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Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The Hype

I feel a certain panic as the holidays near. A “time is running out” sort of feeling. It isn’t as if I haven’t spent entirely too much on a ridiculous amount of gifts to adorn the nether regions of my Christmas tree. It isn’t as if I don’t have a fridge stocked with the makings of a fine Christmas dinner. No, and it isn’t as if we’ve missed any of the pre-Christmas church services, celebrating the “reason for the season.”
I think it’s just that there is all this hype – this extreme behavior that demands attention no matter how badly we’d like to look away. The commercial on the TV today, the one for Target, really gave me heart palpitations. Santa is running at full throttle through the Target parking lot, racing against the clock. Despite the fact that I am done with my shopping, I subconsciously glanced at the present-hiding places in my house, noting that they were all there, and silently chanted “Go, Santa…Go…”
My anxiety is likely related to this feeling of rush, excitement and beat-the-clock mania that begins with Black Friday and continues to Christmas Eve. The mad dash, for me, anyway, began at 1:30 Black Friday morning, and has continued producing dark circles under my eyes up to the present moment. Christmas Day comes, the wrapping paper is shed, the meals are consumed and then…it’s over. I now understand why this was all so magical as a child. As kids, we didn’t feel the panic, the stress. We felt only the excitement, the build-up of adrenaline that leads to the finale: Christmas Morning. 5 a.m. Only the glow of the Christmas tree and the shimmer of ribbon, so skillfully twisted and crafted, begging to be ripped. The ultimate joy of getting “just-what-I-wanted”, and the sweet reassurance that not only is there a Santa Claus, but, boy, he sure knows his stuff. When I was a kid, we piled into the car and headed to family’s houses for more festivities, more food, and inevitably, more gifts. We didn’t know what the heck was going on. We were on a ho-ho-high. All the preparation, all the lack of sleep, all the empty bank accounts that our parents and grandparents suffered….we didn’t know, and I am not sure we would have cared at that moment.
I now know what it feels like to be penniless, stressed, and overwhelmed. I know that I’ve worked desperately hard to make Christmases special, and to somehow out-do the previous year. I find it to be an unwritten rule that many parents follow. You’ve gotta have the “wow” factor, so this year isn’t the same as last year. This, friends, is why I panic. And as I write, I realize how very stupid that sounds. I have fallen victim to this materialistic controversy that has overtaken the meaning of Christmas, and replaced it with greed.
This year we’re staying home on Christmas day. It’s an ill-favored decision, especially among family members who disagree. I am trying, (‘though it may be in vain) to re-introduce peace into the day. No rushing, no greedy ripping of paper and a “more, more, more” attitude. I am hoping for a casual day of togetherness, enjoying the thoughtfulness of one-another’s gift giving, and the sharing of a meal prepared slowly and with love…at whatever time we decide to eat.
I’m not saying I’ve made the perfect choice. That remains to be seen. All the same, I’m looking forward to it.
What I am not looking forward to, however, is the panic that strikes between Christmas and the New Year. The “it’s all ending” feeling. The entertainment shows that showcase the highlights of the year, in a bittersweet culmination. It’s a little bit depressing, thinking of another year gone by. It’s a little hopeful, thinking of a fresh new start. Either way, for me, it induces a little anxiety.
Then again, we know by now that the way I view things might be slightly different than most normal, sane people. Just slightly.
To my friends and family, and to those I don’t even know…I wish you a Merry and Blessed Christmas. I wish you peace, comfort, and joy. I wish you all of the delights you had as a child, and then some.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

How it happened:

Perhaps the holidays have become a time for subtle brain wash. At this time of year, there is a certain lenience to eating the majority of one's diet from the "use sparingly" section of the food pyramid. We listen to raucous music about hippopotamuses, two front teeth, and the suggestion that Mommy is having an affair with Santa Claus (which, if Santa looked like Channing Tatum, Mommy's act of indecency is surely understood, wink...wink). We also justify bank-breaking purchases, and, as long as there's a little "giving" in the bag, too, those gratifying "these are for me" purchases can be easily acceptable. Maybe I'm just talking about me, here. Truth is, friends, I've never rocked around a Christmas tree, nor have I been kissed under the mistletoe. I just suffer from HBH. Holiday Brain Hiatus. Yes, I just made that up.
This drain on my brain, this weakness of my willpower is certainly a mystifying effect of the holidays. I refuse to think it is due to any other reason. I stare at the television mindlessly without watching the programming, I read the same pages of my book over and over again, and then, just today, an all new low:
I was looking into the refrigerator, trying to decide on what we might eat for dinner. It started off in the harmless, non-invasive way that the "fridge contemplation" typically does. Door open, one foot crossed over the other, left hand braced on freezer, furrowed brow. Everyone does it like that, right? Yes...until suddenly, the freezer door was ajar, and the left hand traveled all by itself to the inside and removed (without my notice, I assure you) a frozen Snickers bar. Then, ol' Righty chimed in, and helped it's partner open the wrapping, and lift the dreamy ice cream treat to my lips. My mouth did what it knows best, after that, and promptly consumed the Snickers...but here's the amazing part: I can't remember my eyes ever leaving the contents of the fridge.
No one said that the 12 days of Christmas are for eating. I just sort of invented that theory. For that matter, forget 12 days. That simply isn't enough time. Why not just begin at Thanksgiving and work your way through to New Year's Day? Isn't that what resolutions are for? I'll probably end up weighing about as much as eight maids a-milking, if I continue on this holiday nosh-fest.
I do have structured events in my life, meant to keep me on track. Things like school, grocery shopping, doctor appointments, etc. are still present, and do force some routine into my day. However, during this time of year, I view those things as nuisances. They are cruel obligations that cut into my hot-cocoa and fuzzy slipper time.
Alas, my friends, do not be alarmed: I am fairly certain this HBH is completely curable, and like many viruses, will go away on its own. My guess is that it'll be over sometime in January, when the whole world comes back to reality. As for you, you may choose to fight it, or you are welcome to stop by, sample one of the goodies I am inevitably baking while I carelessly watch a sappy Christmas movie on Lifetime Movie Network. You do run the risk of contracting HBH, yourself. In fact, it's a strong possibility. Anyway, door's always open - just don't mind my drawstring pants and fuzzy slippers. You'll learn, in time, that they are pure necessity.

Friday, December 3, 2010

A month goes by...

So begins my attempt at a series of Pre-Christmas blogs. Last year, I brought you some doozies. This year I hope to not disappoint!
The date, December 1, was blinking on the orange glow of my alarm clock, yet, I hadn't an ounce of strength, will, or heck, even ability to remove myself from beneath the covers. Although, I had removed the covers about 221 times over the night, during my frequent "night sweats." It's hell being female, sometimes, especially when you're missing some of the required parts. Besides that, I had the worst case of gastroenteritis I can ever remember, which was proudly kicked off by a round of the technicolor yawn in my cousin's toilet, during one of the debut parties for my lia sophia business. Who feels sorry for me? Come on...I left the house for the party, feeling smart in my pressed khaki pants and (supposedly) stylish, fitted denim jacket, smelling success in the air. I left in a much more humble state, as I carried my leftover Walmart plastic bags to the car with me, just in case I tossed my cookies on the way home.
The thing is, when you're a mom, you abandon the notion of "being cared for." You live and breathe to care for your children, your pets, your home. You, in fact, are a sub-creature of your own life. You're simply the body that performs the tasks that keeps everyone else thriving. When I do become ill, I remember vividly a time or two I was under the weather and staying with my grandmother. She was amazing. Have I ever mentioned that? I remember laying on her couch, drinking Sprite from yellow Tupperware cups, watching General Hospital. I remember the times I'd have to make it to the bathroom, and she'd not only escort me there, but she would stroke my hair, speak gently and, with great intestinal fortitude,clean up any mess I may have made. I never saw her flinch, or turn away, or even imply that I was too much for her to handle. That, my friends, is pure love. I suppose, however, I do that now, for my kids. I realize all of the disgusting things I've put up with; things that, as a teenager, I would've contorted my face about, and exclaimed how "GA-ross" they were. There was a time period, a long one, at that, when I swore I'd never have children. Time passes, lives change, right?
December began, like it or not, and I'll mark the day in rememberance, as the one I spent on the couch, with my new Black Friday steal, a Target Christmas blanket and my eyes barely in focus on the television. I don't really know what my kids did all day. They behaved, I suppose, and no one bled. All in all, a success. I think my oldest is finally at the age where the human in him is beginning to surface, and he can, for brief periods, be kind and considerate. I hope I am not speaking too soon, on that, but he did bring me a lemon-ice and a spoon, and he did get his sister a bottle and refrained from beating the bloody heck out of his brother that day.
Brighter days of upcoming Christmas cheer are ahead, though. I am well again, and there are only two more grueling weeks of school before a much-needed break. It's Christmastime in the city, friends, and whether you can hear Silver Bells or not, we can look at it one of two ways. In a month, not much changes. The time will pass, regardless of how you choose to celebrate, or not celebrate. Yet, everything changes. I tend to become lost in October/November/December, bulking it all together in this "holiday" package with sparkly wrapping because, well, I can. In the glimmer and glitz of the holiday mayhem, however, lives still go on: some people are more jolly, some people still suffer... I, however, try to keep some spirit alive, because just around the corner, there is still a let-down to experience...it's the ultimate disappointment that, (if you let yourself travel this road) in a matter of weeks, it'll be over. It'll be January. Either way, keep your head up. There are still 22 days to shop.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Love, Love, Love

