Diana Duke

We’re in the midst of choosing a new floor. Considering that once we buy said floor, we will have to schlep all 50+ boxes to our house, remove all the baseboards, paint all the walls (which are vaulted) and baseboards, tear out tile and hardwood, scrape and level the concrete, install said floor, and reinstall the baseboards, choosing the floor should be the easy part. Except that we’re not the best decision makers. And this is a very big, expensive decision. And there are a lot of floors to choose from.

We currently have 42 samples.

Even with all these samples, you don’t exactly know what you’re getting. For instance:

Same floor. Really. So will it be a darker tiger stripe-ish floor like the sample on the left, or the pinker cherry floor with mild graining on the right?

Or this:

Again, same floor. Will we end up with the dark, lightly distressed floor on the right that would gracefully hide all our dents and dings, or will it be the light floor on the left that looks like someone's taken a chop saw to it?

It’s a bit of a crap shoot, choosing 1000 square feet of anything based on a 2×3 inch sample. The variations we expect will be compensated for by mixing boxes and staggering joints and probably a bit of shrugged shoulders, too. What we’re getting, when it’s all bought and labored for and done, is a floor that is not as cold, hard, chipped, and dirty as the almost 30 year old white tile we have. It will be suitable for walking, running, playing games, building legos, and hosting small and large groups of people. It will also need all the usual sweeping, dusting, and mopping. And thirty years from now, it too will need to be replaced. So 42 samples later, I have come to this zen place where I realize that it probably doesn’t make all that much difference. I think this means we might be ready to buy a floor…

M: I’m all done. And look–I leaned over the table when I ate and I only got four crumbs on my shirt.

Me: That’s great.

K: Mama, I’m all done too. But I made a little mess.

Me: Well, considering that you have cupcake on your nose, mouth, hands, arms, shirt, lap, table, and floor, that might be a bit of an understatement.

I spend a lot of time worrying.  I don’t want to spend a lot of time worrying, but I do want to do a good job–the best job, the right job. I want to be the best version of me, the one God really had in mind. But sometimes, it just seems so daunting. There’s such a gap between that person and the one I am now. The one that, say, makes her daughter stare at the bubble bath instead of getting in (complete with the instruction to “imagine how much fun you could be having”), because that’s the most readily available consequence I could come up with at that moment for a lie.

Let’s take BPA for an example. BPA is the chemical in plastic that’s causing a lot of concern because of its effects on the endocrine system, especially in young children. I’ve been aware of BPA for a while, turning a rather blind, plastic-using eye from it. But I do feel guilty, as though I am slowly poisoning our family because I’m too lazy to throw out the plastic cutting boards or cups. So I thought, I’ll finally replace some of them. Which is how I ended up asking for glass and BPA-free containers  for Christmas. Then I started feeling guilty about getting rid of perfectly good things and spending money/energy/resources on new things. Because there are lots of people in the world who can’t afford food. They would not worry about whether their chicken was cut on a BPA-laden board. They would appreciate eating instead of creating a scenario in which a non-issue becomes an issue. Sometimes I suspect I am inventing my own drama.

But then I mentioned this endeavor to some friends, who nonchalantly threw out that any plastic–BPA-free or not–that goes through the dishwasher, is rife with toxic chemicals which leach out due to the strain on plastics from the harsh detergent and high temperatures. Right. So it really didn’t matter that I was trying to do the right thing, that I spent my Christmas holiday weeding through and replacing containers. I took one step forward only to realize I’m a hundred miles off course anyway.

Why is is that everyone else seems to very smart and together?

I really was crushed. I returned home to sit on the floor of my house and consider all the ways I had failed. Then to consider the ways that I’ve failed in fixing my failures (the above mentioned situation with K just another, different example). I broke down before my Lord in prayer. What am I supposed to do, I asked Him. How am I ever going to fix any of this?

It helped a little that I finished reading a book in which the author urged readers not to think of everything that God needed her to do, but rather the next thing. Sure, I agreed. The next thing. I can do the next thing. But what is that next thing? How will I fix this or that or the other? How do I go forward when there are a thousand different corrections that could be made? I prayed and prayed and prayed. Be Mine, God insisted. I am, I replied. Just as you are, He continued. Surely not, I replied. Surely yes. But there must be something else! A next thing! I was absolutely adamant.

I suspect this was one of those moments when God heaves a heavy sigh on my behalf.

Ask him his name, God finally instructed. I saw the maintenance guy outside of little gym where I work out. I’d long known that I should know his name, since we often say hello. I am always friendly, but not in this sort of way. It felt awkward and uncomfortable–like spreading myself wide open. And yet, somehow I knew that for me, this was much more important to God than obsessing about plastics. Being God’s meant being God’s hands, eyes, lips. This was the next thing.

I asked him his name. He told me. We had a pleasant exchange, though I was indeed awkward and uncomfortable. I was myself, obsessive and weird and maybe having failed in a hundred ways. But in God’s eyes, I was His. Just as I am. And maybe it’s not about fixing everything, but rather about being His. Making the right decision the next time, doing the right thing. My other friends may have figured this out a while ago. They may be miles ahead. But I am not alone. I’m with the one who loves me most, who knows my heart is good even if my pantry is not. We walk together from one next thing to another. We will make it to wherever He needs me to be, if I am His.

