Mental Health, in Gifs

Yesterday was a weird day.

I think it was what I've heard some people refer to as a mental health day.  Or the reason people need mental health days?  I'm not sure.  All I know is that it was one of those days where you don't really feel so hot, but you don't think you're actually sick, and it's hard to pinpoint where the feeling of yuck is coming from, but you suspect it might be that old frenemy your brain.  Symptoms include a mild, nagging headache, lack of motivation to do anything at all, even the things you love, and loss of ability to communicate with the human race.

I try to keep my interactions with others at a minimum on days like these- which are blessedly infrequent- as my brain seems to require more time to process all the complicated things well-meaning acquaintances say to me, like "How's it going?" and "Hey, I like your boots!"  My delayed response plus suddenly being unsure as to what words are appropriate to any given greeting sent my way ("The sun is bright today.  Wait, no... fine.  I'm fine,"  "...........................Thanks.  They are brown.") make it so that I tend to get concerned glances, or, worse, seem to be interpreted as distant.  It's terrific.

I thought it was possible I was pulling off the whole "I am a normally-functioning human being today" facade until Derek wondered aloud if something was wrong.  Twice.  Thankfully he has watched me go through a day or fifty of these, and doesn't really take them personally, just helps me engage in what Anne Lamott calls "radical self-care" and pulls up a running documentary for us to watch together in the evening.  (The Barkley Marathons.  And it was good, you guys.  Definitely watch if you like watching people push themselves or running or screwy but neat Appalachians who put on a race that makes you go, "WHAT?" every time they reveal another detail about the race.)

Other acts of radical self-care:

Forcing Adelaide to go grocery shopping with me while the boys golfed with Dad.  Grocery shopping isn't my favorite thing, but Adelaide is one of my favorite things, especially when she sees a college girl in some of those teeny tiny short-shorts that make you think they should just be done with it and make themselves some denim underwear (mmm, so comfy) and Daughter's nonexistent poker face is just like

followed shortly by

which made me laugh, which made her laugh, until we were quite the spectacle in the produce section of Aldi.

I also wore my favorite pair of boots, always sure to cheer me up, which my mom got me for my birthday (thanks, mom!) and for which I receive compliments almost every time I wear them.  And yes, I know these are commonly referred to as "booties," but I can't say that without our boys snickering, so I don't.  Also?  Fifth position.

Ballet:  The gift that keeps on giving.  Please excuse my less-than-perfect turnout.  It's been a while.

Other acts of self-care:  Reading this book, eating some of the peanut butter cookies I made over the weekend, minimizing my time on social media, and not obsessing over the fact that I didn't go for a run, even though the weather was nice.


Of course, this whole thing could all be due to the startling revelation that greeted me yesterday morning:  I was out of coffee.  There was not a bean, a speck, a single ground of the stuff to be found in our house.  It is that powerful.  (It is powerful, indeed!  Hallelujah!)

(And sorry about that previous sentence; I mean, it is Holy Week, although even joking about worshiping coffee has probably branded me as an always-and-forever heretic.  Alas, it wouldn't be the first time.  HEY KELLI- remember that time we were taken into a scary van and asked if we'd been SAVED? Those were the days, hmm?)

Today, however, is better!  I went for a difficult, hilly, great run, I've remembered how to speak to people without alarming them, and Derek commented, "It's nice to have my wife back," which is always a good/sad sign; good in that Yes!  I'm back!  Sad in that I really am bad at putting on a happy face.

A Plant and Ballet List

Let's break up all this Waste Not business with a list, shall we?

• I transferred my seedlings to their own little peat pots last night.

Upgrading seedlings from their nascent egg carton home to these temporary little pots is kind of like watching your children participate in an elementary school's graduation ceremony:  fun but meaningful only to the most sentimental of parents.  And with this I'm also whispering "Don't die don't die don't die don't die" while disentangling their fragile little root systems.  Hopefully I won't find myself doing this when our children actually leave grade school.