What is it we want? What do we really want? There are many answers mulling through my head. The one at the forefront, however, and coincidentally, the scariest one, is "I don't know." See, you would suspect, that at my age, with three children, a college degree and, for the most part, stability in life, I would know.
I've had a song in my head for weeks, as I once in a while do, when I hear something that speaks profoundly. Or, in this case, sings it. J.J. Heller's "What Love Really Means" is the song. In the lyrics, she describes multiple situations when people are searching for the love that will make them feel whole. And as I listen to it, I wonder how many people there are, doing that very thing. I am one of them, to be sure.
It's not what you think. I'm not greedy or discontent. I even thought I knew what love really meant a couple times. I suppose the first time I was absolutely positive I knew was the moment I saw my first baby's little wrinkly red face. And then the second one, and the third. Perfect, innocent little reminders. Let's face it though, that's not the kind of love we're talking about. Or is it?
Is it romantic love we seek? Is it the excitement of a new love, a "Bad Romance" as Lady Gaga would say? A frightful yet exciting, thrill-seeking, emotional high? Note: Mom, that's for you. I will never lose the mental image of you making claw-like hands and singing "Love, love, love."
Is it the concept of a soulmate? The romantic in me still believes that soulmates exist; the cynic in me says "fuggetaboutit." I think, if they do, in fact, exist, the whole theory is reliant upon flexibility. Your soulmate might not come in the perfect package you envisioned. Which is why so few of us have found them: we are too jaded by the fantasy of perfection.
I listen to Don Moen's Sunday morning radio show on my way to teach the teen Sunday school class every week. I love the inspirational stories. I always, always cry. Because I believe, deep down, that these people who are sharing these amazing stories of love have something I don't, but I'm convinced that I'm thisclose to finding it. I remind myself about timing, constantly. It's not up to me. God can count the hairs on my head, how foolish am I to think that I can control timing? Don said he heard a quote, I forget from where, about searching for peace, love and contentment. The quote was something like "Are you searching? Join the masses who are, the people who feel the emptiness, like a vacuum, inside. The truth is, that's there for a reason, and can only be filled by God. When you give up on looking for tangible things, or even people, to fill the vacuum, and you realize that God's love for you is the greatest form of fulfillment there is, you will feel whole." So is that it? That's what J.J. Heller says in her lyrics: "You will love me, for me. Not for what I have done or for what I become."
So, it's God they're talking about. And I can jump on that bandwagon and agree, but it doesn't mean I've accepted it or invited it myself. It'd be hypocritical to say I have. I'm still among the masses of searchers.
Inevitably, it's a process, like anything else. Accepting God's love, filling that metaphoric vacuum, is likely the first step. Maybe even not so much a "first step" but rather, a pre-requisite to step-two: the mysterious human love we crave in our every day existence.
So I'd love to hear from anyone who can tell me what that means. What is the love you crave? Are you still writing bad romances, or are you "filling your vacuum" too?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

The Salon

Beauty salons are very scary places to me. They are wonderful places, don't get me wrong. I can walk in with eyebrows mimicking Bert from Sesame Street and hair like the Mad Hatter, and "poof" I walk out looking like Eva Longoria. Or something like that. I mean, if I was Latina, perhaps. Bad analogy.
Anyway...
I went to the salon last Friday. I look forward to these trips more than some holidays, I think. First of all, I am alone. My loud children are left behind, to fend for themselves. Well, not really. But they sort of are, because I'm not sure what my husband does to really "hold down the fort." There are these sleek, red leather club chairs in the salon, that immediately make me feel stylish when I sit in them. One of the multi-colored hair girls behind the counter (it's a hip place, go with it)saunters over with a wine glass full of ice water and asks if I'd like anything else. I can barely whisper "no" because I am overwhelmed that I'm holding a real glass. I would browse through the hair style books, but I'm too busy gawking at all of the artwork, the colors, and listening to the easy chatter of hairstylists with their clients. I glance at the lady next to me, in the other red club chair, and she is oblivious to the things I am noticing. Her water glass sits untouched as she thumbs through a People magazine and checks her phone every 2 minutes. I decide that this must not be special for her. She does this all the time.
My hairstylist, Jenn, is a cute girl in her 20's, with a bubbly personality. She asks me questions about my family, and I answer, dutifully. She asks what "we're doing" today, as if I will be handed a pair of shears and invited to cut along. I say the same thing I usually say: "I'm still growing it. Just the ends, and trim up the bangs, I think." She nods and says she'll give me a stress relief. Stress relief? I expect a cart of Ben and Jerry's, Diet Pepsi, and a stack of Gerard Butler movies to appear. Instead she weirdly massages my head. And it feels nice, I suppose, but my hair is getting in my eyes and it reminds me of when my boys (yes, my boys) "style" my hair at home.
We head to the awkward, neck-paralysis sinks. She washes my hair with things that smell expensive and she chats about her dog, her husband, and what they're doing for Halloween, which, she mentions nonchalantly, includes a trip up north for a weekend party. She asks what we're doing, and I tell her, just staying home and trick-or-treating. As I say it, I realize it must sound lame. But to me, it's an excursion, because on any normal weekend, we do much less than even that.
I feel a little grateful when she starts the blow dryer, not because I don't like talking, but because I am running out of things to say. I wonder what my kids are doing. I wonder if I turned on the dryer.
This appointment, I also scheduled an eyebrow wax. I did this because I have shamefully let things get out of hand, and even the best tweezers couldn't bring me back. I need wax intervention.
I sit back in another paralysis-inducing chair as another jovial little elf-like gal comes to examine my mess. She says "Are we just shaping up?" and I giggle, thinking of how she's GOT to be trying to be polite.
"Divide and conquer," I tell her. She chuckles a tiny bit, but she has no idea what I mean.
As she leans over me, she apologizes that her scarf is falling into my face. I mutter some dismissive response, and she says "I hope it at least smells good. I sprayed it with perfume this morning. I always do, I would hate it if I smelled bad and I'm leaning over people all day."
I haven't gotten past the spraying of the scarf. People do that? I have never thought of it. I tell myself I am going home and spraying all of my scarves.
When they announce that I'm finished, I examine my red skin on my eyebrow area, but I'm not bothered, because at least I see skin. My hair is shiny and even, and I am secretly proud that I wore a skirt and tights, because now I'm "complete."
On the outside, anyway.
Look out, Eva.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

A Patchwork of Thoughts Unspoken

It happened again last night, and it keeps happening. The feeling like I have rocks in my throat when I try to swallow. It waits until it's quiet, usually when I'm finally resting in bed. And my eyes burn. It's a weird "I'm about to cry" sensation, like I used to get when I was embarrassed as a little girl...but I don't cry. Instead, I think. Thinking is way worse than crying. Thinking leads to more thinking, which leads to things like...wishing...regret...but sometimes, something good happens. Sometimes thinking leads to prayer. I have, for as long as I can remember and even as a little girl, wondered what happens next. Beyond next as in the expectable "next up" situation. I mean next...in life. So I evaluate. I evaluate that I've had a weird past, which is not really weird to me, because I remember it all and I can piece it together just fine chronologically, but my life now is not anything like it used to be. And it's hard to show people the pieces of me that I used to be. It's like...people who meet me now wouldn't even know that the old me existed. And I'm oddly enough bothered by that. The other day, I was speaking of my life "pre-kids." Of the years I sold houses in Savannah. Of the time I was accosted in the project house down on MLK. How my hair was really blond, which is why the guy called me "Blondie," but how it didn't matter a minute later when I was spraying mace in his eyes. As I was telling it, I thought about how Sarge used to go with me everywhere. Never on a leash. Always happy, his dark brown fur a compliment to his dark brown eyes.He was my sidekick, I didn't imagine needing anything beyond his companionship. Even about how I didn't worry, after that incident on MLK...because soon after I began carrying a .38 special in a purse holster. And I even got a license to do that. Anyway, I think about that life, before...and then my life now...and I realize how generic my life must seem to those who don't know me "pre-kids, pre-Indiana, pre-proverbial-housewife." Which is even funnier since I'm dressing up as a 1950's housewife for Halloween, as if it is my inner desire to channel this June Cleaverish existence. So I wonder what's next. I wonder, to the point, apparently, of getting the rock-like sensation in my throat, which may mean, to some, that I'm worrying. And that'd be correct, too. I feel a little stuck in my current life. I don't know if there's any adventure left for me. Not that I need a purse holster to feel adventurous...but it's just that...there's more to me than this. Alas...just trust that even if I don't make sense to you...I do to me.
Additionally, to add to the patchwork mix of thoughts unspoken, I feel the need to touch on my son's progress in life. Isaac, in particular. I attended my first ever parent-teacher conference yesterday. It was enlightening, for sure. It's Kindergarten, people. I always think, when I see these moms who are so obsessed with their Kindergarten child's progress - Oh, Ian is soooo smart, he knows all of his sight words and all of his numbers to 200 and..."- that every kid catches up to the basics sooner or later, so don't go banking on a Nobel Prize. And then I see my kid's progress report. And I see this pattern. When it came to testing, he did awfully. He rushed. The teacher says to me "I actually watched him test. He looked at the computer screen for 2 painful minutes, and then spent the rest of the time plugging in answers, just to get done, because he obviously hated it." Isaac does what he wants. When he wants. Horrid, right? Well, here's the thing. When he wants to, he does amazing work. The stuff his teacher showed me that represented that situation was unreal. His artwork was somehow "deeper" than stick-figures and scribbles. It meant something. Like the one picture he drew of himself sitting on the ladder to the pool, Yukon (our sled dog) watching him from the deck box, and Jesus watching him from somewhere in the clouds. And when I pointed that out, he shrugged like it was nothing out-of-the ordinary, and said "Well, yeah." They were supposed to draw their favorite summer activity. Many kids drew themselves swimming. Isaac wasn't swimming. He was sitting on the ladder, looking at the water.
His answers to questions were thoughtful, imaginative. And, although his math testing scores were deplorable, his math work in the classroom was probably better than I would have done. He not only answered questions, but he drew images of "why" he came to certain conclusions. So, he puts on this hard-core, "I do what I want" front. He annoys people. Often me. People think I don't get it, maybe, that my kid is irritating. And then I think of my aforementioned "previous life" and it makes me wonder what this stage is in his life. Because I have seen, on numerous occasions, that this kid is exactly like me. I can only imagine that he will soon be able to harness his own wants and become more agreeable to being flexible with what other people want. I also know, however, that if you are not a flexible person, it is best to not allow many people in your "circle." Perhaps this is a thought for later years, though...so strike that.
Anyway, what I'm saying is that he's a kid, he needs to roll with the punches, right? Yeah...but he has a "previous life," too, when I think about it. In six years, he's moved 1100 miles,lived in 3 homes, he's lost his real dad to the Army-life, he's struggled with feeling like he has no dad, he's struggled with a step-dad, a little brother who can't identify with that situation because he was too little when it all happened, and now, a little sister who simply has no idea that his "previous life" existed. So, maybe he feels kind of like me. Minus the epic failure part, I hope. The only constant this kid has had is...me. Yeah, so, people say he should learn to roll with the punches. People, however, say that as a way of dismissing a situation. A situation too complex for them to take the time to think about. It would take too long. It's not their life. But, see...he's my kid, so I do think about it. And I blame myself, mostly, because I'm the one who kept shifting around and adding patches to this life-quilt, and son-of-a-gun if I'm not laying in bed at night, rocks in my throat, thinking of how I could change it again. I really wish foresight was 20/20, instead of hindsight.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