It’s not unusual for K to have very vivid dreams. For example, she announced very matter-of-fact the other morning during breakfast, “I do not like Big Bear’s icky icky snakes.” Big Bear is our mom-sized stuffed bear, and to my knowledge, he does not have any snakes. “What do you mean?” I asked her. “His snakes,” she continued, “he hides them in the house and then throws them at me.” And then I thought, with intense relief, to ask, “Was this a dream?” “Of course,” she replied sweetly. Of course. Because that makes so much sense–at least the part about her having such an odd and vivid dream.

But it is unusual for her to be alarmed by these dreams, as she was the other night when she woke up screaming. We settled her back to sleep without incident, but I asked in the morning what had been so bad about the dream. “M and I were on the beach, and a shark came up out of the water and ate M up.” That would be alarming, but she wasn’t finished. ”The worst part,” she continued, “was that God and Jesus were playing checkers on the beach, and they didn’t do anything!” Indeed. As much as I feel for her mental anguish, I am very intrigued. I can picture just about everything else she’s dreamed up, but I would love to know what that looked like to a four year old–God and Jesus, just hanging out on the beach. And it’s also not lost on me that even sleeping she knew that if God and Jesus weren’t helping out, there was something really wrong with the world.

As I tucked M into bed tonight, he took hold of my arm and clutched it to his chest. “I’m not letting you go!” he insisted. He will never know how many times I’ve thought the very same thing. I tried to reason with him, that we would wake each other up and we need our space and there are precedents to be kept. But in the end, I slept in his bed. It was not the most restful night, but it was a lovely way to wake up, with my boy by my side. We spent a while just talking about traveling and possible summer vacations and how fun it was to spend time together. There’s something so very comforting about being wanted, and such an honor too–one that I know I won’t be privileged with forever. I’m glad–even with an unrestful night–to enjoy it while it lasts.

K and I went rock climbing last week. It didn’t start as rock climbing. It started as a clear and warm Thursday. We packed up a picnic lunch and headed to a local lake, where we moved from the playground to the duck feeding to a hilltop resting spot where we watched funnily smeared clouds float over our heads. Then we returned to the playground, but instead of playing, K began to climb across a series of rocks ringing the edge. These were big rocks, rocks with uneven surfaces and slippery slopes and a few very pointy tops.

“Come, Mama!”

The dirt around them was lava. We became adventurers. We must have spent an hour moving over those rocks, one by one, working our way from one end to the other. It took me a while to warm up to it. They were uneven, and slippery, and I’m just not a very coordinated or daring person. She climbed with impressive confidence, while I would size them up from every angle, equally unconfident.

“Come this way!” And she launched herself from a particularly pointed one toward the far end onto a flatter one on the other side.

I stared at that rock, the surface so not calling to my feet. It was too small, too sharp. “Oh, I don’t think I can.”

“You can!” she said with a little laugh. As though Mama was being silly. Of course, considering my size and the fact these were still playground boulders, I most certainly was. Even I could sense that.

I stepped. I steadied. I stood. I pumped my arms over my head to her giggles. This is the difference between she and I: I see can’t, she sees can. I see roadblocks, she sees stepping stones. I love what she sees, as I love her. I want to see as she sees, not just because it was so empowering and beautiful, but also because I would never want her to trade that for my view instead.

It did not escape my attention that I posted only one time during the month of December. To be honest, December sort of got away from me. The holidays are one of my favorite times, and as a general rule, I squeeze every last drop of holiday goodness out of them. I begin checking out Christmas books and stocking supplies for holiday crafts in early October; I make lists of every last cookie I’m going to make, and to whom they’ll be given. I come up with fabulous plans to make the most of the holidays. Between advent calendars and daily ornaments and paper chains, we often at least four different ways to count down to Christmas.

Except for this year.

Early in December, I took a week to visit my sister in Scotland. Not only had I never been to Scotland in the seven years my sister has lived there, but I had yet to meet my beautiful new niece. Plus I’d never taken a trip so indulgently independent. It was a wonderful trip. I spent time with my sister and her family that is priceless to me, deepening a relationship that I’d long convinced myself was too difficult to develop given the distance. I helped them set up their Christmas tree and laid my niece down for her naps and put reality to what had long been just random names and places. No matter how hard it was to be away from my family–especially in December–I was tremendously glad I’d done it.

But reality is reality: when I returned home to the gauntlet of the kids’ last week in school, the presents to be bought and wrapped, the cookies to be made, I quickly realized that we were not going to squeezing all those drops this year. Very quickly, I set aside many of the “things” I’d convinced myself made the most of the holidays. We ended up with one advent calendar. Fewer cookies. Store-bought lasagna. Simply wrapped gifts. Stream-lined decorations. I put the Christmas craft supplies away for another year.

