Some Assembly Required Read Online Free Page B
Author: Anne Lamott, Sam Lamott
This church has prayed us through everything—his birth; his worstasthma attacks; starting school; meeting his father, John, at age seven; then all those scary visits to see him in Vancouver; puberty; and the hard teenage times when we nearly lost it some days. There are fewer of us now at church, fifty or so most Sundays, but it is pretty much as it has been since Sam was born. It’s a kitchen church, not a church-on-display, all these black and white and brown people who need and want to be here. And it is the same as when I first came in, twenty-five years ago, hungover and bulimic, weighing twenty pounds less than I do now, when I could stay because they didn’t rush me, like a sorority, or try to get me to believe.
The people saw that I was in pain, and they let me be; and they let me be with them, and let me find Him the best I could.
Today people shuffled in, happy and relieved to be there, disappointed that Sam hadn’t brought Jax, but crowding around me during the Passing of the Peace to see the photos on my cell phone—my screen picture is of Sam holding Jax and staring into his brand-new face. At St. Andrew, there are all levels of shyness and grand public display during the Peace, but somehow every one of them is a hug of recognition, which is all that most of us need or want, in a kind of churchly square dance, hand to hand to hand.
The hymns are bigger than any mistakes; you fumble around with the hymnal and sing the wrong words—sometimes I’m on the wrong verse—but the hymn expands to make room for each voice, even yours. We speak as abody; we have set the intent together, so rather than individual shrill cries or drones of one crazy person, it’s a braid.
August 3, E-mail from Sam
Me in general
1. Powerless—trying to be comfortable in utter powerlessness. Not strong suit.
2. My opinion is meaningless—can only offer body for service. Verbal input useless; just really have to trust Amy, and her intuition.
3. Hate both of these things.
August 3, E-mail from Sam
Hi, Mom. Here’s the skinny on the fam: Jax’s fingernails have gotten long again; we clipped them just last week. This is already one of our least favorite things to do. Since last night, he’s managed to scratch his face a couple of times badly. A new development is that now when we pick him up, even if he is swaddled, he flails his arms in the air, instead of lying passively in baby burrito mode. His hands now open and close, and because he is armed with claws, he scratches everything—including us.
Between feedings last night, he was trying to stay awake with us, which was throwing off our schedule, because heneeds to sleep, we need to rest, and then he needs to eat again often, every three hours. It’s like a perpetual motion machine. We loved it at the time last night, because it was so cute to just look at him. Now, however, we are all wasted.
I remember the first time I looked into his eyes, two weeks ago, it felt like staring into a sky full of space, but the size of a marble. Or into a deep tiny ocean. We enjoyed our awake time with him until it caught up to us and he was both exhausted and hungry at once. He wanted to eat but was too tired to fully latch on, and was sobbing because it meant he couldn’t get milk.
August 4, E-mail from Sam
Amy is exhausted from Jax being fussy all night because of the frustrating sleeping/eating situation. I took Jax and let her sleep in, but she isn’t pumping her breast milk so I can’t feed him. This makes me sad and mad, not to sound too much like a Dr. Seuss book.
I started thinking about how much I really hate the umbilical cord stump and wish I could pick it off. I’m fantasizing about how much easier life will be without it—bathing, being able to throw on diapers without worrying about it. This damn stump has been a nightmare for someone who worries and likes to control things, because it has been spotty, bloody, and not at all cooperating with what I’d like to see
The people saw that I was in pain, and they let me be; and they let me be with them, and let me find Him the best I could.
Today people shuffled in, happy and relieved to be there, disappointed that Sam hadn’t brought Jax, but crowding around me during the Passing of the Peace to see the photos on my cell phone—my screen picture is of Sam holding Jax and staring into his brand-new face. At St. Andrew, there are all levels of shyness and grand public display during the Peace, but somehow every one of them is a hug of recognition, which is all that most of us need or want, in a kind of churchly square dance, hand to hand to hand.
The hymns are bigger than any mistakes; you fumble around with the hymnal and sing the wrong words—sometimes I’m on the wrong verse—but the hymn expands to make room for each voice, even yours. We speak as abody; we have set the intent together, so rather than individual shrill cries or drones of one crazy person, it’s a braid.
August 3, E-mail from Sam
Me in general
1. Powerless—trying to be comfortable in utter powerlessness. Not strong suit.
2. My opinion is meaningless—can only offer body for service. Verbal input useless; just really have to trust Amy, and her intuition.
3. Hate both of these things.
August 3, E-mail from Sam
Hi, Mom. Here’s the skinny on the fam: Jax’s fingernails have gotten long again; we clipped them just last week. This is already one of our least favorite things to do. Since last night, he’s managed to scratch his face a couple of times badly. A new development is that now when we pick him up, even if he is swaddled, he flails his arms in the air, instead of lying passively in baby burrito mode. His hands now open and close, and because he is armed with claws, he scratches everything—including us.
Between feedings last night, he was trying to stay awake with us, which was throwing off our schedule, because heneeds to sleep, we need to rest, and then he needs to eat again often, every three hours. It’s like a perpetual motion machine. We loved it at the time last night, because it was so cute to just look at him. Now, however, we are all wasted.
I remember the first time I looked into his eyes, two weeks ago, it felt like staring into a sky full of space, but the size of a marble. Or into a deep tiny ocean. We enjoyed our awake time with him until it caught up to us and he was both exhausted and hungry at once. He wanted to eat but was too tired to fully latch on, and was sobbing because it meant he couldn’t get milk.
August 4, E-mail from Sam
Amy is exhausted from Jax being fussy all night because of the frustrating sleeping/eating situation. I took Jax and let her sleep in, but she isn’t pumping her breast milk so I can’t feed him. This makes me sad and mad, not to sound too much like a Dr. Seuss book.
I started thinking about how much I really hate the umbilical cord stump and wish I could pick it off. I’m fantasizing about how much easier life will be without it—bathing, being able to throw on diapers without worrying about it. This damn stump has been a nightmare for someone who worries and likes to control things, because it has been spotty, bloody, and not at all cooperating with what I’d like to see