George

Since I'm trying to use writing as an emotional outlet, I thought this morning, I'd share a story about a man named George. I didn't know this man until he was already quite old. He was born in 1912, and I in 1981, so you see, there was already a big gap in age. By the time I was born, he had already fathered 7 children and grandfathered several grandchildren.
George was a community icon. Not because he drove a flashy car, or had a grand house, or built some corporate empire. Nope. When I was younger, he had a boat of a car, a red Chevy Malibu, actually, a cozy little three bedroom house with a garden, and a monthly pension check from years of working in a foundry to support his family. Yes, when I met him, his face was already wrinkled, but the wrinkles could not disguise the charm in his blue eyes, or the fact that his good looks once made girls swoon. He had a habit of clearing his throat loudly, and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He walked "up town" (this is back when people still referred to it that way, because this town was hardly the metropolis that most are, these days)every day, he put jam on his bologna sandwiches and butter on his cookies. He didn't watch his weight, and every time I stayed the night at his house, he had a brandy nightcap. He chewed tobacco, and strangely, I cannot recall it ever bothering me. There was a stash of cigars in his top dresser drawer, in one of those old White Owl cigar boxes. I have one of them, that he gave to me to put my "stuff" in, when I was little.
When I was in elementary school, he picked me up every day. He'd march right into the school, with his brown knit gloves and his newsboy cap, all the way to the door of my classroom, and even if it was 15 minutes early, my teachers would nod and say I could go. They all knew him. I spent my summers in the cozy little house, whiling away the hours, twisting around in the maple trees, making up games with the neighbor girls, and sitting out on the picnic table with heaps of cold watermelon to eat. George would come outside and show me how to pick a ripe tomato from the garden, bite it like an apple and then sprinkle it with salt as I ate the rest of it. He liked to rock in the swing in the back yard, and I'd sit by him. We'd beckon the little birds enjoying their bath. They'd always come curiously close, and George would smile and speak "bird" to them. When the ice cream truck would come down the block, George would walk to the curb in his polyester pants and black "clodhoppers," even though the summer heat was brutal, to open his wallet and purchase ice cream sandwiches for all of the kids who had also congregated there, knowing George's track record for generosity. In fact, any time he even spoke to a child, he'd be reaching for his change purse, asking "ya gotta pocket?"...which inevitably meant he'd pull out a quarter and conclude "go buy yourself a bar 'a candy." I almost wish I'd saved all those years of quarters. Perhaps I wouldn't have as many student loans today.
You see, George was just that kinda guy. He wasn't boastful or proud, but just good down to his soul. And his soul is exactly what I am rejoicing for, today, because I know that my Father opened his arms and welcomed him last night, as he passed from this life at the ripe old age of 98. I also know that my beloved grandma has been waiting for him, too. Because if you haven't caught on, George is my grandpa...and he's missed her since she left this earth in 2004. He has been like a lost sheep, with a lot of substitute shepherds trying to herd him around, but no one who could take care of him like she did. So in essence, it's a life story of love, of humility...of humanity. I know there are a lot of good people in the world, or at least I hope there are. It's just that we're down one today, and as much as my heart is happy for his new, eternal life, I can't help the selfish sadness I feel because I know I'll never get to look at those smiling blue eyes, or shake his soft, wrinkled hand again.

Friday, September 24, 2010

On Knowing the Truth...

There's this something I've been pondering for the entire week, and, this morning, I'm watching the sun rise behind these abnormally amazing clouds, and the wind pushing the trees in an awkward rhythm, and everything seems strange and beautiful...and it hits me: the answer to the thing I've been pondering. At least, an answer that is good enough for me.
You see, last weekend, I only had one student in my teen Sunday School class. This isn't all that uncommon; two of the kids are avid swimmers for their swim team, one has a part-time job that sometimes needs her on Sundays, and the others are only there sometimes, anyway. At first, I thought, this might be awkward. This is a sixteen-year-old boy, stuck in a room with me and the latest issue of DevoZine, the devotional we study each week. It is beyond likely that he is regretting every move that led him up to this room, this morning, including his mother telling him to "get up and go to Sunday School."
However, I'm sure he doesn't know that the material we discussed in that room was food for thought for an entire week for me. The initial discussion was about confidence, and the fact that so many young people dislike their images. This teen appears particularly confident, and when I told him that, he agreed. "But," he said, "it's still just as bad for guys as it is for girls. Guys care about their appearance at least as much as girls, in high school, anyway." I did not know this. I thought the early morning struggle we have in this house, me vs. the five-year-old, when I am challenged as "the meanest mom" who makes him wear "the ugliest clothes" was...a phase. Somehow, however, the topic swirled away from confidence issues, and on to something deeper. We transitioned into the topic of God's existence, period. It's such a vast concept to wrap your mind around anyway, and as a teen, it's often the furthest thing from your thoughts. I remember those days. I remember thinking, "I'll have time later to worry about that stuff. To say sorry for the bad stuff I'm doing, and to care about what God says." Thankfully, I was right...I do have time, now. But it doesn't mean I was right to think that way.
"It's just so weird," he said, "there are, like, a thousand different concepts on what happens after we die...and like, are there ghosts or not, and is there a purgatory, or do we go straight to heaven? Or are there just ghosts because those people decided to stick around?" Ohhh...what did I sign up for? This is hard enough to try to explain to a five-year-old who thinks God should wear a bell on his "collar" because that would at least help him know when He's in the room.
"And," I say, "there's the ashes to ashes, dust to dust theory. When we die, we are buried, or cremated, and it's likened to a deep sleep, or a different realm of consciousness, until we are all resurrected."
"Yeah, and that's crazy. I mean, it's insane if you think about it. Not that I don't love sleeping...but...we'd be resurrected, right alongside Abe Lincoln or something. How weird would that be?"
I nodded. I hadn't thought of that.
"I mean, how do you know?" he asked. "How does anyone know?"
That's the thing. None of us know. Nobody, to my knowledge, has died and come back to write the tutorial on what to do when you see the light. Or don't see the light. Maybe there is no light.
We all have our own beliefs, and part of the reason the world is as messed up as it is, is because we can't seem to agree to disagree. We can't seem to fathom that there might be more than one right answer. After all, to this day, and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, God hasn't shown up on a Sunday morning dressed in his best Armani and said "Hey, way to go, guys, turns out YOU are the right religion. All those other folks worshipping this morning, (or last night, or Wednesday at sundown, or whatever), are craaaaaazy!"
So, anyway. This morning seems weird to me. The weather seems to indicate a change is coming. Which, duh, it is. It'll be snowing before we know it. But it's just one of those odd, "winds of change" mornings, when it seems that beyond the clouds, in the rush of the breeze, in the peeks of sunlight through strangely golden-green puffs of white, there is a mystery.
Mystery.
The mystery, it came to me, is faith. And faith is largely based on trust. I realized that all those times, as a teen, when I was acting not-so-appropriately, I trusted that everything would be okay. I had this inner glimmer of hope that even if I wasn't the shiny penny that my mother expected me to be, I'd still come out alright. Which, I think, I did...I trusted, even when I didn't know, that God would make sure of it. I had faith. Although, I wouldn't have admitted it at the time.
Even from birth, we've been programmed to trust. At the moment we are born, all things we "knew" from conception to that point, are ripped away, and we are forced to trust, and rely on someone else to get us through. We have faith, if you can imagine a tiny being having faith, because we don't know anything else. As life continues, we learn the bitter reality that often, relying on someone doesn't always pan out. Trust is abandoned, faith can become a resentment, a disappointment. Let's face it, reality can be a major letdown from time to time. People get sick, people get injured, people we love are plucked from our lives in the blink of an eye. Living in a world of ever-increasing melancholy is no picnic. So what happens? We give up, that's what. We acknowledge faith as something warm and fuzzy, something we can claim when things are going great, but ignore when things are, well, crappy.
I realized that it's okay to admit that I don't know the answers to some of the topics we discussed on Sunday. Encouraging my class to have faith, however, even when there seems to be no person they can trust, is something I intend to work on. Faith is about accepting the mystery. It's about believing when it looks like there is nothing worthwhile. The way I see it, faith is the mystery in our own life story: it keeps us turning the pages to see if something greater will happen in the next chapter.

Monday, September 20, 2010

when you think you're failing as a parent...