Right now they're enjoying (the seedlings, not our children- why on earth would I talk about our children when there are plants to talk about HAHAHAHA) their first beautiful spring morning out of doors:

No, the makeshift cold frame probably isn't necessary- I mean, it is 50 degrees out there, and I'm only leaving them out there for a few hours to start hardening them off- but I'm a bit of an overprotective gardener, especially since, as I was placing the little pots on the back deck and covering them up, I pictured each little plant as an elderly person I wheeling toward a window so they could enjoy some sunshine.  

I'm not sure why I insist on this constant anthropomorphization of my plants.  It's just a thing I do.  

• Atticus (see, we do have children!) is still a weird sleeper:

His knees are hooked over the green side of the toy box there (I just accidentally typed "boy box" which made me snuffle and chortle), effectively folding him in half.  I continue to maintain that Atticus would make a great ballet dancer: He's got a lean build, is crazy flexible, loves music, and really loves the female half of the human race.  I think I'll start calling him "Misha."  We'll see what happens.

• My first tulips bloomed!  Unfortunately, their prime blooming time fell during the five days and nights of near-constant rain we had over the past week, so I really only got to enjoy them when pulling into and out of the driveway.  It did save me from taking a million pictures of them, however, so at least you're spared that.

Look at that!  I can cross off the first thing on my list for today ("Bang out List post"), so it's time to get ready for the day; we're leaving for Pella's tulip festival (my first time!) in about an hour.  Huzzah!

Golfing Ballerinas. Or Dancing Golfers.

A while back Derek and I did a kind of date exchange.  He got to pick the activities for one date, and a couple weeks later I got to choose.

We're a pretty religious dinner-and-a-movie couple, so this kind of thing constitutes us showing our daring and adventurous side.  Although in our defense, a meal away from the kids is just about the most awesome thing ever at this point.  Neither of us has to cut up anyone's food.  We get to sit down and stay seated throughout the entire meal.  We're not constantly interrupted by arguments like "I bet I could eat that whole pan of enchiladas."  "No, you couldn't."  "Yes, I could."  "No, you couldn't."  "YES I COULD."  "WELL YOU'RE ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS WRONG."  "I DON'T EVEN CARE BECAUSE I CAN'T HEAR YOU BECAUSE I PUT REALLY REALLY FLUFFY BIRDS IN MY EARS SO THAT I NEVER HAVE TO HEAR YOU SO THERE."

Just in case you're curious, that was our lunchtime conversation today.

So, yes.  A meal that's overlaid with intelligent adult conversation and that contains drinks only spilled by me is simply delightful right now.

For our date exchange, however, we went a little outside the norm for date night (don't kid yourself, though, we still went out to eat.  You did read that paragraph up there, right?).  Derek chose golf.  Derek loves to golf, and goes either by himself or with the boys whenever he can, but the last time he and I went together was in the sweltering humidity of Florida while I was in my first nauseous trimester of pregnancy with Adelaide.  It was miserable, although I did see an alligator on the course.  At least I think it was an alligator; I can never remember what the difference is between crocs and gators.  Anyone have a useful acronym or something that would help me out?  Wait... do we even have crocs in North America, or are those just kind of an Australia-thing?  And how painfully obvious is it that the sum total of my croc-knowledge comes from the movie Crocodile Dundee?

Anyway.

Our first golf outing there in Florida was so successful we didn't repeat it for eight years.

Raise your hand if you think you know how this is going to turn out.

Well, you're wrong!  (At least, I'm guessing you're wrong.  This whole blogging thing is great for some things, but it's kind of a one-way street.  I guess you could leave a comment and let me know how you thought it was going to turn out.  Or not.)

We actually ended up having a great time.  Derek quite literally played the best round of his life, and I enjoyed myself way more than I thought would be possible- and that's paying attention to the game; I only read three pages of the book I brought!  (I should probably explain that I didn't golf, I just rode along while Derek did, although if you know me at all this little aside is completely unnecessary.)


