What Fills the Emptiness?

I had a great talk with a friend at soccer a few weeks ago:  we were discussing the mania of afterschool activities and how difficult it is to slow down and just start appreciating being with family without the constraints of practice here and a game there and a race to run on Sunday and two birthday parties and a large homework assignment to get done, swim classes starting up and do we or don't we join Little Athletics because that means Friday nights out and Sunday AM runs are great but that means Sundays out and if we do baseball that's all day Saturday shot again and....

What would happen if we didn't sign up for activities this term?  What would happen if the boys didn't learn to shot put and high jump and they didn't train for long distance?  How terrible would their lives be without baseball for a season?
What would fill the emptiness?

I'm only beginning to discover what fills the emptiness, but it's great already.  What fills the emptiness is building forts out of bed linens and building cities out of Legos.  What fills the emptiness is starting up a band (with Matthew on piano, Aidan on recorder, Andrew on drums and one of the many girls they are auditioning at recess at school as lead singer!).  What fills up the emptiness is tying up a string in the backyard to make our own badminton court.  What fills up the emptiness is meeting friends - cousins really, right Bobbi! - for a 2 km fun run as a family and watching the seven years olds, the same seven years olds that whinged the entire time last year - break out of the pack and leave their parents in the dust.

What fills the emptiness is the beginning of spring, the smell of sunscreen and mozzie spray, towels and togs on the clothes line, trips to the beach, surfing in the waves.

What fills the emptiness is bike rides and weeding the garden, home-made pizza and home-made sushi.

What fills the emptiness is meeting friends for lunch or at the park. 

I've been so afraid of the emptiness: but doing nothing means I'm not enough.  I have to do more for my family; I have to do more for myself; I have to do more to be worthy, more weight loss, more running, more laundry, more cleaning, better. healthier home-made meals.

The emptiness has been expanding.  Time I used to chase - but there isn't enough of it to clean the house AND weed the garden AND get the kids' assignments done for school let alone take a break and go to the beach - is now expanding. 

It's amazing how much of our so called "good-for-you" after school and weekend activities involve more time spent in the car than anywhere else. 

Oh.  So THAT'S where the time goes.

We've got all weekend to enjoy ourselves.  This despite - or because - I've been to the gym Saturday, Damon cooked the kids omelettes, they built forts and badminton courts while I read and napped, we then had a leisurely (well, with seven kids leisurely) visit to friends where we swam in the pool and had awesome Hungarian food before dropping Ryan off for a sleepover before she and her friend got up at 4:45 AM today for their dressage competition today.  This morning the entire family (minus Ryan) ran 2 kms - again with friends - and is now playing, making their own brunch, while Damon does a dump run and groceries, the laundry is going and I am chilling out writing. 

It is 11:00 on Sunday and the whole weekend still lies before us!  Andrew has a friend coming to pick him up for the beach.  Damon and I want to hang up some more family photos.  (A fact Damon is not yet aware of!)  The twins can weed the garden.  And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally get the bathroom and kitchen pantry organised.

Or not.

Don't worry about Ian.  He just runs around in the middle of all this, almost 2 years old going on 7.  When he gets tired, he pulls himself a bottle of milk out of the fridge and puts himself to sleep on the couch.  Good parenting technique?  Maybe not.  Good survival skills: definitely!

And so the emptiness grows.  And as it expands, time expands with it.  The less we do, the more we are doing with it.  How we get more out of less, with less work, is still beyond me.  It's all a bit too Zen for me to comprehend.  How am I trying less, working less, and accomplishing more?  How is it that by stopping the struggle, the goal is already achieved?

My friend, a Christian, defined it in terms of God versus Satan, that it is important to know WHICH being is filling your empty spaces, which activities are being proposed by which entity.

I realise that Satan, for me, wouldn't be in the activities themselves or in what he is telling me to do or not to do, but in a disproportion of activities, in a focus or emphasis on the wrong thing.

Satan, for me, would be unbalance.  Satan is the struggle, the striving to achieve, the expectation of perfection.  Wow.  All this time I have been trying to be perfect so that I would be worthy of enlightenment, nirvana, a better reincarnation, God.  Who would have thought it was Satan making me strive for perfection?  Sneaky little bugger, ain't he?!