We can't really fault our children for wanting "things" when, as adults, we constantly let our lives revolve around "the next big thing." Whether it is a new event, like getting married, remodeling the kitchen, starting a new job, bringing home a puppy, etc., or a new possession, like a car, an I-phone or a Wii, we seem to be driven by these "things" coming up. We plan for them. We save for them. We tailor them in our minds until they are perfect, and before they even exist in reality.
Sometimes, the things never happen. Sometimes, you have to drive the car until the wheels fall off. Sometimes, the kids have to share the bedroom because there's no way to afford the bigger house, and certainly not a Wii to go with it. Most adults have a method for reasoning with those issues...or at least their pocketbook does. Kids, I've discovered, do not.
My Isaac is very driven. He's driven, however, not by the desire to do well, or even to be recognized as a "good boy." He is driven by stuff. I tell you, my friends, I am sad to admit this. He, however, wouldn't be the slightest bit sad to admit this. He loves the thought of getting something new. Lives for it, in fact. We've had some discipline issues over the past, oh, let's see...he'll be six in October, so, five years. I've tried motivating him many different ways. Positive reinforcement, all the experts say. Self-empowerment. Build the desire to do well. Then, when that didn't work out so hot, when I realized I was just creating an arrogant little beast who didn't think anyone could "put him down," I started removing privileges. No TV. No toys. He didn't care. I listened to countless elders say "just give the kid a good-old-fashioned spanking!" And I did. A few times. He didn't like it, true, but it didn't change the behavior, either.
So now we are down to stuff. A nurse at his pediatrician's office said she motivated her kids with an allowance of sorts...she let them earn marbles for good behavior, and so many marbles (enough to reach specific lines on the marble jar) would amount to so many dollars. As a bonus, they also learned the value of money. Somewhat.
I thought I'd try it. We didn't do marbles...like I said, this kid needs to "see it to believe it." I knew that the intangible concept of marbles in a jar equaling stuff later would not work. So I started the week with $5. Each time he had a good day, at school and at home, he got to keep $1. If he didn't behave, he gave it back. He has yet to have a week when he could keep all $5. He is motivated, however, because he checks the prices of the things he wants at the store, and sees that he needs more money to buy it. The way he's going along, he may be able to buy that Bionicle when he's 12.
Friends, I don't really recommend this method, and I am a little sorry I've done it. You see, it's not that it isn't working. It really does work. It's that I'm right where I don't want to be. I don't want to be responsible for bringing another person into society that is solely driven by materialism. A counselor once told me of a similar method, but instead of money, the kids could choose an activity, such as, a movie and popcorn, a trip to the zoo, etc. I tried that too. No go. This kid wants stuff. Have I said that already? I mean, I look at his environment. He watches limited TV (by that I mean the Disney channel because I've blocked most all of the rest), and it's laden with commercials for new toys. When we go to stores, the advertising is all eye-level to kids, and even a Happy Meal at McDonald's isn't about the food in it, but rather, the toy. The cheap plastic toy that will provide, maybe, five minutes of entertainment. At school, there is a prize box, for kids who are behaving well. Isaac says to me, this morning, "Mommy, when you went to school, was there a prize box?"
"No," I say, "when I was in school, the fear of coming home and telling my mom that I was naughty, or that I got in trouble, was enough."
"Why, would she spank you?"
"Maybe, maybe not. But she would be very disappointed in me."
He half-grinned and shrugged. He doesn't get it. And in case you didn't catch it - disappointing me is also the least of his worries.
How,I ask myself,how am I failing at this? I am working to become a child counselor, and I can't even straighten my own kid out. This is looking good. I ask God, all the time, why He couldn't just attach instructions on these children when they're born. Why not? I mean, I get it, when we're adults, we're supposed to have control of things, and somehow be able to navigate life, and marriage, and even loss. That's all hard enough. But then, God, You put these little creatures in our lives, and we're supposed to "raise them right." Yeah, I know it's been done for eons. I know. So, why, with all the resources I have available, am I struggling? Is it that I have too many resources?
I found myself asking these questions this morning, as I watched Isaac skip down the street to the bus stop. I came into the house, sat down, and glanced at the Bible on my nightstand. Inside the front cover, I have taped a verse from 2 Timothy : "But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus."
It was one of those lightbulb moments: one of those "aha" type things.
For it occurred to me at that moment, I was wrong.
He did write an instruction book.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Sometimes the funniest things come to me during the day, and I think, oh I should write this down, and then I don't. Which is why sometimes, I don't write a blog for weeks. It's because I forget things.

Today, however, the gates to freedom (which is a word used in a very limited capacity, since I still have 3 kids, 3 dogs, and a husband who is just as needy, if not needier, than the previous) have opened. I completed the summer quarter of grad school 2010 and I now have a 3 and a half-ish week break until fall quarter begins. What will I do with my time? All this blessed time? I plan to while away the hours with deviant behavior. I will look, shamelessly, at stores online. Gap, at J.Crew...at L.L. Bean...hurt me. I will bake things. Which I do anyway, but I will bake things that take more time, more precision. I'll play with the kids even more. Outside. In my favorite season of the year. I will engross myself in mindless television. Things I don't normally get to watch. I'll...I'll...why am I in school, again?
Anyway. Also on this break, I'll have to do some mental preparation. In October, I have a surgery scheduled. A full-fledged, no-hormones-left-behind hysterectomy. Which isn't completely true, because I think they are leaving the hormone producing parts. So I don't have to take pills. That was one of my demands. To not have to take pills. I am bothered by this, somewhat. I always thought I'd have a lot of children. Like, maybe a lot, really. Four, five? Six, even. I know, Mom, you think I'm certifiable. I actually really like the little buggers, once in a while. But, see, then I got divorced, which was a real humdinger, and then I remarried, which was sort of an eyebrow-raiser, and then...well, we had Ella. Barely. Because I barely lasted through that pregnancy. My body was screaming "NOOO" and my mind was pleading with it, "come on, one more?!" So, I gave in. To my body's wishes, that is. I had one of those nifty tubal ligations, which had to be done in the "university" hospital, when the Catholic one refused to allow it...and I was sad, because I wanted to have her in the new hospital. But I regress. A year later: flash forward. My body is still screaming "NOOO" but now I don't know why, other than that maybe it's got some neurotic mind of its own...and it hasn't been treating me very well, lately. It probably wants me to go on some sort of rejuvenating Eat, Pray,Love style excursion, I'll bet. And I'm sure this surgery will end up setting me back enough that I could have afforded one. Anyway, I wasn't even going to mention it, publicly, but I will, because it'll put me out of commission, physically, for a couple weeks. What it may do, however, is put me IN commission as far as my writing goes. I'll be forced, yes, forced, to lay in my big chair and look at things on the internet. I'll have to check Facebook several times an hour. I'll have to Ebay. Which, as you can see, is not only a website, but a verb, an activity.
Speaking of Facebook, do most of you have one? I think most people I know have a Facebook page. I am contemplating the deletion of my own, personally. It's too consuming. It implies things that sometimes I didn't mean to imply. You can't use sarcasm too carefully, and I'm a natural cynic. I also sometimes feel overwhelmed by how super-wonderful-fantabulous some people's lives are. Some people's glorious marriages and too-cute-and-angelic-never-did-a-thing-wrong children. I mean, people, good for you. This is what I mean. I really am, inside, glad for ya. If it's all true. But that silly little cynic inside me says, it can't always be true. You gotta have bad days. You gotta wonder, sometimes, why God didn't just spell it out, women are superior, men really ought to take notes. Or be banished, to some cave in a remote location, with other men, and maybe between all of them, they'll find one working brain cell. You gotta, once in a while, want to duct tape your children to a wall and leave them there. Er, you know, something like that. That's the little voice of sarcasm in my head. And if I said it, publicly, it would make me out to be bitter and awful. Resentful, even. Maybe I am. So, in short, sometimes I think Facebook should be called Fakebook. And to all of my friends out there who do post the bad with the good: thank you. That's why I love you all. Misery loves company, right?! Kidding, kidding...but seriously. I'm going to start Truthbook. I'll send you an invite.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

One of the great things about kids is that they don't ever really think before they speak. And even if they did, it probably still wouldn't change what they say, because they don't really process the same way we grown-ups do. Children are so driven by emotion, and the funny thing is, so are adults. The difference is the fine-tuned (or, let's be honest, not so fine-tuned) reformation that happens through the school years, teaching us a little thing called tact. Or, as I sometimes refer to it, lying. I know you'll say, "no...it's not lying..." but think about it. Picture it: your co-worker comes in sporting a pair of tight, white capri pants, it's after Labor Day, and she's, um, not skinny. To top it off, she's wearing pink polka dot underpants. Obviously. She saunters past your desk, obviously looking for you to compliment her. Your automatic reaction, because you're so very "trained" in your etiquette, is: "Oh, Janice! What cute pants, where'd you get 'em?" You mean: "Holy crap, Janice. I can see that you thought you were 13 this morning, not just because your pants came from the junior's section, but also because your underwear are screaming Tiger Beat, and by the way, it's almost October."
So, in essence, didn't you lie? Nah...it was tact. Let's keep telling ourselves that.
Kids, however, don't have that filter.
Here's a scenario: I put on a hot pink (you can only say "hot pink" if you lived through the 80's, by the way), long sleeved tee this morning. My sons were out in the kitchen, eating cinnamon rolls. Which I cannot eat for breakfast, I've discovered, because if I do, by about 11 a.m., I am in a diabetic coma. And I don't have diabetes.
But I regress.
So, hot pink shirt, jeans and my slippers. Standard attire. Admittedly, the hot pink shirt is a little form-fitting. It shrunk in the washer, but I still like the color. Anyway. I walk out into the kitchen and ask the boys how their breakfast is going. Gabe, the little one, starts giggling. "Mommy," he says, "yo shirt wooks wike Santa Claus." What!? It's not red, it's hot pink! Isaac says "Well, maybe a girl Santa Claus. I think he means your belly is jolly. Gabie, she has a bowl full of jelly in there!" I am never feeding them again. I stood there in shock, not even knowing what to say. See, as adults, since we've been trained to use this tact thing, we also have a delayed response when it comes to handling a situation that isn't tactful. Isaac decided to break the silence: "Okay, mom. It'll be fine. I just think you should literally go put a different shirt on. Seriously."
Seriously? Literally? You're five. Since when did you become a mini-Tim Gunn? I'm never feeding you again.
So that's how my day started. I now have a much baggier, cover-every-inch of my upper-half gray, drab, hooded shirt on now. The hood is there as a safety, just in case I need to cover my hair, should it become raucous and, I don't know, leprechaun-like. I've been put back in my place: mommyhood. Boring, frumpy, stay-at-home mommyhood.
As an honorable mention, I should note that my dear mother, love-her-to-death, is one of the few adults I know who won't mince words. I mean, to me or my sister, she won't. She has told us when we've looked downright hideous, when we've done something dumb (which, to her, wouldn't be called dumb, it'd be more dramatic, like asinine), and for me, she even proof-reads my blogs, free of charge! Most people just read along, and ignore it if I misspell something or use improper grammar. You're reading for content, right? You realize I probably do know how to spell, and I generally make good grammatical choices, but I also do have three kids here and sometimes it's tough to edit everything in my five-minute window of time to blog. My mom, however, reads through with her very critical eye, and calls me as soon as she spots my mistakes. "Do you not know the proper usage of the word hear, moron? You hear music, but you are sitting here." I love my mother, she means well. And the good news is, she'd never do it to anyone else. She'd lie. I mean, she'd use tact.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

I Am...