As for my half of the exchange, I chose to go see Matthew Bourne's Sleeping Beauty at the Des Moines Civic Center.  One of my favorite parts actually happened a few days before the performance itself; I mentioned something in passing to Derek about the date, and it turned out Derek thought Sleeping Beauty was a musical; he had no idea we were going to the ballet.  The mixture of chagrin and resignation on his face was priceless.

The ballet itself was beautiful if a little unusual.  I'd read up on Bourne a bit before we went and knew that his interpretation of this ballet was a bit gothic, but I really started to worry when we got there and the playbill described it as "a mix between Twilight and Downton Abbey."  Um, what?  It ended up being much better than that terrible description, although I definitely felt for the parents who brought their little girls all dressed up in Disney's Sleeping Beauty costumes, because with its fairy/vampire corps and unorthodox ending, this was no Disney production.

That's right, I said fairy/vampires.  I don't even really know how to describe it, but the lead vampire... fairy... guy...well, he was fantastic (let's see, it looks like his character is Count Lilac, because of course I still have the playbill), as was the young lady playing Princess Aurora, and the choreography was fresh and really lovely.  I enjoyed myself immensely, and Derek didn't fall asleep.  I'm actually not giving him enough credit:  Derek is an excellent sport about attending the ballet every so often and listens attentively as I critique all the minutiae of the production afterward.


Golf and ballet- they go together like ham and chocolate, peanut butter and pesto, Richard Simmons and Colin Powell.  (I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore.  I was trying to think of opposites and things that just don't go together, and Richard Simmons popped into my head.  I would apologize, but I'm being overcome by the urge to do Sweatin, With the Oldies.  Don't hate, that stuff is fun.)

Clearly we belong together.

Driving Miss Adelaide

You know how sometimes you meet a kid who seems to be in a hurry to grow up, prompting you to say something along the lines of, "That Suzy Sue. She's eight going on 30!"

There are times I feel that way about Adelaide; but rather eight going on 30, she's more on the five-going-on-87 track.

Last week, Adelaide participated in a dance clinic offered through her school.  It consisted of a few hours worth of practice one day after school, where they learned a simple routine, followed by a performance the next evening.

The performance turned out to be a part of our local high school dance team's Spring Show; so in addition to watching Adelaide wiggle around the high school gym for two minutes, we got to see local teenagers wiggle around for an hour and a half, too.  As per the instructions we received, our daughter sat with the other Kindergartners, which meant I was able to enjoy the show without being bombarded with questions and comments throughout our entire evening out.

Immediately after the show ended, she and I reunited.  It's possible I wouldn't have noticed how old lady-like she sounded, had it not been for all the other elementary school children around us.

The first difference I noticed was that all those other kiddos were running and jumping and excited.  Adelaide was dragging her feet and struggling to keep up with me.

Then I started to hear the chatter:  "Hey, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom!  What time is it?  Is it past my bedtime?  It is?  Yesssss!   Can I stay up even later, Mom?  Can I play right now?  I'm hungry!  Can I have a snack?  Hey, look, Mom!  ROCKS!  Can I go climb on them?  Pleasepleaseplease?"

Variations of this monologue abounded, except from Adelaide.

"Mommy, what time is it?  8:30?  Are you kidding me?  That's way too late!  I should have been in bed hours ago.  I'm going to be exhausted tomorrow morning.  Why did we ever do this?  I'm not going to be getting any sleep tonight, am I?"

She ran on this tangent for awhile before bitterly concluding, "This was a terrible idea."

She's five years old, worries about getting enough sleep and enough protein and fiber in her diet.  She loves prune juice and doesn't tolerate extreme cold or heat well.

Does that mean when she turns six she'll start saying things like, "Back in my day..."?

Because I think I'd be okay with that.

DanceCamp Studio

When Adelaide was two years old, she began asking to take ballet lessons.