God is not perfection.  God is balance.

God is the emptiness.  God is the breath.

I am sure Lao-Tzu would say that God is already here.

Go out and play with the kids and get over it!

About The Gym

There are a few things I realised at the gym this morning.

One:  I like going.  Even if I was my ideal 65 kg weight, I'd still want to keep going.

Two:  People at my new gym are nice too and I need to get over all this bullshit about missing my old place and move on.   People move through our lives at a certain time for a certain reason.  When life tells you it is time to move on it is because you are ready for new experiences.  Embrace the change.  This does not mean you don't treasure your old friends or the time you had with them.  It means you are accepting that there are good people and good experiences left to meet.  SURRENDER!

Three:  Sleep is important.

Four:  Balance is important.

Five:  Saying NO is important.  Realising that maybe now isn't the time to start getting up at 4:45 again is important.  Even if that new class looks really really great.  

Six:  Balance is really hard for someone like me.  I want it all.

Seven:  This has to be FUN, not about weight loss or about building muscle mass but about FUN!

Has anyone else noticed that I spend way too much time thinking while I am working out?!  This is why belly dance class on Thursday nights has been so good for me.  I only started recently, and our first dance is relatively straightforward but when my mind wanders - when I start thinking about how great this would be to write about or about how good I feel and maybe, just maybe, I should do that pump class at 5:30 AM tomorrow - I forget the steps.  I have to focus on the dance.  It is forcing me to be present in the moment.

Margaret also tells us that if it isn't working, or if it hurts, that we are trying too hard.  This is totally different from what I hear at the gym.  Push harder.  Try harder.  You can do it.  No pain, no gain.

Eight: What I have to realise is that personal trainers are trained to work with normal people.  I am not normal.  A normal person apparently hears these words and ignores them if they feel like it.  No thanks, I don't need to push that hard today.  No thanks, I don't need that extra effort.

I take every word to heart.  Why would they be saying them if they weren't meant to be taken literally?

It's an Asperger's thing.  Why do normal people keep saying they want one thing and then continually do another?!  I don't get it. 

So today I had fun and ignored the instructor if I felt like it.  Like a normal person.

I've been pushing myself so hard that a few of the trainers have told me to slow down and sleep in a while.  Note to self:  having five kids is not an excuse to ignore, but a reality to appreciate.

Nine:  I still had problems breathing at the end of the class and it's not all in my head and it's not all about stress.  And when I have problems breathing then I do start to breathe more in my chest because that is where I can't breathe.  It's not horrid, but it is uncomfortable.  And it is a sign of high blood pressure.  My vanity tells me to ignore it: I AM working out, I AM eating well, I AM NOT remarkably overweight or underfit.  But the reality is that 150/100 might need medication.  And how awesome would it feel to be able to run again without feeling so horrible at the end of it?

How much less stressful would my life be if I could breathe again?

How much less stressful is it once I realise that it isn't about getting there, but about enjoying being where you already are!

Worth Repeating!

There are no bears out there trying to get you.

There is only the life you asked for.

(Pause.  Moment of silence.)

Breathe.

On Kundera and Nietzsche; Colons and Parking Spaces; Louise L. Hay and Lao -Tzu

"I'm not good enough.  I don't do enough.  I'll never make it."

Did I say that?

Turns out that, although I did say it, and do say it often - to myself at least, subconsciously - it is a direct quote out of Louise L. Hay's book "Heal Your Body."

It's the thought process that leads to coronary thrombosis. Heart attacks.

No duh, right?

Anxiety, which I have been feeling ever since I can remember, is not trusting the flow and process of life.  All of which is bullshit, because I do trust the flow and process of life.  I just don't trust that it will flow well for me because I'm not good enough, I don't do enough and that is why I'll never make it.

All I want is for life to flow better for my children.

Which isn't going to work if I have a massive coronary worrying about which parking spot to take.

Or which route to take to school.  Or whether I should give them each two one dollar coins or one two dollar coin. 