I am a child, inside. I would love it if I could run and play all day, and I often reminisce about the days when I did. I have a terrific imagination. I am a daydreamer, to the extent of forgetting what I am actually supposed to be doing. I didn’t have a lot of boys to play with when I was growing up, so now that I have little boys, I am being introduced to the games they play. I now know how to build a few things with Legos, and I can make excellent train and semi-truck noises. I am still afraid of the dark. I have an occasional temper-tantrum. I don’t like it when things don’t work, and I really don’t like it when someone else can make something work and I cannot. I like naps, and I like them even more when I have my blankie. Simple things like warm cookies and cold milk, and some kind words from a friend are enough to make my entire day. Actually, if my mom says something nice to me, it makes everything better. I am fond of reading children’s books. I like to look at the pictures.

I am a mother. I have carried and given birth to three beautiful children. They are not perfect, but they are perfect to me. I am not perfect either, by the way. My children are full of life and light. They are quirky. They are loud, and sometimes, I am louder. At least the kids come by it honestly. I am fierce when it comes to my children. I would lay down my life for them. I would, however, insist that they face their punishment if punishment were due. I am not willing to fight all of their battles. My children make me weak and strong, all at the same time. Their tears make me feel small and helpless, grasping for something to make it better, but their laughter makes my heart stronger. I am learning from them, every day. I am proud of myself, as their mother. I think I am doing a good job, overall. I think I still have a lot to learn, but I think that nothing happens overnight. I am hoping that someday they will say “thanks” and they will admit, albeit a tough admission, that I was not the “worst mommy in the world.” I am home with my children all day and all night. It’s what I wanted to do, for now, anyway. I can ascertain that the job is not glamorous. It takes a strong will, a strong back, and sometimes, a strong stomach. Motherhood is not a fairytale, but rather, an adventure.

I am a woman. I am tough on my exterior, and a bowl full of noodles inside. I hide my emotions when I need to. I reach a boiling point, and I let them out, usually on the people I love the most. I love wearing high heels, but I find myself with fewer reasons and places to wear them. I am working on becoming more introspective and less judgmental. I am a follower of Jesus Christ. I don’t know where I’d be without my faith. I don’t like trying to prove things, because of that. Why bother with faith if you can prove it? I don’t have a lot of friends. I have a lot of acquaintances, but I find it hard to trust. I realize that is not a good thing. I am a bit of a hypochondriac. I worry about my health. I used to live a lot more recklessly, but now that I have children, I suppose I think it’s important that I am here for them. I am afraid to die. I suppose this is why you can’t have too much faith. I am self-conscious. I am convinced that I am not pretty, and I don’t think that conviction will change. If you catch me looking in the mirror, it is not to admire myself, it is to judge. I fight myself about my weight. I am confident in my knowledge, however. I am a reader, and I actually prefer a book to any television show. I am vulnerable. I know that the wrong words in the right place will break me, but I also know that I probably won’t show it outwardly. I am in love with love. I am convinced that there is a special someone for everyone, and that someone will feel as necessary as oxygen and as comfortable as your oldest pair of jeans. I want to be loved, and I want to be somebody’s world. I think I am. I think I am three peoples’ worlds. I struggle with contentment. I struggle to wrap my mind around life, and the thought that this is “all there is.” I am ashamed to even admit that, because I really do have a lot. It’s just that I pictured so many things: I was going to be a singer at the Metropolitan Opera House, I was going to be a veterinarian, I was going to travel the world and see everything. I have to slow down and appreciate more. I am a great cook; I will eat most anything I make. See the above section where I mention the battle with weight. I am an animal lover. I am fairly certain I have more animals than I need, but I don’t worry about it. Animals love without boundaries. I have a terrific and dysfunctional family, and I am a firm believer in dysfunction as normality. I am independent. I do not like others to tell me what to do. Some may call that stubborn. I suppose it’s possible. Nah, I doubt it. I am not patient. I share well. It’s something I learned in childhood. I miss my grandmother terribly. I am hoping I am like her someday. I am slowly learning that life is comprised of peaks and valleys. When I am in a valley, I know I just have to do the very best I can in that valley until the next peak comes into view. I am trying.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

It's come to a point when I am surpassed by technology. Sure, as I sit here, I am staring at a computer screen and "blogging," which is a term I still don't particularly understand. I prefer to say that I'm "typing in my journal." There, that's better. My cell phone is not fancy. I would prefer not to have one, and, if you asked any close acquaintances of mine, they'd tell you it's pointless for me to have one, considering I never answer it or check its voicemail. I have no idea what its features are, either. I know it can call, I know I can answer, and I know it can text. Although I am not good at texting, nor do I plan to become better.
I have caught myself saying, more than a few times: "not to be old-fashioned, but..." and I realize that perhaps I just am a little old-fashioned.
I believe people should respect each other, not one-up each other. One-upping leads to greed, and I know you're all smart enough to know where greed leads. I believe children should be encouraged to imagine, and parents should not allow video games and television to pollute that imagination. Equally, I believe that animal children and people children should be viewed as similar: they love to play and they love to run, and they love to be outside. Let them. There is plenty of time for seriousness later, God knows.
Speaking of serious, perhaps it's time we stop and take a serious look at what we've (we being mankind) created. We have created more than we can handle, in my opinion. The character in the 1995 movie Powder made the quote that he believed technology was surpassing humanity. I believe that too. Just look how easy it is, and how comfortable we've become, sending an email rather than making a phone call or writing a letter. It is also apparent that it is easier to talk in exaggeration or with a hint of deception, rather than to ever reveal oneself in truth.
A friend of mine expressed concern lately about teenage drinking, and how it is a favorite pastime of youth, to drink beyond oblivion, to not remember where they've been or how they got there. I mentioned my disbelief for a sign outside a Planned Parenthood that read: Birth control without pelvic exam, free STD testing, morning after pill $38. You may say it's my "old-fashionedness" coming out, but, really? Is that okay to advertise now? Why not just get a bigger sign and say this: "Text your boyfriend, and his friends, and his friend's friends, because in reality, he's going to text them all anyway and tell them truth or not what you did last night. Let him know you're headed here for a free STD screen and a quick morning-after pill. You'll let him know how it all goes. If he could contribute half to the pill, that'd be cool. If not, no biggie, right? Responsibility is so overrated anyway." In The Case for Christianity, C.S. Lewis said "Human beings, all over the earth, have this curious idea that they ought to behave in a certain way, and can't really get rid of it." Obviously.
Immanuel Kant was a Western-philosopher who challenged utilitarianism, and I have to challenge it too. Our society has just become too okay with "whatever feels good, looks good, and gets me there the fastest." I fear for my childrens' understanding of this, because it is all-too easy to become one who believes this, and the media targets our children relentlessly. Simply put, the utilitarian belief is that human beings are not necessarily responsible for their actions, and that the world has just influenced them to behave a certain way, and justify it. Likewise, punishment should be lenient, if at all. In reality, utilitarians think that we (society) owes it to people to help them, change them. Sounds great, right? At first glance, yes. Everyone wins, everyone receives the help they need, regardless of their offense. It even sounds like the Christian thing to do. But wait a minute.
Kantians believe differently. They believe in responsibility. They believe that humans are generally rational beings, and must be held accountable for their actions. They don't believe that we should be handed a "get out of jail free" card, but rather, learn from our mistakes and own up to them. They believe that if you created it, you must be able to control it, because, as my kid likes to say "no take backs." Sounds harsh, maybe. Sounds un-Christian. Hmmm...in many religions we confess our sins to God, whether it's in a tiny booth and in the presence of a priest, or a moment of silence in prayer. And didn't God tell us that we should live a certain way, in responsibility to Him? Didn't he make it clear that He sent His son to die for our sins, and that the only way to the kingdom of heaven is through His son? We can't justify our own sins, friends. We can't make them okay, and no one here on earth can, either. We can seek counseling, we can seek spiritual guidance, we can have the warm-fuzzy hug of a utilitarian thinker who says "it'll all end up okay." And hopefully, it will. I'm not saying we shouldn't help each other realize what's right. But somewhere down the line, we have to take ownership for the way our own lives are unfolding. We have to halt the madness of advancement and realize it isn't always for "a greater good." Sometimes the flashiest "things" come with the worst implications. It sort of reminds me of a time that I took a picture of myself in the mirror. The flash of the camera blocked my face in the photograph. It was as if I wasn't even there; like this bright light covered up who I am. Might be a bad analogy, but it makes sense to me.
I realize this is preachy and abstract. It's just a brief culmination of the things floating around my head lately. Perhaps it isn't for you, and that's alright. But since I have this nifty "blog" I can record my own thoughts and review them later, just as you can.I do have to insert, also, that I am not, by any means, perfect and didn't write this with the intention to make you think so. It's just another one of those little realizations that has dug a hole deep within me; one that I can't let go of but don't know exactly how to resolve it, either. I leave you with another C.S. Lewis quote. On some days, this quote makes me feel anxious, and on other days, it makes me feel assurance: "Now is our chance to choose the right side. God is holding back to give us that chance. It won't last forever. We must take it or leave it."