I, of course, was thrilled.  I spent ages three through eighteen camped out in a dance studio in my spare hours, and now Adelaide, too, could know the thrill of having ugly ballet feet but killer legs.  Joy!

I did a little homework, and found that she could take classes at a studio fifteen miles north, one fifteen miles to the south, or one located two blocks away.  Because I always prefer walking to driving, the Huxley studio became our first choice.  I checked out their website, asked around, and set up an appointment to tour the studio and meet the dance instructor.

And that's where I went a little crazy.

I loved- loved- my former dance teacher, Mrs. Camp.  Naturally, I wanted Adelaide to have what I had growing up, so I started to compile a mental list of all the attributes her new teacher must possess.  After I got to around the thirty-seventh bullet point, even I realized I was starting to sound a leetle bit crazy, so I instead switched to a yes- or no- question format that I could pose to this poor woman when I met her.  The list of questions went something like this:


What kind of exercises would I see in your average class?

How many shows does your studio perform per year?  Would Adelaide be expected to participate in all these?

Around what age do you put girls en pointe?

Is this there some sort of funk or hip hop team she might audition for when she's older, or any sort of elite or advanced team of any type?

Are your recital costumes overly revealing or provocative?


-See?  I started off relatively normal.  But soon, things started to get... not quite so normal.-


What sort of moral code do you possess?  Do you think it's your responsibility to integrate those ethics and morals into your daily life to the extent that it's very obvious to everyone around you, including but not limited to the dancers you are training?

Are you, yourself, an excellent dancer?  Do you demonstrate and go through the exercises and routines with your students?

Do you know how to be silly?

Do you have the extreme tolerance and self control needed to work with groups of hormonal and extremely emotional teenage girls?

Can you yell things like, "Keep your legs together, girls!" when my daughter is leaving the studio when she gets older?

Will you love my daughter unreservedly?

Is there any way you could dye your hair red?


Fortunately, I stopped myself there, and didn't ask a single one of the latter, possibly more inappropriate questions when I finally met Adelaide's new teacher.  Our daughter did end up taking classes there for a year, but elected not to continue at the end of the term.  I was a little relieved;  the studio was nice enough, and I liked her teacher, but it just didn't seem to measure up to my (impossibly high) expectations.

I got to visit my old studio and see Mrs. Camp when we were down South last week.

Would it be a little extrme to move almost seven hours South just so our daughter can take dance classes at a certain studio?

Silence is Golden

Our daughter has the most exquisite timing.

Over the weekend, Adelaide and I drove down to Kansas City to attend a performance of The Nutcracker with my mom and two sisters.  After a hearty lunch, the five of us headed to the Kauffman Center to find our seats and await the performance.  Luckily for me, Adelaide insisted on sitting in between her grandma and two aunts, which put me down at the end of the row, three seats away from her.  This means I got to spend the whole first half focusing on the ballet itself, although I did frequently steal glances down the row to see how she was doing.  Every time I checked, she was sitting up straight on the edge of her seat, eyes glued to the stage.  So far, so good.

Intermission arrived.  After a bathroom break, where I forced Adelaide to use the facilities (because I'm a mean, mean Mommy, and also didn't want to have to get up during the performance), we found our seats again, but Adelaide wanted to sit by me now, and started asking Whhhyyyy is this ballet sooo looooong?  I ever so patiently explained that the second half was more exciting; more styles of dancing, costume changes, characters, etc.

The house lights came down, the curtain once again was raised, and the second half began.  Adelaide was very quiet and attentive while the little angels were dancing and during the dance of Mother Ginger and her Polichinelles.

While all the other kinds of food representatives (chocolate, coffee, tea, ribbon candy, and marzipan) were dancing, and during the Waltz of the Flowers, she asked all kind of questions in a distracting stage whisper.  So basically DURING MY FAVORITE PARTS she wouldn't stop talking.

Chocolate (Spanish):  "How do they get the curtain to go up and down like that?  Why is it purple?"

