Okay, I’m going to come right out and cop to the fact that I really don’t know what the word “zen” means. I think I have some vague concept, but my grasp is tenuous at best. I just really wanted to use it as a post title.

I’ve been wallowing in self-pity the last couple of days. I have officially cleared the first hurdle to being an actual novelist: my first rejection letter. Actually, it was an e-mail, one of what I’ve been told are the scores–possibly even hundreds–that await every novelist. And it would probably be more accurate to call it the second hurdle, because I’m fairly certain the first hurdle was actually writing the novel.

While I’ve been wallowing, a big ol’ Texas sized brisket has been sitting in the bottom of my fridge, waiting to fullfill its destiny of becoming a mouth-watering thing of beauty on a dinner platter. I just haven’t been in the mood. I’m in a “fix yourself a bowl of cereal and call it dinner, kids” kind of mood.  I’ve made grilled cheese sandwiches twice this week–only the second time I added ham and pretended it was a whole different thing. I haven’t had the energy to think about the brisket.

For one thing, if you do a brisket right, it’s a little time consuming. First, you have to rub it all down with your own special uber-secret recipe brisket rub. If you’re out of uber-secret brisket rub, first you have to concoct more, THEN rub it down. Then you have to sear it all over. If it’s a whole brisket—which this one is—you really need to cut it in half or even thirds first. Or second—after concocting and prior to rubbing. See, I told you it’s complicated.

And the only pan I own that’s big enough to sear a whole brisket–even one that’s cut up into several pieces–has these big handles that come up on each side, and at least once during the brisket-searing process, I will forget about those hot, metal handles and the whole exercise will suddenly become a forearm-searing process, after which my children will go around calling me “Emo” for several days.

Then there’s the matter of the gravy. That’s right, you heard me. Gravy. Don’t get me wrong–I love me some bbq sauce. But for my brisket, I use the drippings—savory sweet chipotle drippings—and whip up a batch of sweet chipotle brisket gravy. My family would look at me like I’d served unfrosted cake if I gave them brisket without gravy. But it is, like the brisket itself, a labor of love: one which involves the same pan and more forearm searing.

But it’s not just the time commitment. There’s also the matter of the spirit of the brisket. To me, brisket is a celebration. It can be as mundane as celebrating that we’ve survived another week without a trip to the ER, but there’s gotta be some celebrating. I don’t feel like celebrating right this minute.

One of my wallowing rituals–which is a direct result of the fact that evidently Fall released a sneak preview, which has been playing all over North Texas since Saturday— has become sitting on the front porch swing with my mug o’tea several times a day to reflect. It’s one of the veryfine things about living in the country–lots of quiet, punctuated only by crickets and birds.

But this morning when I sat down—-which I did only after thouroughly checking the swing for black widows, which is one of the notveryfine things about living in the country—-there was a whole lot of something going on at the neighbors. Lots of cars–I’d say close to twenty. That many cars at 8:30am is never a good thing.

Turns out, the grandfather is really sick. Really, really sick. As in might-not-make-it sick. Mesothelioma. He has surgery scheduled in a couple of weeks. The doctors hope that it will give him a few more months to a year, but there’s a big chance he won’t survive the surgery.

Dang.

Not only that, but these kids just lost their other grandfather a few weeks ago.

Dang again.

Amazing how our troubles shrink like shadows when exposed to the light of someone else’s. I’m reminded of the words of Psalm 118, “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Life is a celebration, each and every day of it. We exist day-to-day along a continuum between grief and elation. Hopefully, we’ll spend more time toward the latter. But in all our circumstances, there is cause for rejoicing: the love of friends and family, the providence of the Creator. Sunsets and singing birds. In good times, we inhale joy through our experiences; in bad, we exhale it in the form of the memories that sustain us. But in all things, let us find our way to the celebration.

Okay, I guess I’m done wallowing, or reflecting, or whatever I want to call my little pity party.

Because there’s a family next door that needs a brisket.

Tags: agent, bbq, black widow, brisket, Chaos, Clinical Depression, death, Food, novel, novelist, porch swing, rejection, self-pity, zen

So the traffic clears, and now I’m explaining to the children that Elvis Presley did NOT sing Purple People Eater when I look at the clock and realize that because of our lunch stop at Chuy’s (I should really be getting some kind of kick-back for the promo) and the traffic jam in San Antonio, our five-hour drive from Austin to The Valley is going to take us eight hours. IF we don’t stop for potty breaks along the way (quit laughing–it could happen). Lovely….

Three pit-stops and 4,863 choruses of “Well I saw the thing comin’ outta the sky” later, we pull into the in-law’s driveway. The kids are bouncing with excitement to see their grandparents. So am I; my in-laws are awesome! I just wish they lived, well…somewhere else.