Lewis, C.S. (1996). The case for christianity. 1st ed. Touchstone Books.

Monday, August 30, 2010

I'm a little disappointed in myself. Not because I ate half-a-dozen cookies last night whilst sipping on some hot cocoa and browsing recipes for caramel pumpkin cheesecake, either. Well, okay, maybe a little because of that, but for the sake of writing a post this morning, let me own that disappointment separately.
I'm disappointed because, here I am, a church-going woman, a supposedly open-mind, open-hearted woman who will love everyone, a non-judgmental, do-the-right-thing type of gal. That is, until I realized that over the past week, I've judged people I don't even know, and even created imaginary circumstances that I know nothing about. A few days ago, after wheeling our trash can (my husband calls it a Herbie Curbie, but I contend that no one else calls it that) back up to it's resting spot, next to the house. About 3 or 4 hours later, when I was reluctantly cleaning the litter box, I walked out to dump the litter trash bag, only to find that Herbie was no longer next to the house. After standing there in a stupor for about 5 minutes, asking myself whether or not it was possible that I didn't put Herbie back, and I am actually nuts (which, the verdict is still out on that one...), I determined that someone had to have taken the thing. It was the only answer. About that time, a kid road by on a Vespa. The kid happened to be a different skin color, and as God as my witness, racism is not something I represent, but I did note that it was odd because there are two African American families that I know of in our neighborhood, and this kid didn't live with either one. That I know of. There's judgement one: would I have even noticed if it were a white kid zooming by? I don't know. In all fairness, I did pay special attention to this kid for another reason. He had ridden by, back and forth, about 4 times in the past 20 minutes. It seemed really odd, and somewhat coincidental in relation to my Herbie being gone? I narrowed by eyes and thought on it. Yes, I made the connection that somehow, this kid had to be guilty. But what would a kid want with my trash can? I let myself brew on this theory for a while. My dear neighbor and I stood puzzled in the yard, wondering who would steal a trash can. Anyway, I learned, a few days later, that the can was picked up by a trash company, as a result of a completely unrelated circumstance involving obvious miscommunication. Needless to say, the boy on the Vespa was probably just having a good time, enjoying this street particularly well, thus needing to travel it several times in a short period. And here, I judged him anyway. I realize as I type that I'm persecuting myself, here. Bear with me. It gets worse.
Ask yourself this: would you be suspicious if you saw a guy with a mullet-haircut, drinking a beer out of a beer stein, cigarette hanging from his lip, while manhandling a gray pit-bull, clipped for fighting? He also rides a bike around the neighborhood and "runs" this dog on a chain better fit for a winch on the front of a Jeep. And no, friends, I'm not one of these "pit-bulls are horrid, vicious dogs, not family pets, etc." people. I'm actually just for the ethical treatment of animals, period, and I don't take easily to a dog that looks like it may be used for illegal, and not to mention, inhumane, purposes. So you've read my description of the guy. What would you think? Well, again, I chose to stereotype. My honest thought, since I'm on a roll with self-righteous people-bashing here? "Wow, this redneck guy's probably trying to toughen this dog up to fight, he's probably abusing her and making her into one of these pit-bulls we inevitably see on the news, after they've attacked another innocent child. Great. Won't be walking the dogs past his house anymore." I thought this, wholeheartedly, until yesterday. Yesterday, Maddie, one of our dogs, went missing. She's been a notorious runner her entire life. She'll go months, even over a year, without escaping. Then, she'll have a streak of bolting that throws us into a frenzy. So, when I went to call her inside from the backyard yesterday and she didn't come running, I knew she had dug a hole. Sure enough, we found the hole, only just big enough for her sleek, lab body to slide out. After about an hour of searching, wouldn't you know it, Pit-bull Man approaches and says "I think I had your dog here, but I called the Humane Society because I didn't know where she belonged. She was real friendly and I gave her some water, but she didn't have a collar (she slips out of her collar, too) and I didn't know what else to do." I was dumbfounded. And honestly, friends, my stubborn, hen-pecking self still didn't let my accusations toward Pit-Bull man resolve. All night, since it was a Sunday evening and I couldn't call the Humane Society yet, I had visions of my poor dog, locked in this guy's basement while he used her as a bait-dog for his ringleader. That is, until this morning, when the lady at the Humane Society was kind on the phone, telling us Maddie really was there, and safe, and ready to go home. With a lump of humility in my throat, I decided that the man down the street who ultimately rescued my dog, F.K.A. Pit-Bull Man, was probably not a bad guy at all. I still have no confirmation as to whether or not his pit-bull is being used for fighting, but I really just need to believe she's not.
Sadly, these realizations didn't just flood over me this morning. I've had guilt-ridden little hints of them all along. My neighbor (and friend) was right, when she said to me last night, as she delivered the plate of fabulous cookies that I already admitted to eating in an aforementioned statement, "maybe this guy is actually a really good guy and he's really done the the best thing he knew to do for Maddie..." and I had one of those guilty moments of "yeah, that's probably true, and definitely what I should be thinking instead of what I am thinking."
I wonder if humility comes easily to others, or if I'm the only one who obviously struggles. I know it's hard for people to admit their faults, and much easier to hide behind the faults of others, making accusations that often distort reality.
I had a long time theory about a very important person in my life. I thought she was overstressed, a little high-strung, and often seemed unapproachable. At least to me, because I was always worried I'd upset her. Yesterday morning, in our place of worship, she admitted a history of life-shattering pain, and a more recent history of medication used to calm the mental illness that has formed in her body as a result of her being a victim to abuse for decades. The truth was, her medication had been adjusted so many times lately, she was struggling to do anything at all, and that is why she seemed so moody. I sat, numbly, in my seat, listening to the horrific details. This time, guilt flooded over me. It didn't come in little memos, like it usually does. I had pegged this woman completely wrong. And I had never even thought twice about it.
What I now know is this: when God sends you those little memos that say "hey, think about this a little more. Do you really think you should jump to that conclusion?" perhaps I need to listen up. Because He'll also intervene, once in a while, with a flood that says "Hey! That's my child too, and you need to love her! You don't need to know the circumstances. The only job I give you is to love." So, that's that. I need to work on it. There's my final admission.
Oh, and instead of a plateful of cookies, I suppose I should eat a slice of humble pie.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Animals, Ethics, and Dinnertime

It doesn't take long, upon meeting me, to know that I am an animal lover. In fact, my house seems to be a hub for four-legged friends, including three beastly dogs and two cats, and then two "aquatic" friends I have mentioned in previous posts. Growing up, my grandparents ran a cattle farm, raising and selling beef for slaughter. I didn't think twice about it, however, I don't think I really even knew what was going on until much later in my childhood. I was naive, or maybe I just chose to be in that case. I recall my Papa had a bull named Willy B. This bull was "there" every spring, in the barn, yet, he would occasionally change personalities. "Oh, Willy's ornery today, don't visit him" I'd hear. I am slightly embarrassed to say that I didn't know until about age 13 that there had been about 8 different Willys in my lifetime.
Okay, where am I going with this? Well, as a teenager, I made a devout commitment to vegetarianism. This lasted for a few years - no meat at all. I took pride in the fact that a girlfriend and I could annihilate a Veggie Delight footlong at our local Subway in 8 minutes, flat.
When I moved to Georgia and got married, however, I decided that my husband might want to eat a steak, once in a while, and so on and so forth until I eventually caved and became a carnivore once again.
Flash forward: three weeks ago.
My son Isaac is passionate about the humane treatment of animals, particularly livestock. He was horrified at the 4H fair to see the bunnies in cages, panting in the stifling heat of the afternoon, despite the use of deafening fans in attempt to cool them. He hated seeing the cows lined up against the wooden walls, their tails swishing and their heads baying while, in front of them, their "prize" weights were displayed on brightly colored posterboard. I get that it's a farm-kid's past time. I understand that, I do. It's just I understand my kid's heartache for them too, because I've felt it all my life.
It all really came to a head on a drive to church this summer, when a cattle truck passed us on the interstate, full of those beautiful brown eyes and wet noses trying to sniff the unfamiliar air from the tiny holes in the trailer. Isaac asked, with some hesitation in his voice, "Why is that truck full of cows, Mommy?" I considered my options. Moving to a new farm? On a field trip? How about, oh, just headed off to some slaughterhouse where, in a matter of days, they'll be in the beef case at the grocery store.
I took a deep breath and explained that the cows, unfortunately, were not going to live much longer. In the most censored way possible, I told him they would be killed, and their bodies would be used for meat. Hamburgers, steaks, etc. He stayed quiet. So did I. A few minutes later, in a shaky voice, he said "and what happens with pigs, the same thing?"
I nodded.
I stuggled, internally, with this conversation for days. I hadn't actually eaten pork or beef in quite a while, mostly because of the stomach aches I get when I do eat it. I've been working toward semi-vegetarianism again, and I wondered if it would be okay to suggest it for my kids, too.
Flash forward: today.
Since the incident with the cattle transport, we have had many discussions about the ethical treatment of livestock. A wonderful woman in our church even brought up kosher meat, and suggested that we learn about it. Isaac and I watched several clips on youtube.com about keeping kosher, and although we aren't Jewish, we consider it a viable option. However, the interest has also sparked in Gabe, my three year old, and he put it simply: "We don't kill animals, Mommy. Dat is so not nice. So we not gonna eat dem, anymore." (I should note, he does not think that chicken nuggets are animals, which, they're probably not, but we're not going to go there).
Semi-vegetarianism it is. Lacto-ovo is what I'd like to be, but I think the protein is really important and I don't think I could completely remove fish and poultry from my kids' diets just yet. I realize there is inhumane killing of chickens and turkeys, too, but I'm trying really hard to buy into the fact that some of these cage-free farms are actually killing humanely and that it's not just one giant way to get people to pay three times as much for a chicken. I found that you can also order kosher chicken and turkey online from Jewish markets.
Tonight we had Boca burgers, corn and potato wedges. Isaac beamed and ate every bite, proclaiming more than once that it felt "so good that he wasn't eating any cow."
Trouble is, Gabe has taken the notion to an extreme: tonight at dinner he burst out, "No, we NOT gonna eat cows, Isaac, or kill dem. We just be NINJAS and we will kill all da PEOPLE dat try to kill da COWS!"
Um, yeah, I'll work on that.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

The Bus

So, first thing's first - I took the summer off, forgive me. If anyone read this enough to care, anyhow.

