Just a Little Crabby

A few years ago, it was the high-season of pets in our home. I know it always appears that way to those that know us well, but this particular season we owned two dogs, a cat, two lovebirds and two hermit crabs. The kids were thrilled with all of the living creatures around us, though it seems all I did was clean up after more critters than the three required by law. Sadie was particularly fond of her hermit crab although their lack of activity, their stench and well, boring lifestyle made it a mystery to me.

It was a Sunday morning during this season. Well, actually, it was one of those Sunday mornings. You know the kind - the one where you break every cardinal sin, or at least think of them, before you reach the church doors? From the moment you wake, the kids are fighting, your husband has a headache and the irony of the snipping, snapping, arguing does not escape you on this, "the Lord's day."

Your squalling and fretting continue even when you enter the church parking lot, and as the doors of the van slide open you try to put on that "happy" church face where all appears calm and perfect, and none of the struggles that plagued you just a second ago are visible. Wetting your hand to try to smooth the obvious bed-head still evident on your children. What wetness remains you use to wipe off the last bit of sugary stickiness from the breakfast consumed just a few minutes earlier.

You quickly shove the kids in their age-appropriate classrooms and arrive at the sanctuary doors out of breath realizing that you still have the diaper bag in hand. Back to the children's wing you go.

And this is the set up of today's chapter in, "The Enigma that is Sadie." I had forgotten about it until recently and as I recounted it to several friends, I was told it was definitely blog material.

After the sermon was over, I collected my three children. As we maneuvered down the packed church hallway, I noticed that something dropped to the floor from Sadie's vicinity and subsequently rolled slightly away. I stopped. I peered. I sucked in every bit of breath in the area. It was...a hermit crab. Yes, my dear little Sadie had brought a pet to church unbeknownst to me and against every rule we have on bringing items from home to church. I mistakenly believed that if the rule pertained to inanimate objects, i.e. purses, toys, lip gloss, then surely it was clear that animate, living, breathing pets were as well. I was wrong.

I ran to retrieve the hermit crab before he was stepped on by the stampede of adult and children's feet. Face it, one blow and he would be squashed out of existence. With one quick swoop I clutched him in my fist and turned to face the child responsible. I am sure the look on my face was not a pretty one, possibly the devil incarnate. But then, I realized something more shocking than the fact that our crustacean was a guest that morning. Well, the term "guest" implies that it was somewhat voluntary and clearly, the hermit crab had no say so in the matter.

What dawned on me was that Sadie did not have any pockets on her dress that morning. She did not have a purse in which to store the hermit crab either, because that was against our rule. Here was the quick, ensuing interview:

Me: Sadie, where did you have the hermit crab?
Wait for it...wait for it...

Sadie: In my panties.

Oh, my. Oh, MY! Yes, think about it for a moment. That meant that my child had crabs in a bizarrely and strangely and perplexing way. I was at a complete loss.

Speechless, I thrust the crab into the diaper bag I was still lugging around for Lily's sake and I quickly herded the children to the car. The ride home was quiet, the calm before the storm. At home we silently filed inside. The rest of the day was quite unremarkable, until dinner. It was at that point in time when I realized I had left the diaper bag in the car and the hermit crab contained within. Racing to the car I discovered that the crab had, in fact, escaped the confines of the diaper bag. I spent the next 30 minutes crawling around the floor of the van, flashlight in hand, searching for this "beloved pet." I finally discovered him, clinging to the bottom of the driver's seat. Still living? Yes. Traumatized? Oh, most definitely!

It is no surprise that he met his demise just a few days later. I decided not to tell the children right away, just to see how long it took them to notice he was missing. It took them exactly 16 days. Clearly, we were all over "the crabs."

Embracing Me

Inviting someone into your home for the first time is stressful. Right or wrong, our little nest tells others about us whether in its decor, upkeep, or income level. You open your home to someone who previously only knew the "prepared for the world" you, but there is not much you can hide from someone when they are in your home. You open the front door wide open for some one to know the real you and all that goes with it - anxiety, judgments, and internal criticism.