Every year as we prepare for the trip, I ask The Hubby to please talk to his dad about throwing some bromine tablets down into their cistern to kill the mosquitos. See, they have this old cistern left over from the days when there were no city services in their neighborhood. It serves two purposes: one, it makes my MIL’s yard an oasis of greenery in an otherwise barren landscape, as the ivy and various flora thrive on the moisture; and two, it provides a never-ending source of mosquitos. So this year when The Hubby finished talking to his parents on the phone, I asked not-too-optimistically, “Did you talk to him about the bromine?” He forced a smile and answered “Dad said there aren’t any mosquitos this year.”

Which would be great, except there are never any mosquitos any year. Until we get there, evidently. In the time it takes us to get from the driveway to the living room, Ethan already has six angry red welts rising up on his limbs. I assure him that my incredible mommy-foresight has led me to already write “Caladryl” on our shopping list for tomorrow.

The next day we head out for Torture. I mean Target. Although when you have four kids in tow, there’s really not much difference, is there? The Hubby tries to convince me to settle for the much-closer Wail-Mart, but I hold out. Then we pass a brand-new SuperTorture only a few miles away. I’m ecstatic–SuperTorture is way better than RegularOldTorture. Too late. The Hubby’s internal GPS is set on the old Torture, and resetting it to turn left HERE instead of continuing on 7 miles, exiting, turning right, and winding through three parking lots is only an option with the upgraded model. Which is, of course, out of the question (because this model is really, really cute). I smile. I’m on vacation. No worries, mon.

Now, the whole reason for the shopping trip–which is an annual tradition in and of itself–is that when you travel 560 miles for 10 days with 4 kids and 3 food allergies, you need your own food. Food that is available at SuperTorture. But not at RegularOldTorture. Horizon Organic Milk, people–is that too much to ask? Yes, yes it is…. I scrawl my list of “everything-I-couldn’t-find-and-will-have-to-run-to-Wail-Mart-for” in the margin.

As far as my children are concerned, the only reason to step foot inside a retail establishment is if there is the promise of visiting the toy department. The other 127,000 square feet are just wasted space. The 5 year-old is bored and wants to know when we’re going back to grandma’s. The 10 year old is angry because I won’t let him have a soda. The 4 year-old wants my undivided attention, and to get it he starts pulling clothes off of the racks onto the floor. And all the while they are narrating, soundtracking, and announcing. So my head is filled with “This is boring. When are we going to grandma’s? Why do we have to be here? Can I have vanilla milk? Look–that sign says….” and “bip-bip-bip-bip-bip-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-POP! POP! POP!” and “Mama…mama…mama…mama…mama…”

And they’re following me….

By myself, I have a hard time staying on task. You may have seen me in the grocery store–I’m the one talking to myself: “tomato sauce, cheese, Triscuits…tomato sauce, cheese, Triscuits…tomato–oh look, yogurt’s on sale!” Armed with a list I am still unable to achieve higher than a 87% task-completion rate. Add 4 children to the cart and I’m done for.

So by the time we’ve covered the whole store, I am a nervous wreck. Mason has messed up my hair and pulled off one of my earrings. Twice. The Soundtrack is fed up with The Narrator and is telling her so. The crease that runs down the bridge of my nose is deeper, and the left corner of my mouth is twitching uncontrollably. Then Mason decides he doesn’t want me touching HIS shopping cart, and procedes to pull my hands off of the cart handle shouting “NO! NO! NO!” At this moment, I am thinking what a waste of space having a Starbucks in Target is, and how much more relevant a tequila bar would be. A tequila bar with drop-in child care.

Ethan, my 10 year-old with a heart-o-gold, takes a break from fighting with his sister, steps up to the plate and says “Mom, I’ll push the basket for you.” That might be just what I need. I cede cart duty to my son and proceed to precede the basket.

It is worth mentioning at this point that one of the hallmarks of Down syndrome is “ligament laxity.” Basically, it means that their joints fit together loosely. In practical parenting terms, it means that they have the ability to reach behind them–far behind them–without rotating their trunk, enabling them to grab objects undetected. Objects like, oh…I don’t know…let’s say a six-pack of Sam Adams.

CRASH! Glass breaking, beer splashing, the other three kids screaming. Chaos. Complete and utter chaos. Except for Mason. He is a little island of tranquility, intently watching the reactions of the rest of his family. And why not? His work here is done.

A sea of red shirts descends upon our chaos with rags and mops and buckets. Which is kinda funny, because The Hubby is actually wearing a red shirt, so I’m sure passersby think he’s a slacker-employee, watching the rest of his teammates work while he watches. But I have to admit, the only thing I was thinking at the time was that only five of the six bottles broke, and since they weren’t labled for individual sale they were going to have to toss that last one anyway, so would it really be inappropriate for me to ask if I could have it? Because at this point I really needed it….

Next time: The actual reunion: Mason chasin’ and the rules as they apply to marriage and concussions….

Tags: announcer, beer, bromine, Caladryl, Chaos, Chuys, cistern, curse, Down syndrome, Food Allergies, GPS, ligament laxity, mosquitos, Narrator, organic milk, Purple People Eater, shopping list, Soundtrack, Super Target, Target, vacation