Now that that's out of the way, let me tell you, friends, that I've been replaced. Stood up, snubbed, pushed out, betrayed, whatever. Trumped, by a big yellow beast and the school that hired it. My baby started Kindergarten yesterday. Today, he started being a "bus rider."
For weeks, months, heck, even years, he's stated emphatically that he will not be going to school. First it was cute, then funny, and then recently, scary, as I pictured myself having to drag him there, explaining to the teachers that he may have to be roped to a chair if they wanted him to stay. Yesterday was day one. He rode with me, because there were abbreviated hours, and parents were invited to orientation. He complained the whole drive there, that he did not want to go, and didn't see why he couldn't just stay home. Then something changed. He entered this classroom, full of brightly colored posters, and bins of things like Legos, and blocks, and crayons and pipe cleaners. He found a seat at a table that was already labeled with his name. He became very excited.

Today is day two. My child did not complain, no, he shot out of bed like a cannonball and quickly - I mean quickly put his clothes on. All these years of saying "Okay, and now where are your pants? Don't you have another sock?" must be over. He had everything on, in the right place. He sat and ate his cinnamon roll Toaster Strudel and drank his juice without complaint as well. He even commented on how good it tasted, which really never happens. Next, he mentioned that we better "go wet this hair down" because did I see "how crazy it is!?" Prior to this day, I swear to you, this child would walk around with hair wilder than Albert Einstein and not care.

I kneeled before him and said "You know that you have to listen to the bus driver, and you have to do whatever he says. You can't get off until you're at school, either." He said to me, I kid you not: "What, am I stupid or something? I know what my school looks like."

We walked silently to the spot, only about 300 ft. from our front door, where the bus stops. My stomach was in knots as I clutched my coffee cup. I needed something to hold onto, because I knew that today, it wouldn't be his hand. Two little girls, fifth graders, were already standing there. I started nervously speaking to them, like I was on a first date: "Do you come here often? I mean....you ride this bus every day?" And then I continued with "This is my son Isaac, he's in Kindergarten, would you girls make sure he does this whole bus thing right?" Isaac glared at me, and turned to the girls and rolled his eyes. "I've ridden lots of buses before" he told them. Um, no you haven't. Whatever, I get it. Can it, mom.

The bus pulled up, and I braced myself for the big goodbye hug, the promise to see him in just a few hours, the "I'll miss you, have a wonderful day." And as I stood there, white-knuckling my mug and running through the dialogue in my head, I watched my little blonde-headed boy bounce onto the bus without looking back. I froze. That's it? No big, dramatic goodbye? What?

The bus driver looked down at me from his throne, his big vinyl seat of authority, and said "Kindergarten?"
I nodded.
"He'll be fine."
I barely whispered, "okay."

As I heard the engine kick up, and the bus pull away, I stood there on the pavement, a little stunned at what just happened. But as I walked back home, a smile spread over my face, thinking of how exciting this all is for my boy. How he must be on top of the world right now, heading off to school like a big boy with his Spiderman backpack and new shoes.

I can't believe how quiet it is here. I realize the other two will be up momentarily, and the house will come alive. For now, though, I'm not sure what to think. Other than that I think I am going to need more coffee.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

with the warm comes the crazies

We've had temps above 60 for several days recently. I love it. I really do. I love to sit outside and soak up the sun like the best sun worshippers out there. I love the thought that in another few weeks, that temperature will soar even higher and it will be beach time. I love planting flowers and gardening...and love it even more when the kids find the first ripe tomato of our garden and plant their tiny baby teeth into it.
I'm a summer person. Fall's my favorite...but summer is definitely a close second.
Besides the agony of putting on a bathing suit...and taking it off, and putting on a different one...and taking it off...and then finally settling on some sort of bag with a drawstring or a terry cloth smock that's cutely named a "beach cover up," I also loathe neighborhood ruckus.
By ruckus, I mean other people's kids. I appreciate the desire for children to play outside. I do. My aforementioned children love to run themselves ragged in the dog days of summer, from the first peek of daybreak to the last breath of light. But, I just don't appreciate that some parents let this "ragged running" take place unsupervised.
I had a conversation with both my parents, in the past few days, about watching the kids. We are contemplating the purchase of a new home that happens to have a creek flowing through the backyard. It's gorgeous, and the babbling of the water over the rocks creates a feeling of serenity and peace. Peace, however, may not be the right word to describe the feeling I get when I think of the kids near that creek. The feeling is anxiety, apprehension. My parents share that feeling.
However, there's this thing I do...it's called "supervising." I do it a lot. Not just from the crack of dawn till that last breath of light. Nope. I'm the mom that gets up at 3 a.m. to make sure everyone is still breathing, as they are passed out in a hard, drooly sleep, with various action figures, stuffed animals, or pacifiers nestled in next to them. I love my kids. I suppose most parents do.
I even suppose that my neighbors love their kids, too. It's just a funny way of showing it. For example, this evening, what prompts me to type this post in the first place, is the fact that my neighbors' six-year old girl is playing ball in the street with two teenage boys. I have never before seen these boys. I also don't know that I'd let my daughter play with them. Maybe they're cousins. Maybe uncles. I don't know. But, regardless, they are all in the street...the same place as the not-so-speed-limit obedient cars. They have also, eight times now, not that I'm counting, thrown their ball into my front yard. My three beastly dogs are finding themselves quite distraught over this. They can't handle it. I am growling at them to cease their barking; they simply think they're alerting me that someone has come into our yard. They're doing what they should, I'm the one supremely annoyed.
So the question is, do I say something to the parents, or do I assume that if they were actually conscientious people who caredfor their child's well being, they wouldn't allow her out there in the first place?

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Betcha this kid's mama is proud...

I got this email today from my mother-in-law. I don't get a chance to read a lot of forwards, but this was worth reading to the end. I could imagine my little boy saying some of these things...This was a homework assignment, to 'explain God.' It was written by an 8-year-old named Danny Dutton, who lives in Chula Vista , CA . Danny is in third grade. Way to go, Danny.

EXPLANATION OF GOD:

'One of God's main jobs is making people. He makes them to replace the ones that die, so there will be enough people to take
care of things on earth. He doesn't make grownups, just babies.... I think because they are smaller and easier to make. That way he
doesn't have to take up his valuable time teaching them to talk and walk. He can just leave that to mothers and fathers.'

'God's second most important job is listening to prayers. An awful lot of this goes on, since some people, like preachers
and things, pray at times beside bedtime. God doesn't have time to listen to the radio or TV because of this. Because he hears
everything, there must be a terrible lot ofnoise in his ears, unless he has thought of a way to turn it off.'

'God sees everything and hears everything and is everywhere which keeps Him pretty busy. So you shouldn't go wasting his
time by going over your mom and dad's head asking for something they said you couldn't have.'


'Atheists are people who don't believe in God. I don't think there are any in Chula Vista . At least there aren't any who
come to our church.'
'Jesus is God's Son. He used to do all the hard work, like walking on water and performing miracles and trying to teach the
people who didn't want to learn about God. They finally got tired of him preaching to them and they crucified him But he was good and
kind, like his father, and he told his father that they didn't know what they were doing and to forgive them and God said O.K...'

'His dad (God) appreciated everything that he had done and all his hard work on earth so he told him he didn't have to go
out on the road anymore. He could stay in heaven. So he did. And now he helps his dad out by listening to prayers and seeing things
which are important for God to take care of and which ones he can take care of himself without having to bother God. Like a secretary,
only more important.'

'You can pray anytime you want and they are sure to help you because they got it worked out so one of them is on duty all
the time.'

'You should always go to church on Sunday because it makes God happy, and if there's anybody you want to make happy, it's
God!

Don't skip church to do something you think will be more fun like going to the beach. This is wrong. And besides the sun
doesn't come out at the beach until noon anyway.'

'If you don't believe in God, besides being an atheist, you will be very lonely, because your parents can't go everywhere
with you, like to camp, but God can. It is good to know He's around you when you're scared, in the dark or when you can't swim and you
get thrown into real deep water by big kids.'

'But...you shouldn't just always think of what God can do for you. I figure God put me here and he can take me back anytime
he pleases..