I'm telling ya, anxiety sucks.  And no matter how much I keep telling myself how silly it is to be having heart palpitations over where to park, no matter how much I KNOW this is stupid, I have been having them over parking spaces since I had the twins in Germany.  Now THERE was a reason for worrying about parking, but no one cared, no one realised, and now, now here I am in an entire country of people who park wherever they choose, taking spots so large an American AND a German would BOTH shoot them over it! - parking on curbs, on grass ways, on lawns, wherever, really just about wherever you want, with as much distance between as you'd like - usually enough to just about fit in 7/8ths of the car I am driving - and I am still having palpitations.

I have been doing behavioural therapy on myself.  Which means that I just go and do it anyway.  I park.  I tell myself this is stupid and I park.  I ignore the feelings of discomfort and I do it.

I don't know if this behavioural therapy is supposed to make a person function better with the disability - which it does, I DO park and I DO park every day, multiple times a day.  Or if the feelings are eventually supposed to go away if you just keep doing the action that makes you uncomfortable.

But the feelings aren't going away.

On bad weeks - and YES, they coincide with my cycle, and God help me if this will get worse before it goes away - I also start breathing with difficulty over which route to take to school.

Again, I can talk myself through it.  And I do it despite the discomfort.  Over and over and over.

But it's terrifying to have to work this hard to do dumb little things you know aren't all that life altering no matter which you choose.   (I am going to have a mental word with Milan Kundera - and Nietzsche - about the Unbearable Lightness of Being : turns out Kundera also knows how to use a colon properly in a sentence: this means I can learn two things at once from him!)

I explained to the kids that I feel the way they described after running a 2 km race this week.  Aidan's heart was pounding so fast his chest hurt: I said I felt like I am running a race all the time.

Good news is that Louise L Hays has a three sentence fix for what ails me.  (I am currently reading Milan Kundera and plan to have a look at Nietzsche but quick and easy is good, right?!)

I have been writing her affirmations in a large notebook:  "I love and approve of myself.  I trust the process of life.  I am safe."

(Meanwhile I am going to use those colons until I get them right!)

I follow it with pages and pages of free writing which usually being with: "No, I don't."

I will spare you the rest. 

Instead I am going to focus on the fun things that are happening around here.  I firmly believe that these next few years are the best of my life; this despite that my body is physically trying to make me believe otherwise.  I don't trust YOU body, so there!  (Oh, and I am going to speak to a therapist tomorrow, so no need to worry if Nietzsche ends up being over my head.)

Ian is so much fun.  He played in the Pacific Ocean today.  And went pee pee on the potty.  Three times.  And he sings all the children songs with hand motions.  Better than any other almost-two-year-old, I am sure.

Ryan is going to be okay.  I am doing okay there, I can feel it.  (I am just SO EXHAUSTED by the struggle.)

Andrew is entering secondary school.  The world awaits him.

And the twins are only 7.

We have so much fun ahead of us these next few years.

Too much to have a coronary thrombosis.

Too much to have a panic attack over where to park.

Always we hope

someone else has the answer.

Some other place will be better,

some other time it will all turn out,

 

This is it.

No one else has the answer.

No other place will be better,

and it has already turned out.

 

Lao-Tzu

 

 

I don't know what this says about eternal return or lightness and weight, but it does help me with which route to take.

 

Because I'm already there.

 

Namaste.

 

Om.

 

And Amen.

On Reading the Label

Ryan has officially been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome.

Why we don't take the kids out to eat much!

"Good news," texted Catherine, "Now you can get the help you need."

The psychologist showed me preliminary results from cognitive and academic tests, all of which were just fine, and then the test that screens for autistic spectrum disorders (since they are taking Asperger's out as an official diagnosis, Ryan will now be considered high-functioning autistic). 

Even I was surprised at how high she scored.  99% in most things.

So, yeah, we're pretty sure she's on that spectrum.  (The preliminary tests showed she IS on the spectrum, further testing in two weeks will show how impaired she is by it.)

Serious study of Schleich horse catalogue while wearing her self-knit rainbow scarf.  In the car. In 30 degree weather.