A friend came over to my house yesterday. It was her first visit at my home. As we walked through it, I found myself doing my usual "tour guide script." The same type of chatting I have done whenever anyone comes to my house. In fact, I could tape myself and play it whenever fresh faces enter my domicile because I have repeated it over and over since we moved into it nearly 5 years ago. It is a script riddled with justifications for its contents, as in, "Oh, that mirror, I got that at Costco." My own self-defined shortcomings, as in, "Oh, this room, it is the one that I just can't make work." My own plans for improvements as in, "We have long-range plans to rework the entire laundry room area as it is like a closet where you are beaten by coats and backpacks just to get out the door." And, I usually throw into the mix these carefully selected phrases, "Well, you know it is always a work in progress," or, "You can't take it with you when you die, " or, "We have been blessed. I certainly don't feel deserving of it." Lest anyone think that I spent any money in building or furnishing my house, take any pride in the home I have created, or believe that I actually enjoy my house. Deep down, it would destroy me if I discovered anyone left my house feeling as if my life were defined by material things. Or, if I ever came across with an air of snobbery, unaware of how blessed and appreciative I truly am.

So, after we completed the obligatory tour, my friend and I sat down to talk about my writing project. Interestingly, I could not receive any compliments about my writing. Even in talking about this book project, I was nearly apologetic.

I am not a writer. I mean, history does not support this notion of being defined as a writer. I was not a keeper of volumes of journals throughout my life. A few scattered here and there, but they are mostly filled with teenage angst and my first experiences with puppy love. I have only taken one journalism course and changed majors because I didn't find any pleasure in it. I also did not enjoy the class on journalistic ethics, either, as everything is grey to me - not black and white. I had two papers in college on which were written, "You might want to get some tutoring at the Writing Center." I have never had a job where writing was the main objective. Up until now, I haven't had the time to read a pamphlet, let alone write anything. This whole writing thing is a bit of a shock to me. And yet, it is the most pleasurable outlet I have at the moment.

To admit I am even a writer means that I have to admit that I am good at writing. Admitting that I am "good" or "excel" at anything is admitting that there is something good or excellent within me. And, this is something that I have believed, falsely I might add, is not true. I have believed that I have no part, no role in anything good in my life. Quite similar to what I wrote about my house, I don't want anyone to think that I believe that I am a great writer, blessed with a eloquent vocabulary with professional editing or grammar skills (clearly the latter is NOT the case). Additionally, I am wary of judgments regarding the time spent and effort put forth in my writing. And, I don't want you to think that I might take any pride in the posts I have crafted, or believe that I actually enjoy my writing and its resulting reactions.

On the flip side, denying or dismissing this means that I am saying no to the gifts that God has given me. I am beginning to understand that humility does not mean complete dismissal of self. It means recognizing that God has given me this talent or gift and I have chosen to act upon it. Therefore, I can give God the full credit for the awakening inside of me. Yet, I can have confidence and satisfaction, and gosh do I even say this word - pride - in my choice, knowing that I am walking down the path chosen for me. At least I think I am. (Doubt, always doubt)

A quote was passed to me and I feel very compelled to share it:

“It is in the quiet crucible of our personal private sufferings
that our noblest dreams are born and Gods greatest gifts are given,
and often given in compensation for what we’ve been through.”

- Wintley Phipps

I think there will be further explanation of how timely, relevant and accurate this quote is in the book. But for now, I will leave you to ponder on it, your gifts and your noblest dreams. Oh, and while you are at it, click here to complete my questionnaire. I need you!

One for the Record

Readers, Lurkers, Friends and Strangers:

As most of you who have kept up with me know, I am working on a writing project regarding transparency and authenticity. Here is my desperate plea for help! I have created a questionnaire that I need to be completed by as many women as possible. Responses will be held in the strictest of confidence! I don't expect anyone to actually complete the questionnaire on my blog. Therefore, copy and past the questions in to an email message. Or, if you want complete anonymity, send me a message and I will reply with my address. My email is: kelsey@dumoulin.us . Please type "research" in the subject field.

It isn't a long list of questions, but it does require some thought. I ask that you answer with honesty, what you really feel, NOT what you think is the correct answer or what you think society says it should be. If you can only answer a few of the questions, that is fine. I'll take what I can get! Additionally, feel free to print out the questions and pass to anyone you think would take the time to complete this. Forward on to email groups, send by carrier pigeon, convey through smoke signals...just please help me market this. Statistically, the more women I have see this, the better chance I have of actually having some returned.