Sunday, April 4, 2010

the meaning of holidays

This past year's Christmas was kind of overwhelming with gifts and hoopla. My children have reached the age when they want everything, and believe that Santa Claus will provide. I believe we, as parents, did this to ourselves, pushing the Santa business down their throats.
Then we get to Valentine's Day, and while we don't celebrate any visits from fictional gift-bearing characters, the kids have come to expect some sort of flashy red box containing nougat filled chocolates.
Fast forward to today, Easter Sunday. The most sacred of holidays, in my opinion. Except, again, the meaning of the holiday is shadowed by gifts...and in this case, it revolves around a giant bunny rabbit. Don't get me wrong, I think kids should have their fun. Heck, I loved Christmas and Easter when I was a child. The food, the fun, the family, and yep, the new stuff made for an excellent day.
So, not wanting to squelch their dreams of candy-filled eggs, I didn't put the kabash to Easter bunny festivities altogether. But I did decide it was time to intervene, and begin to explain to them why we believe holidays, and in particular, Easter, are so important.
Yesterday, I showed my boys excerpts (non-violent ones) from The Passion of the Christ. I wanted them to know about Jesus'crucifixion, and why we celebrate his victory over the grave.
While I'm not convinced they truly get it yet, the outcome was pleasing. Here are some of the things that came up in conversation as we watched:
Isaac: "So they beat him?"
Gabe: "They beating him?"
Me: "Yes, they were very awful to Jesus."
Isaac: "Well...I guess I'm not going to church tomorrow, if this is what happens when you go around Jesus on Easter."
Me: "This happened a long time ago. And God brought Jesus home after that, to Heaven, to forgive all of us on earth."
Isaac: "God gave him pretty good powers, I guess."

Then, today, the boys got their Easter baskets when they woke. They were, as expected, elated to find their goodies in the nests of plastic grass. Isaac put his things down, and said with a very serious tone: "Gabie, let's pray."
Gabe followed suit, bowing his head and clutching his hands together. Isaac began:
"Dear Easter Bunny..."
I interjected that we actually don't pray to the Easter Bunny.
Isaac cleared his throat again:
"Dear God...Thank you for telling your friend, the Easter Bunny, that we are good boys. Well, thank you for telling him that we are not bad boys all the time, I mean."
He opened one eye and looked at me, while I tried to remain composed.
"And thank you, too, for getting Jesus up today."

So, for now, I realize that Santa, God and the Easter Bunny are all on the same level for this kid.
Of course I know this will all have to be sorted out...
For right now, I'm just gonna be okay with it.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Long time, no see...

I did not die or fall off the face of the earth. I have been incredibly, overwhelmingly busy. And it turns out, I am not one of those moms with extra tentacle-like hands that can do various tasks all at once....including updating a once-frequented blog.

Here's what I've been doing:

Dealing with a six-month old drama queen. She spits, she rolls her eyes at me, she refuses to look my way. And the next minute she smiles, coos, and reaches her arms out to her favorite mama.

Dealing with a five-going-on-35 year old boy. Nothing is new here. He is an orange belt in TKD now...which translates to more emphatic outbursts of "I can KICK YOUR BUTT!" to his brother, when applicable. But trust me, if he even tries to kick his brother's butt....well, we'll see who's got the orange belt...

Dealing with the process of getting a Masters in Counseling. I can't believe how much more work this is, compared to undergrad. I wanted to be done. What was I thinking?

Putting my house on the market, and praying it sells soon.

Dealing with the ever ongoing struggle to get Gabe to gain weight. His sister went in for her six month checkup, and weighed in at 13 lbs, 13 oz. Gabe is nearly three. He weighs 24 lbs. There is something very disturbing about that. He eats incessantly, but I am now wondering if he has Crohn's. Why can I not eat incessantly?

Speaking of weight, I witnessed the little hourglass on my computer screen as it processed the calculation of my "ideal" weight. I waited. And to my horror, the number it gave me was a shocking 70 lbs. less than what I currently weigh. So that's it, folks. "Morbidly Obese." Since I figure I'm about 2 shakes from having my own show on TLC anyway, I would like to avoid having it revolve around my weight issues. So I joined Weight Watchers, and intend to go into seclusion until further notice.
Which, on the bright side, may mean more blogging. Or just more running and jumping and following the humiliating moves of Jillian Michaels, the much despised weight loss coach for "The Biggest Loser."

Take care, folks.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Nostalgic 64

This afternoon, I gave Isaac a present. I actually had it at Christmas, but I didn't want it to get lost in the shuffle. This is a special present...to me it was, anyway. It's a box of brand new Crayolas. The "big" 64 crayon pack. Not the super fancy one with the built in sharpener, or the huge 108 count box that boasts more variety but rather just slightly changes the originals and rewrites a fancy name. Nope. This is a traditional box, all with beautifully sharpened tips, neatly falling in line like little colorful soldiers in their respective cardboard sections.
I remember that Crayolas were my favorite part of going to school. Each August, I'd get a new box, and though I would spend several minutes at a time looking at the colors, studying them and moving them around in the box, I wouldn't make a single mark with them until I was in school. They weren't to be spoiled.
So, today I sat with Isaac and we looked at all the colors. He quickly picked his favorites, just like I quickly picked them when I was his age. He selected royal blue and red, for obvious superhero reasons. Those are Spiderman's colors.
Back then, I would have raced my fingers to the magenta and thistle. Those were my go-to colors. Ironically, I didn't color with them much. I didn't want to "waste" them. Funny, now I don't know where all those magentas and thistles went. The almost new crayons, probably tossed in a trash along with the stubby black, the worn out jungle green, and the paperless orange-red. Then I remember the trend of coloring many patches of the rainbow onto a sheet of white paper, and then coating the whole thing in black so you could make designs with a toothpick and the colors would come through. I liked the idea, but I only used my death-row crayons for that. By this I mean my sorriest black, my ugliest blues, yellows and pinks. Never my nice new colors; this project was crayon massacre.
We were interrupted in our crayon admiration by a "test of the emergency broadcast system" that reassured us, it was only a test, but also noted that it was a regularly scheduled test of our nation's Homeland Security alert system. Like the kind of alert we might get, not as a test, if our country is attacked by terrorists again? Perhaps. Isaac turned his attention to the TV, asking me what it meant. I explained it was just a way to make everyone aware if there would ever be danger. His eyebrows furrowed.
So did mine.
So, it seems, while he and I can share the joy of a new box of Crayolas, the thought stikes me that my children's childhood may not be as carefree as my own was, as carefree as it's supposed to be. I know I'll do everything I can to keep things simple, but we're definitely in a different ballgame, now.
For the moment, though, I think I'm going to teach him how to make one of those "use up all your old colors and draw with a toothpick" projects.
And for the record, as of today, I think my new favorite colors are orchid and raw umber.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

A creative kid?

I woke up in a cold sweat at about 2 a.m. today. This doesn't happen very often. No, it wasn't a nightmare about a monster or ghosts, or being attacked or chased, or falling out of a 10 story building or anything like that. It was about school, and particularly, my kid. I had talked with a few of the mom's at Isaac's Tae Kwon Do class about Kindergarten options, and as luck would have it, I had a dream about it. To sum it up, in the dream, Isaac started Kindergarten. The teachers were impressed with his knowledge, he knew his colors, shapes, numbers, etc. But when it came to relating to his friends, there was trouble. He came home and cried that no one liked him. And, although it's an extreme exaggeration from real life, at the end of the dream, I was having a conference with his teacher who said "Just face it, your kid is a weirdo."
Now, I've never heard a teacher call a kid a weirdo; at least not to a parent. In fact, I'm sure the term "weirdo" came from my own frequent use of it in my vocabulary. I like to say it with a little Bronx accent "ya weeah-do."
Anyway, point is, Isaac is a lot like me. He's a bit of a loner. He loves to play with other kids, but in general, his ideas seem a little far-fetched to some kids. He frequently dresses up in costumes, he alters his voice to sound like various characters, he draws elaborate pictures of space aliens playing with zombies and he fetches random useless items (sticks, buttons, pieces of string, etc) to use on his unbelievable snow "castle" creations in the backyard. I overheard him telling his brother that he's married and the cats are his children. Just today he told him that if he didn't start using the potty soon, he was going to smell like "tuna fish and wet chicken!" He also sulks at the dinner table, spending a few minutes every evening giving me guilt trips about serving meat, considering the fact that it's killing farm animals. I just don't know about him. Every parent questions their child's nature from time to time, I'm sure. Every parent worries, (whether you admit it or not) that your kid will be the one dancing around with his hands down his shorts like the kid of Everybody Loves Raymond when the rest of the basketball team is trying to score. Likewise, every parent secretly thinks, at one point or another, that their kid is really gifted, super-intelligent and somehow, in some way,superior to other kids. Come on. We all do it.
Perhaps it's all normal. Perhaps it's because he is home with me all the time. I don't really interact with many people. I generally leave the house 3 times per week: church, and Monday and Wednesday's Tae Kwon Do class. I do go to the store from time to time, too, but I tote all 3 children along. I find myself becoming more and more of a loner, and maybe it's impacting him somehow. I used to hang out with friends often, before I had children. Even when I worked outside the home, I was more social. Nowadays, the reasoning process is different for me. Generally, if I have to pay a babysitter, dress up (something other than jeans), or pretend to be interesting, it's a no go. I even go to school at home, on the internet. I am becoming more fond of the concept of "Individual Networking" or "Autonomous Networking." Most of the friends I have exist only in the cyber-world. Some of them, I know, are friends that I've known for a while, and we simply reconnect online, but some of them I've never really met...and we are friends, just the same.
I find more often that my "friends" are the people who are most comfortable with who I really am. My mom, my sister, a few others, maybe. People I don't have to impress. People I can laugh with about idiotic things. People who don't care if I share a controversial and politically incorrect opinion, drop some foul language for the sake of passion, or even simply disagree.
What I do realize is the fact that this may not be the most helpful to my "interesting" child. Maybe he needs to spend less time with me, and more time interacting with peers. He casually shrugs his shoulders and tells me, "Mom, I'm just creative." Except he pronounces it "curative."
Creativity or not, maybe it'll all turn out okay. Maybe he'll blend in just fine, and I'm worrying for nothing. Maybe he's not a weirdo after all.
And anyhow, one of my favorite sayings is that there's a "fine line between genius and madness," and having a "curative" kid that turns into the next Albert Einstein wouldn't be all bad. Maybe the little man will win a Nobel prize someday, although it wouldn't really matter...they give those out to anybody nowadays....There I go with a politically incorrect statement again, darnit.
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