In filling out further questions on Ryan's behaviour, it is more and more unbelievable to me that the psychologists in Germany missed such a pretty straight-forward case.  (Although I've just learned my cousin's child has been diagnosed as well, and in Germany, so they HAVE heard of it!)

We are so fortunate to be here.  Not only are there provisions in place for dealing with special needs children in the mainstream schools, but there is government help for families.  And there is a general acceptance of everyone's uniqueness that includes a genuine acceptance of - not just sympathy for - people with disabilities and special needs. 

There are no horses in AFL football!

"How do you feel?"  asked the psychologist.

Relieved.

I do get teary eyed every so often as I consider that my child has autism.  My beautiful baby girl has something going on in her head that makes life harder for her.  It keeps her from organising her thoughts, from self-motivating, from starting, seeing through and finishing projects, from remembering basic maths concepts, from tying details up into a big, coherent whole.  It makes it hard for her to get up out of bed in the morning.  It keeps her from making friends.

I would have been devastated if I had known this when she was first born.  Or worse yet, in utero.  My perfect child is well, frankly, less-than-perfect.  My baby girl is less.  I figured my skills at parenting would be to show the world to my child, to have her soar and excel, to rise above, sail beyond, offer her all the opportunity to soar.

I didn't think it would be reviewing basic maths facts again as she glowers at me with dislike.  Sitting in silence next to her waiting for a dance performance to begin, while all the other families around us chat and laugh with one another.  Because Ryan doesn't want to speak to me - she is concentrating on the show - and cringes when I put my arms around her.  Or teaching her how to shave her legs, something I learned with my best friend, Jenny.  Because I am her best friend.  I am her only friend.  And the enemy that makes her get up in the morning at the same time.

 

Miley Cyrus impersonation in Caboolture

 

It's also hearing how brilliant she is when she goes for her weekly riding lesson, how mature and motivated and responsible.  Uh yeah, she can't fit in with people her age at school, but I bet she can get a job working with horses the minute she hits legal age! 

It's watching her belly dance at a seminar with about a dozen other people, all women older than she is, and many of them professional dancers.  And holding her own.

It's enjoying her bond with her flute teacher at her weekly lessons, quietly, through their shared love of the music.

It's allowing her the time to sketch, and watching that talent grow.

It's realising that the silly little book she has been reading on her tablet - My Little Pony -  is actually written on an adult reading level!  Even if it is about Celestia and the Magic Kingdom.

It's understanding that her love of these shows - including all her horse shows - is also the way she navigates human relationships.  That she relates to the gang on "Friends" as friends.  That she learns her life's lessons from "Heartland" and "Twilight" and "Saddle Club" relationships.

It's acknowledging that maybe this is better than the crap she would be picking up at high school!!!

It is knowing that I am going to be leading her on this journey for longer than most parents, and be more integral to the success of that journey.

It is the awareness that her specialness is a gift to us both, that it has made me stop and reevaluate what I had always taken for granted:  that one needs to struggle, to push, to excel; that one has to fit in, do what everyone else is doing, be what everyone else expects you to be. 

It is learning that I am not in control, that I am dust in the wind, blown about by the universe, that nothing is certain and nothing is permanent.

It is letting go and letting life take us all wherever it will, not where I am trying to push it to.

How do I feel?

Those test results are no surprise.  We knew she was different.  We knew she was struggling.  A diagnosis helps us explain this to any one else in her life who needs to know.  (Although, I find, now that we have the diagnosis, I feel less of a need to explain.)  It helps us get some support - both for home schooling and health care needs - that not only helps us financially, but gives me some validation that I am doing something of value, a job the government sees as valuable, that home schooling a child with special needs IS hard, is valuable and is every bit as worthy as re entering the workforce as a veterinarian.  (I know I shouldn't need this but.....)

Most importantly, it gets us help if she does choose to go back to school at some point, even a few days a week.  It gets her help at university.  It gets us both help now, in learning how to cope, how to learn, how to grow, and how to stay happy.

We are happy.  And we have been doing quite well.

I don't think much will change in our daily lives just because of the diagnosis.

