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.

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.

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.