Coffee (Arabian):  "Doesn't it hurt her to do that?  Why isn't he wearing a shirt?  Is he cold?  Doesn't he know it's winter?"

Tea (Chinese):  "How do those girls push that box around when the man is in it?  Isn't it really heavy?"

Ribbon Candy (Russian):  "I'm hungry.  Can we go back to the hotel?"

Marzipan-the Dance of the Reed Pipes:  "They look like candy canes!  When can I eat the candy canes I got from Santa the other day?"

The Waltz of the Flowers:  "Why doesn't she have a big tutu?  How do they not run into each other?  Why is this so long?"



I did my best to maintain my composure and answer her questions quietly (if a bit curtly), reminding her that she could ask all the questions she wanted when it was over.

Then, during the Grand Pas de Deux by the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier, she whispered, "I have the use the bathroom again!"

I reminded myself that Derek doesn't smother her when she won't stop talking during his Vikings games, although I have seen him gripping those throw pillows pretty tightly.  I tried not to think about the fact that the Vikings play about a million weekends out of the year (or it just feels like it), whereas I get to go to the ballet once every few years.

After having this little talk with myself-during which time she twice repeated to me that she really had to go- I hissed, "This is almost over, and we are almost done.  I will take you to the bathroom the minute it is over, but until then, we are going to sit quietly, listen to the lovely music, watch the beautiful dancing, and STOP TALKING TO EACH OTHER."

Then we sat quietly, listened to the lovely music, watched the beautiful dancing, and stopped talking to each other.

It was the best ten minutes of the entire ballet.

My Favorite Things

You know what I'm not crazy about?  Those "Favorite Things" lists that celebrities make that consist of a bunch of ridiculously expensive goods like "simple" white t-shirts that cost $50 apiece, or when they list things like "making sugar cookies with my daughter," because you know what?  You probably weigh about 90 pounds, and the closest you'll get to baked goods is a food-scented Yankee candle.  Oh, and don't try to pretend you spend time with your daughter.  If you did, we wouldn't see her all coked-out on the cover of some rag here in about ten years.

I'm not much of a celebrity person.  I feel no need to know what some actor eats for breakfast on Saturday mornings or their parenting "advice."

And this is so not what I meant to write about today.  Let's see if I can get back on track.

Where was I?  Right.  Favorite things.

Well, in addition to not being able to identify with some no-talent hack's favorite things (there I go again), I have a little trouble with the items listed in the song.  You know, from The Sound of Music?  One verse talks about "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens."  While I certainly don't see anything wrong with those things, I couldn't call them my "favorites."  Raindrops on roses are pretty, but I'm allergic to cats, don't believe I've ever actually seen a copper kettle, and wool gives me hives.

I'm just a little ray of sunshine today, aren't I?

Still, I've been hearing that song a lot lately on the Christmas music stations, and it's gotten me to thinking about my favorite things at this time of year.  Here are five of my personal favorites.

5.  Decorating for Christmas.  I love, love, love decorating our house for Christmas.  My mom always went all-out decorating our house right after Thanksgiving, and it always felt so warm and inviting.  I now do the same thing, and being surrounded by the garlands and bells makes our home feel cozy.

4.  Christmas Music.  Fortunately, Derek's pretty tolerant of my need for 24/7 Christmas music, but he does look pretty pained when I put on Amy Grant, and absolutely puts his foot down at the mere mention of The Carpenters.
   
      4a.  Christmas caroling.  Is there anything better than standing in front of people's homes, singing Christmas carols?  Unless it's looking out your front window and seeing people standing on your front lawn, serenading your family.

     4b.  All the live Christmas music.    There are always a plethora of choir, band, and orchestra concerts to choose from, and when we lived in Pittsburg, there was a man who stood outside the entrance to Wal-Mart every morning and played his trumpet while manning the red Salvation Army bucket.

3.  Going to the Nutcracker.  This was a tradition my family had growing up; we would drive the hour north to Wichita to see the ballet performed, and while this is not something we do every year, Derek did take me to see it in New York City one year, and this weekend Adelaide and I will be driving down to Kansas City to see it there (Yaaaaaay!).