It's just nice to finally have it acknowledged that there IS something going on, that it isn't my fault, or Ryan's fault, or some flaw in my parenting or our home life.  That Ryan doesn't need to buck up and fit the system, toe the line, get with the program.

And yes, this is what I heard in Germany.  And sorry, dear friends in English Group, I know you cared about us, but I heard that this is what you had been saying.  It hurt me.  And it made me isolate myself, at the end, from a great bunch of ladies who got me through the darkest times of my life.  You were there when I was depressed, you were there when I went into the loony bin, you were there through the miscarriages. 

I don't think any of us understood at the time - and it was the months before we left Germany too - that I was fighting for my child, that my anger was a result of the helplessness I felt in the face of a system that just wasn't going to help her.

How do I feel?

Exhausted.  I feel like I am at the end of a huge struggle that started when Ryan entered first grade.

Vindicated.  That I was fighting for the right thing.  That what I felt - and did - was right.

Sad.  That there was so much anger in me.  Sad that it did cost me the closeness of friendships I valued.

Hopeful.  Because we are on the right path.  And because anything is possible.

Two Men in My Mirror (With Pictures of Sydney)

The week the baby came home - and the pregnancy hormones settled back to normal - I realised the toll the pregnancy had taken on the kids.

At the Royal Botanical Gardens in Sydney after renewing their American passports

I was a bit irritable at the end there. 

Irritable as in "why the  $&%^*ing  #&$* do I have to $*%*ing bend over to pick up everybody else's $&%*(^ing socks?"

Irritable as in bending Matthew over to touch his toes to show him how easy it was to bend over when you weren't carrying a person inside your belly.

And while the question about the socks - and books and sticks and legos and soccer balls - is a valid one, the  $*($%&%  used liberally as an adjective and noun isn't.

Big city.  Bit chilly for the Queenslanders.  (Huh?  How did Ryan EVER survive in Germany?!)

This hit home when Matthew used the "f" word as an adjective.  And then came up with the "er" version to describe the brother he wasn't getting along with.

Also when Damon asked Aidan to brush his teeth one night and Aidan sat down in the middle of the bathroom floor and said "JESUS CHRIST".

He sounded just like me.  Which would have been funny....

More impressed with the icecream than the Opera House.

Except that sort of behaviour really isn't acceptable - or pretty - in a five year old.

(We have since introduced Aidan to the "Jesus Christ" I keep in our kitchen pantry, next to the flour and baking products.  A gift from the Mormon missionaries, the picture is too pretty to throw out, and so I keep it to comfort me whenever I open the pantry.  When Aidan DOES slip up, we remind him about respect and invite him to visit Jesus in the pantry if he feels the need for a chat.)

Back in Brisbane!  (Where Mommy and Ian are waiting for us.)

Seeing my vices reflected in my youngest two children made me see how ugly - and unacceptable - they really are.

I've gotten WAY better.  (I only lose it when the computer refuses to cooperate with me.)

And the twins' behaviour has mirrored mine.

Michael Jackson knew what he was talking about.

"I'm starting with the man in the mirror.
I'm asking him to change his ways.
And no message could have been any clearer
If you want to make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and make the change."

At the Botanical Gardens.

It's very Tao.  (Verse 58: Thus the Master is content to serve as an example and not to impose her will.)  But I never would have understood it without the example from my children.

I haven't had to do much.  Just change my own behaviour.

I want my kids to be better people than I am.

Meaning that I become a better person for them.

New Labels for Everyone

"What's your sign?"

I'd just tried to help an elderly couple disentangle two shopping carts in front of the supermarket. The husband was wheeling two of them around, stuck together, muttering to himself and the wife was looking confused. So I ran up and told them not to worry about it, this happens all the time, and offered to put my Euro into the one slot to separate the two. Turns out they had already tried that. It really WAS busted. They were still looking slightly confused, but able to manage on their own. He was just going to wheel the two carts around until he got to the help desk. I laughed. "You know, you could probably just shop with them like that and see if anybody notices."

They didn't quite know what to make of me. I was laughing, I was friendly, I'd offered to help a stranger. (Last week, swear to God, Damon watched THREE separate people walk past a handicapped elderly gentlemen who was looking for help getting a shopping cart. Damon finally had to get back out of the car to help.)