This will not come as a surprise to you, most likely. The holidays came just the same, even though we didn’t count their impending arrival with ceremonious fanfare. Presents were given and received. We still watched the beloved holiday classics like A Charlie Brown Christmas and How the Grinch Stole Christmas, even though I didn’t plan their viewing down to the last detail, and we enjoyed them just the same. We hosted two parties but also spent many hours just puttering around the house the four of us, relishing cold mornings and warm days, late evening Christmas lights and early risers playing board games. There were days working out in the yard and around the garage mixed with Sea World and the Natural History Museum and days trips to see family.

The best gift I gave myself this Christmas was that trip, and the releasing of details it demanded. I panic sometimes, thinking that in order to really enjoy something I must do it in as many different ways as possible (just as my husband, who had to propose to me three times, just because I wanted to make sure I really relished the moment). This year, I realized that enjoying something simple–maybe just once, maybe because that’s all you’ve got–is not given up, and that all those years I was doing so much, I wasn’t quite enjoying the holidays as I thought. Not to say that those craft supplies are going to Good Will, but it may take us a lot longer to get through them. In fact, that’s next year’s goal: to leave something out, and leave room for some genuine enjoyment.

Once again I found myself hunting out last year’s New Year’s day post. Once again I discovered I’d completely forgotten everything that I’d resolved. Once again I seemed to have made headway, even though I didn’t remember what I was making headway toward. I do less multi-tasking, though by no means have I given it up. I have better time management, though by no means am I always on time. I do something for myself most days, though by no means all. I’m also realizing that perhaps “always” and “never” are words that life just does not play by.

There were surprises this year, too, both of the welcome and unwelcome variety. I have a new and beautiful niece, finally, but my nephew is still fighting leukemia. M turned into an avid reader, I turned into an amateur breadmaker, K turned into our resident singer, B turned into a budding bassist. Or rather, those sides of our personality finally reached the surface. I learned that God wants me to rest above all else, and that in that rest I manage to get more done than I ever expected. I also gave up a lot of meat, which probably means that I should kiss boeuf bourguignon goodbye.

This year? I resolve to rest more (but not always), lose my temper less (but not never), grow more vegetables than last year (but not as many as I’d like). I resolve to do what God wants me to do, whenever He wants me to do it, as often as I possibly can, and I also resolve to forgive myself when I don’t. I resolve to live in today, enjoying it abundantly without weeping for the past, even if it’s K’s first day of kindergarten.

And surprises–always. I think that’s a safe bet no matter what.

Once upon a time, two gingerbread houses fell in love.

They made gingerbread house babies.

Then Christmas crapped all over them--I mean, showered them with candy joy. The end.*

* The real love story? That I made 22 gingerbread houses–a gingerbread procreation miracle in itself–so that the kids could have 20 friends over for a decorating party. Because they could not bear to cut the guest list. Because they could not bear to use graham crackers. Because I could not bear to turn them down. Because I love them. The end.

At the beginning of our vacation week, the kids and I went to Disneyland with my mom. It’s a fantastic time of year to go, since Disney pulls out all the stops when they decorate for Christmas. I carried my camera around, eager to capture the memories. As we sat on Main Street awaiting the fireworks, I pulled the kids close and my mom took a picture. And then another. And then another. Turns out, it’s awfully hard to capture those moments. No matter how many shots she took, they were never perfect. And what I mean when I say perfect is that they failed to capture the perfectness of the moment, what with someone’s mouth open or eyes distracted, etc.

So I put the camera away. I hoisted M on my shoulders and stood him in the middle of the street when we could the fireworks perfectly over the illuminated Sleeping Beauty castle. I almost couldn’t get him up there; his body is becoming longer than my arms can lift over my head. I fear it might be the last fireworks he saw from this vantage point. When the “snow” began to fall, I balanced as he reached out, over and over, to catch the little bits of white in his hand, proudly showing me when he succeeded. We woke K, who stared blearily for a moment before falling back asleep. That’s right, she fell asleep to fireworks once again. There was no way we would ever capture such wonder on film–and certainly no way I could manage a camera and boy combined–so I just soaked it in. I had tears in my eyes, it was so beautiful.

There were so many things this week to be thankful for: my mom being home, Disneyland at Christmas, a chance to spend time with a friend and her latest (adorable) baby, safe travels, light rain, eighty degree weather, lettuce and carrots and chard and potatoes growing in the garden (not to mention a carpet of fresh green lawn), a day at the spa, a Thanksgiving feast all arriving at the table relatively on time, and wonderful family with which to share it. There are almost no pictures of any of it. It makes me sad in some ways, but I also remember how my camera fails to capture the whole moment, and sometimes when I’m viewing it through my camera, I fail to enjoy the whole moment in the meantime.

I will forget most of these details. I will get around to scrapbooking Thanksgiving 2011 and wonder why I have absolutely no pictures of it. But the few things I will hopefully remember–M’s outstretched hand, the weight of a sleeping K on my shoulder, the relief of sitting at a table with my family in my house with a bountiful feast, the joy of playing dominos all together after it was finished–wilthose little bits are worth a lot more when I spend more time experiencing them and less time trying to capture them. Because captured or not, they’re over and gone just as quick.