and I looked at each other. Okay.

After we played with magnets and electricity, I called bedtime. Ezra reminded me we still had half a game of Clank to finish.

“Can we please finish it, Mommy?”

Okay.

I called bedtime again and looked behind me. Jesse’s slime lab had turned into a cornstarch explosion. The more he cleaned, the more it spawned. Okay.

“Can we have a sleepover?” the younger two asked.

Matt gave the okay, but then they spilled a water bottle all over the floor.

Okay – Bed!

I got in bed, too.

“Have you sent me Lu2 yet?” Matt asked.

Okay.

He opened the PDF, and I closed my eyes.

“You’re missing a “D” on Page 5,” he said.

“Text me, and I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

This morning, I woke up to an alarm. A text had come in while I was asleep. I was missing a “D.”

Okay.

Day 26: Easter

“The Bunny Buggy has left the Burrow” – solid alliteration from Dad and different from texts of Easters’ Past. There was nothing normal about Easter 2020, though.

Mom and Dad set up their egg hunt and were off the premises by 6AM. The boys didn’t wake up until 9.

And I finished reading a book!

We churched in our jammies. Matt made us fridge-and-pantry communion.

We played croquet; we popped honeysuckle.

We put the boys’ Easter candy on a shelf where they couldn’t reach it. Tommy circumnavigated that dare with his stool of sin at least three times.

We Easter skyped.

I made an Easter brunch of cheesy rice, bacon, and greens; Matt made an Easter dinner of burgers and fries.

No one wore pastel. I wore my LL Bean sweatshirt. I don’t think Matt took a shower. Tommy stopped wearing underwear two weeks ago.

Matt and Jesse played ping-pong. Ezra and I played Sorry. Matt, Jesse, Ezra, and I tried to play Sorry but had to abort when someone’s cranky chinked away at the chill Easter vibes.

The boys were going to camp out in the basement. Then, they weren’t. Turns out, what they really wanted to do was “sneak” camp out in the basement, which is easily done when Mom and Dad are in bed by 8:30. The older two made a fort; Tommy brought the candy.

All boys ditched the camp out by 10:30 (according to the oldest one’s report). Candy wrappers and scattered pillows from their revelry remain.

Now, it’s Monday, and I’m definitely off – neither tired, nor awake; neither cranky, nor cheerful; neither lazy, nor industrious. Just off.

Anyone else feeling some post Easter-but-was-that-really-Easter-or-just-a-funky-Sunday vibes?

Day 25: Imagination

We pursue our own imaginations, the Bible says.

And our own ends are always up for restoration.

I took my imagination to my grandparents’ cabin in Maine this morning. Just like that, and I am on the porch facing Kingsbury Pond.

I walk down the steps, carefully. The boards are warped and the paint, chipped. Splinters are a distinct possibility. My tiptoe continues across the smooth stepping stones, long since sunk into the thick crabgrass of the lawn that leads to the dock.

I step onto it and hear the creak of boards followed by the lapping of water to greet me. There are other sounds, too – the occasional croak of a bullfrog to my left and the mourn of loons on the other side of the pond – each amplified in what is otherwise a quiet place.

It’s so green out here, and the crisp, clean scent of pine needles fills the air. I enjoy this place best when I’m still, and I sit at the edge of the dock – knees up, arms wrapped, chin resting.

I feel the shift before I hear the footfall, and I look over my shoulder to see Jesus walking toward me. He’s wearing Bean boots, obviously.

I thought I wanted to be alone, but this is better. He sits down next to me, and I pour it all out.

I had a bad day. I’m worn out, and what wore me out is what’s worn me out for forever. Where’s the change? Why can’t I change? I’m angry, and I’m sorry.

He puts his arm around me, and I lean into his side – a response that used to take a lot of coaxing, but I do immediately now. I put my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. I feel the heavy go, scattering across the pond like breadcrumbs. I match my breathing to his.

When I’m ready, I sit back up. He turns his hand, palm up. I see the scar from where he was pierced. I touch it before I lay my hand in his, palm down.

I know about your day, and I know you.

He shows me the palm of his other hand, pierced in the same way. He looks at the scar before looking at me, through me … to the deepest part of my soul where my longing for him resides.

I would do it all over again, Beth. I did it for your worst days. I did it for your anger and for everything else. I love you.

I don’t know how much longer we stay, but when we get up to go, it feels like the right time. He helps me step down from the dock before heading left up the drive while I go right to the porch.

There’s one last thing, and I call to him.

Who would you have me tell?

He turns, looking at me, through me, past me.

Tell everyone.

He is risen. He is risen, indeed – for me, for you, and for …

Behold, I will create new heavens and a new earth. The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I will create, for I will create Jerusalem to be a delight and its people a joy. I will rejoice over Jerusalem and take delight in my people; the sound of weeping and crying will be heard in it no more.

Isaiah 65:17-19