1. What do you fear people, particularly other women will know about you?
2. What do you avoid at all costs in your interaction with other women ?
3. When did you start hiding parts of yourself from the world? Can you remember an age or circumstance that led to this?
4. What 3 goals/desires do you have for your children?
5. How did your childhood impact these goals?
6. In what ways do you feel you fail as a mother? Or, as a wife?
7. Who, in this world, do you model?
8. What do they have that you don't?
9. Do you think (scale of 1-10) you are successful at modeling them?
10. Name 3 things you routinely do out of "peer pressure", because all the other wives and mothers are doing it.
11. Describe what "having it all" really means to you.

Again, THANK YOU, to whomever gets this completed and returned. I am indebted to you!

Sometimes, It's Personal

I have no doubt that yesterday's post made some readers uncomfortable. In fact, I am sure within the nearly 80 readers yesterday, someone thought to themselves, "Why would she expose herself to the world like that?" Or, "Why would she want people to know so much about her personally?" Better yet, "It has been two years, shouldn't she be over this now?" "How long is she going to go on about this?"

The fact is, many of us have had similar experiences with death - sudden, sharp, deeply painful and life altering. You can read through my blog in January and February about the painful grief that I was revisiting, two years after the fact. It was a complete shock to me that the tears, crying, loss, loneliness and sense of abandonment rivaled that of the first month after her passing. I believe that other circumstances in my life brought this unfinished business of grieving to the surface at this time. A catalyst, if you will, to force me to toil through it. Grief is a never ending, in my experience. Maybe it goes away for periods of time, but it will always rotate back into play.

It doesn't take much to bring back just how big of a loss it is to my life. A friend was with her sister at a women's retreat and their interaction was bittersweet to me. I have needed a permanent helper with my scout group and realized this week, that she would have been my co-leader. My (step)brother is getting married in May and my (step)sister is getting married in June - celebrations at which she should have been in attendance.

Yet, at times I don't feel like I can share that with anyone. Why? Well, society says suck it up and deal. Life moves on even though we may not be ready to move with it. Even our employers think we should be fully functional after 2 or 3 days. Every one has their own stories, their own grief, their own lives...who has time to sit and listen to my sad song just one more time. Mine is but one of millions. Mine is not that special.

This is also not a call to the pity party, though Lord knows I can throw the best of them, complete with hats, streamers and a big ol' cake I devour on my own. And you can waller along not living life only so long. It will creep up on you and then you will be forced to deal with more than just your grief. Unfortunately, I speak from experience.

However, in my quest for transparency and authenticity, I find that the more I let it all hangout there, the good, the bad, the hilarious and the sad, the more connections and support I receive. People have a chance to know the real me and I am not afraid of that anymore. This means exposing my heart to those that know me intimately as well as complete strangers. People need and desire to know that others have had similar experiences, similar pains, even similar joys. It makes us all feel more normal. It gives us validation. It makes us feel that what we have endured has not been for naught.

It also helps to see how others cope. We must keep the mindset that we have all been created by a Creator with our own set of gifts, skill sets, and experiences. But in celebrating these differences, we can find strength in how God has woven Himself into these events to bring a greater good. We can find strength in knowing there is a bigger picture which we can not see. We can find strength in knowing that a finality of dirt and worms just isn't all there is.

A post like Remember the End, selfishly serves as therapy for me. The million-pound burden on my shoulders was lifted when I wrote it. The story was finally out, no longer at the surface in a constant state of bubbling. Stories like these bring people together, to laugh, to cry, to work through their own life's stories. And, maybe they draw strength to face their own giants.

So, yeah, it might have been a little too close for comfort, full with emotion and transparency. Highs, lows and in between...sometimes, it just needs to be personal.

Rembering the End, Draft 3

Here is why you should care about breast cancer. Here is why you should never tire of hearing "just another" story about its victims. Here is why there is fear in my heart with every mammogram and MRI I have. Today holds such appointments. I will think of her, my sister and best friend, the entire time. This is the story of the her death on this earth, draft 3.