2.  Candlelight services.  I don't really think there's anything better than standing in a darkened church lit only by candles, singing Christmas hymns.  I really wish our church did this.

1. This one isn't really Christmas-related, but right now it's my very favorite:  The lurching, halting, unsteady gait of a baby learning to walk.  Caedmon has been walking for several weeks now, but it's only in the past week or two that he's really started using it as his primary means of locomotion.  When I catch sight of that high-stepping stride unique to toddlers that he uses, I find myself stopping whatever I'm doing just to watch him waddle around.  It is so ridiculously cute.  I love to watch him stop at the threshold to a room, where the flooring changes, and ready himself to pass the imaginary precipice.  I love to watch the sheer joy on his face  from something as simple as walking.  He loves it, I love it.  My favorite thing.

This also means he no longer stands still long enough for me to get a good picture.

My Husband Has An Awesome Wife

(And if that title seems disgustingly self-congratulatory, it's only because it is.)



I am a practical gift-giver.  I like to give gifts that are practical.

I don't know whether I can blame it on Nature or Nurture, but I'm pretty sure it somehow all stems from my mom.  I can't remember how many times I watched my mother wrap a first-aid kit or a fire extinguisher as a wedding gift.  And really, who wouldn't want to receive those things as gifts?  I'm sure many a happy couple thought fondly of my mom when they were bleeding or their kitchen caught on fire (both events that probably happen quite a bit in those first turbulent years of marriage).

I've never really thought of this as a negative attribute, until I started reflecting upon the gifts I've received from Derek over the life of our relationship.  They make my practical gifts seem kind of... lame.

Like the time, one wedding anniversary, Derek got me an early edition hardcover of To Kill A Mockingbird, one of my very favorite books.

Or one year on my birthday when he arranged for his sister and her husband to drive down from Maine to watch Adelaide so that we could drive from our then-home in Connecticut into Manhattan to eat supper and attend a performance of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker by the New York City Ballet.

Or a few years before that when he flew in from Connecticut on my birthday, surprising me on my doorstep in Kansas... and proposing.

Do you know what one of the first gifts was that I gave to him in college?  A water pitcher with an attached filter.  See, the water in our college town is universally known as being kind of disgusting, so in my mind, I was giving him the gift of clean, delicious, refreshing water, right in his dorm.

I realize that even with that justification, a water pitcher doesn't hold a candle to a beloved book, the New York City Ballet, or a marriage proposal.

This year, I set out to break my streak of sub-par gifts.

See, Derek turned 30 last year, and I really didn't do anything special.  In my defense, I was still pretty overwhelmed from having Caedmon and the whole I-have-three-children-under-the-age-of-five thing.

I knew that I had to make up for it this year.  Although Derek's birthday isn't until next month, I surprised Derek this past weekend.

One of Derek's favorite bands is Jars of Clay.  He's been listening to them since they formed 17 years ago, and has seen them in concert a couple times before- but he's never actually met them.

That's Derek, me, and the four members of Jars of Clay.  And if you don't think this picture isn't going on our Christmas card, you don't know the Crislers.

Yup, we were fortunate enough to be part of a small audience (think around 30 people) that got to stand about two feet away from the band, requesting and listening to them play several of their songs, asking questions, talking to them, getting autographed CD's, and taking pictures with them.  They were very funny, very approachable, and very talented.  It was so great.

I still can't promise I won't be giving towels and measuring spoons as gifts.










Note:  I alone am not responsible for this weekend- that would be impossible.  I would like to thank Derek's parents (over and over and over again), who drove several hours to Kansas City to stay in a hotel with our children while we attended the concert.  Ben, the Visual Arts Leader at our church, also helped by switching things around to ensure that Derek did not have video ministry responsibilities Sunday morning.

Jars of Clay also played a smallish part, for which we are thankful.