I like the elderly here. They are so friendly. And thrilled that someone my age is friendly back.

The incident was strengthening my conviction not to label people based on their nationalities anymore. I am studying Hindu and Buddhist philosophy. Both believe that we are all part of a universal consciousness. Part of self-realization is seeing us all as a whole. I don't explain it very well, but then again I've spent my entire life in a Judeo-Christian society. Jesus did say something similar, something about us all being sons of God, all having God within us.

The Dalai Lama says it well too. All of us just want the same things, to avoid suffering and to be happy. When you realize that, you can empathize and see yourself in anyone.

Mother Teresa had it right too.

So I was - and am - going to see everyone as myself. No age, sex, race, religion or nationality. Just people. Part of the same universal consciousness as me.

Her husband went off pushing both shopping carts but his wife ran back to ask me a question. "What sign are you?" she asked. "Huh?" I eloquently replied. "Your sign, your sign, you know, I want to know why you are so exuberant and happy."

That nasty part of me wanted to tell her I was American, and that that's why I was so exuberant and happy, but I had my new resolution. (My accent is slight enough that a lot of people, especially serious Swabs battling with an accent of their own, don't notice it.) This had nothing to do with nationality. It had to do with being friendly.

"Aries." I told her. "April." As if that explained everything. "Oh" she replied. "I'm a Pisces." And off she went, as happy as can be, looking for her husband and the two shopping carts.

"Hmmm" I thought to myself. "Looks like I've found myself a new system for labelling people."

Travelling Light (Things of Value)

If someone gave you $300 to prioritize what in your luggage is of most value to you, you'd do it pretty quickly. I had five minutes to open up my suitcase and make it ten pounds lighter or I would be charged that much in overweight fees. From 60 pounds down to 50 pounds, with a line forming behind me and the plane already at the gate. Piece of cake. I'd been through worse than this before.

The toiletry bag was on top. Heavy but not heavy enough. Books for the kids - I could carry them in my arms if I had to. Grandma's sweaters. I could wear a couple and wrap one or two around my waist. Sandals would be tougher. More books. I was underweight. Sandals back in.

I have a hard time getting rid of things I might be able to use again. But the $300 made it a no-brainer as I chucked face soap and tonic, an almost empty jar of moisturizer, a full bottle of hair gel that I never ever ever ever use, a five year old tube of sunscreen and the half-full bottle of contact solution in the trash on the way to security. I hoped they'd let me keep my perfume. I really like it.

But honestly, hair gel I never use and an almost empty bottle of face cream. What the hell am I thinking?

I happily tucked the children's books into the now almost-empty toiletry bag, threw on one of Grandma's sweaters, wrapped two more around my waist and marched contentedly through security.

My need for stuff, for almost-empty toiletries and hair gel that I might just one day decide to use, is a need for security. I want to be sure I have it, that I don't need to run out and get it again. I do the same things with the children's art supplies, or with the medicine cabinet. As if the walls will crumble if I don't have enough sparkly glue or glitter on hand on any given day. As if I'm not going to go to the doctor for a prescription anyway if the kids have anything serious enough to warrant me bothering with any sort of medication.

Like many of us, I fear the future. I want to be prepared, to be in control and ready in the event of...well, frankly, in the event of the future.

This has to stop now.

We've all heard that we can't take it with us. Not even if we pay $300. And yet we still hold onto it, out of fear, out of insecurity, out of a need to define ourselves by the things we surround ourselves with.

Of course it's all an illusion anyway, as demonstrated by the millions of Americans who have lost their homes and their retirement savings in the last two years. As depicted even more graphically by the Haitians who have lost everything they had in the earthquake. Really puts my half-empty toiletries or glitter glue supplies in perspective doesn't it?

We're planning a pretty big move, to another continent, in a few months. The mantra has been ''If it ain't worth the cost of freight, then its time to say good-bye.'' It is easier said than done, especially when it comes to children's things. We want to give them everything. What happens if we get rid of the bikes and then can't afford new ones right away when we get over there? What happens if we can't give our children everything?