The call came in the middle of the night. As was the custom over the past three years, my sleep was light. Calls in the middle of the night always make you jump, fumbling for the phone. Knowing good news is highly unlikely, the ring gives you a quick stab in the stomach. This call was no exception. It was Todd. The hospital had called. Ansley wasn't breathing well and they thought he should come to the hospital. I could not decipher whether they had not given Todd clear information about Ansley's condition, or if he was holding back what he knew. He gave me the option of meeting him at the hospital. He also said he would call me once he got there and assessed the situation. I decided to wait. We hung up. I sat on the floor of my bathroom thinking. The floor was cold and I remember working through my mind if I should head over there or wait until the morning. I realized that I didn't feel well - my body was incredibly achy and my head hurt. My stomach was churning. Was it from the news or something else?

I went back to my bed and waited, not sleeping, not even close to sleeping. The next call came some 20 minutes later. I answered the phone before the ring had finished sounding. This time it was from Mom. She said she was going to the hospital - Todd had called. The information was still foggy and her tone was a little vague. I wasn't sure whether to go or not. She told me very clearly that I should go. I woke Jay from his coma-like sleep to tell him. I quickly got dressed and prayed that I would start to feel better.

It was a very chilly February night - I remember shivering and feeling my stomach continue its roller coaster. Halfway through the drive, ironically in my mother's neighborhood, I pulled over to vomit. My own body was fighting sickness. The drive was silent and lonely and long. The care never seemed to warm up and I drove, tense from the unknown and the cold. There was only one other car on the road and I realized that with its flashing lights that it was our pastor, Bill. My stomach and heart did another jump - it was more serious than I had worked in my mind. He must know more than me and I panicked at that knowledge. I no longer felt the sickness of my own body as adrenaline took over. We raced together down the empty streets, a tandem team, to reach someone before she was gone.

I walked down the silent hospital corridor and into ICU. My pace quickened as I neared her room which was more like a large open cubicle with some sort of sliding glass door. My countenance collapsed when I saw her for the first time. My hopes vanished. My heart hurting. She was gasping for breath, her defeated body shuddering and fighting each inhale. She was pale with her eyes closed. I cried, "Oh, Ainie." I was quickly given the update - it was still a little unknown but she was not doing well. This might be the end.

I stared at the monitors hoping to see some positive change - to see the numbers inch even slightly up to give me the tiniest bit of hope. Even with the oxygen mask she couldn't muster above an oxygen level of 85. My face fell. I cried softly.

I went to Ansley's side and held her hand. I told her that I was there. I loved her. I went in close and kissed her cheek and forehead. Her body not changing, recognition not there. I stayed in my spot, planted, holding the hand of the person I loved longer than any other in my lifetime.

Her hand. The hand that had dressed many dolls with me, had made me meals, who had patted me on the back, had angrily pointed at me, had held my wedding bouquet and Jay's wedding ring, had stroked my hair, had found buckets of seashells and shark's teeth, had punched me, hit me and loved me, had drawn pictures on my back to help me sleep, had created beautiful pieces of artwork and had held me crying from a broken heart. The hands that held each of my three children in the first moments of their lives. The same hands that would clap in excitement when great news was at hand. A hand that was pressed together when praying the sweetest, most heart-felt prayers to our Father on my behalf. The hand I never wanted to let go.

Her hand was soft from the lotion I had applied just a day earlier. They were always our connection, even when we were small. She loved to have her arms scratched and being the only sibling, that duty often fell to me. It seemed only natural that while during her illness, that need intensified. While we waited at countless appointments, during mind-numbing treatments, and most often when she was trying to brave the pain and suffering, that I would instinctively try to bring her comfort with my well-practiced strokes.

I had only been in her hospital room a short time - or so it seemed. I felt the strong urge to read to her from her bible. I opened up to Isaiah, her favorite book from the Old Testament. I began reading...

The monitor began to display ominous signs of the end. The warning alarm of a condition that would normally bring in the nurses was turned off. Flashes of memory of that time - Pastor Bill praying over Ansley, John asking questions to the nurse, Todd whispering his love to Ansley in her ear, my dad and mom standing across the bed from me - both of them with red eyes, tears, and contorted hurt and pain on their faces - coming together to say goodbye to one they created together. Pastor Bill and Tammy at the foot of the bed - Tammy crying quite audibly.

Was this it - is the day I had imagined and begged never to arrive, finally here? I am so unprepared, God. This can't be happening. No, not now. I wanted to scream. Someone do something. She can be saved for a few more days. No - no - no.

The weight of the moment was too much for me - I was overwhelmed. My head, heavy with sorrow, bent over and drooped onto the bed and Ansley's legs. I could only mutter, "no, no, no." I never wanted to raise my head and body again as if I could somehow suffocate this moment away in the sheets of her bed. I found the strength to force myself to straightened up. My tenuous composure barely hanging on. The monitor slowly descending. Mom was telling Ansley to run to Jesus. My Dad telling her he loved her. Todd telling her to go. My mouth was silent as I felt paralyzed from the tears in my eyes. The only desire of my heart was to have her with me forever. I couldn't give her permission to leave as I didn't want her to go.

Her breathing became less labored. The elevated sound of painful grasping was replaced by fluid, smooth soft, sighs. It was slow and peaceful. Her body stopped fighting for life. The mood in the room changed from urgent to inevitable...from crisis and on edge to knowledge and peace.

Completely unexpectedly, she opened her eyes just slightly and appeared to strain under heavy lids to look in my direction. She knew we were there. We all declared our love for her. The monitor reached the end. She was no longer breathing, but her heart continued for a while. The strongest part of her pushing to the end, symbolic of who she was. Then nothing. The nurse marked the time. It was silent except for sniffles and a phone call being made. My dad slumped in a chair in the room. His voice eerily several octaves higher than normal as he strained to tell Terry that Ansley was gone. We left the room for a brief moment while they removed all of the wires and tubing that had fought to keep her going, but comfortable. I realized that I had not felt sick once arriving at the hospital. I knew I needed to call Jay and struggled to find words to verbalize my new reality. We were allowed to see her again, to say goodbye.

I walked back into her room. I held her hand, our connection over 35 years, for the last time. I recognized with brutality and cruelty that coldness was creeping in. It was a shock of reality to my body that she was gone. I talked to her for a short, short while. It was my deepest and most difficult moment. I leaned in and kissed her still warm head. The stubble of the hair that was just beginning to show again pricked my lips. I didn't want to leave her. I would never see her again on this earth. I walked away. Alone.

Never smooth
The divots and bumps without pattern
Shapes too small for her
Little pinches begin
Irrational snips

Eyes blinded by the bright sun
Her hand raises to the sky
It can't block the rays
They penetrate deeply

Stumbling, the barbed wire tears
Softness removed
A little less of her now
Bit by bit, taken away

Easily moldable
Now able to fit the form that was
never meant for her.

The Art of Hobbies

I have been on a bit of a roll lately in the kitchen. For the last month or two, I have not duplicated a recipe in my dinner preparation. Now, for those that don't don the apron often, this isn't too difficult to achieve. But for our family who eats dinner at least 6 nights out of the week at home, it is something of a milestone.

I have always enjoyed cooking. As I continue to dabble in the kitchen, it becomes easier and easier. I don't use the measuring cups and spoons quite like I used to as I have developed some eyeball accuracy in this department. I am also learning how to experiment and substitute missing ingredients. This is not to brag upon my abilities, because they are not innate, I can assure you. It is only through years of following recipes to the letter that I have gotten to this point.

I owe a lot of this developed hobby to my husband. He hails from the Netherlands where the standard meals are as bland as eating a piece of paper. Have you ever been to a Dutch restaurant outside of that country? Didn't think so. The only exception to this plain palate would be the Indonesian restaurants, a by-product of Dutch-colonial rule. After much exposure to this type of food while growing up, my husband turned his tongue away from Dutch and Western food in general. In fact, he declared that he could cut the world in half at the equator and never eat anything from the Northern Hemisphere again. You can imagine cooking for him has been quite interesting.

After attempting and slightly mastering several Asian dishes, I decided it was time to throw myself into it full-force. I purchased this cookbook yesterday - all 720 pages of it. Jay saw it on the dresser and was giddy with anticipation. I can't really imagine making my own sushi, some 50 pages dedicated to its category in the book. And, we will definitely forgo recipes with seafood and bean curd (ick). Despite those eliminations, there is still plenty from which to choose.

Hobbies are like for me. Periods of complete obsession, consuming my thoughts. I can chalk scrapbooking up as one and of course, the cup du jour, writing. I discovered why I tend to do this in this post. I am a scanner. Like most, I have a list of other hobbies I want to tackle. Each, I am sure, will be the subject of intense focus at some point.

What has your attention these days? If you don't have something you are dabbling in, what is on the list, you know, what have you always wanted to try? Why are you waiting? Let me know.