What happens if we give up everything we have and start over?

I'm terrified, I really am. Not of a new continent, but of going over there with nothing.

As a Peace Corps volunteer in Haiti fifteen years ago, I would pack a small sundress, two pairs of underwear, some sunscreen, bugspray, water and a flashlight and head off into town for an extended weekend. I didn't need things to know who I was.

As I buried myself under children and the possessions that accumulate with them, I lost sight of that. I traded adventure for security. I gave away the moment for the future.

I don't need $300 to know what's important to me. It's time to rid myself of empty baggage and travel light. When you think about people who really have lost everything, you realize that what's really important doesn't fit in a suitcase.

Coming Home

''There you are.'' Grandma greets me at the door. I'd flown out of a blizzard in Germany, catching the last flight out into Paris. From there, I'd flown into a snowstorm blanketing most of the United States, spending an extra twenty-four hours stranded at the Atlanta airport. Logistically, I had no right to be where I was. And yet here I was.

Home. I'd been having a hard time finding out where that really was. Despite all of the introspection, or maybe because of it, I'd been missing the point entirely. Home isn't about where I am from, but about who I am from.

There are bits of me all over Grandma's house. I see myself in the five shampoo bottles she has lined up on the shelf next to the shower in the yellow guest bathroom. They are remnants of what my family brings with them on visits, but declines to take home. The Freeman Botanical Hawaiian Ginger has been there close to twenty years. I have a hard time getting rid of things I might be able to use again too. Especially if I can line them up neatly on a shelf instead.

My mother wouldn't understand this.

I see myself in the piles of newspapers she has lying next to her favorite recliner, the one she bought for Grandpa before he died. She'll get to them later. And in the unfinished hookrug she is making for cousin Lisa's baby.

''Can you believe I have all this stuff to sort through?'' She apologizes for the basket on the floor next to the newspapers. It's full of old magazines, advertisements, Christmas cards, some free socks and a bottle of hand lotion. Believe it? I am it. What a relief. Here I am.

Grandma's kids, my mother and her siblings, want to know if I think Grandma's losing her mind. She does forget what's in the refrigerator two minutes after you've told her, and she can't hear her alarm in the morning, but other than that she seems to be fine. The alarm is waking me up early enough to greet the Florida sunrise and there's always sure to be fresh fruit lying forgotten in the refrigerator. I am pleased. I tell them I don't think she's losing her mind any more than I am. Which doesn't seem to reassure them.

''Hello? Mom?'' Aunt Diane calls to see how we are. ''Nope, it's Christine.'' I reply. ''My goodness. You sound exactly like her.'' she says. I am her. But Aunt Diane wouldn't understand about the shampoo bottles either.

My mother tells me Grandma has a hard time understanding that my sister's cell phone isn't a landline. Grandma doesn't seem to get it that she can call my mother's cell phone just as easily as Laura's when she is out there to visit. I laugh. The next day I look up Laura's number in Arizona and call her on her cell. Trying to reach my mother. Who's laughing now?!

Which isn't to say that Grandma and I are exactly alike. ''How old are you again?'' she asks. I didn't fold the sheets down on the bed correctly. ''When I'm with you Grandma, I'm about seven or eight.'' I reply. Later, I grab a plum out of the kitchen and eat it. ''Oh. I hope you washed that.'' she says. ''Of course I did Grandma. Sure I did.'' She sighs. Some things never change.

Home is Grandma. As a kid growing up in Germany, I couldn't wait to spend the summers with her in Connecticut. It was a magical place. She and Grandpa lived in a sprawling two-story colonial with rose bushes out front and a couple of wild acres out back behind the in-ground pool. There were treasures in the attic and mysteries in the basement. It was the house of my dreams.

It almost broke my heart, and hers too, when she and Grandpa moved to Florida when I was fourteen. How could she leave that house? It was weird to visit her in a two-bedroom bungalow, where everything was new and had its proper place.

Twenty-five years later this is still the new house to me. But it's no longer strange. This is where I find Grandma. This is where I call home.

''Here I am, Grandma.'' Here, I am.