It's hard to tell why some rules and laws exist. As a youth director, I depended on the theory that for every rule there was an idiot that caused its existence because s/he didn't think about the effects of his/her actions. Why do we have to wear t-shirts? Because some girls didn't know that "no spaghetti straps" meant them. Why do we have to have a checklist for cabin cleanup? Because some group didn't take cabin cleaning to its intended purpose. Why do we leave at exactly 6:00SVT (Standard Verizon Time)? Because someone consistently shows up 24 minutes late and expects that we'll stick around.
I fear that trick-or-treat might suffer from a similar epidemic.
Last night we took little H for a mini-treat excursion with his buddy Kyle to about 4 houses. Miss M went too, but no bucket in tow. You know, the lack-of-teeth thing. But as Jill doled out treats to several well-costumed youth, a few adolescents who were much too old to T'nT pounced upon Jill's sweet nature and took advantage. (Why, you ask, do you think they were too old? Simple. They were too cool for costumes, a general pre-requisite for the treat).
Then there were the parents of children who were being toted all across the land in strollers, where clearly the adults in the family would consume a majority of the candy. Now I'm all for a small candy taxation from the young ones (after all, who purchased the costume?). I call it a delivery fee for getting them to the treating. But, in my oh-so-humble opinion, the number of treating adults using a small child as a candy pawn raised concern.
Because what happens when too many people take advantage of a system that depends on the generosity of a well-meaning neighborhood? Ordinances, that's what happens. Soon there will be age and height restrictions, perhaps a candy-to-body-weight ratio and children will be required to report the loot before getting to consume one bite. And for all my luck, the authorities will only accept the Nerds and Sweettharts as payment for fine, leaving me with only a Bit 'o Honey or those horrendous peanut butter kisses wrapped in black and orange wax paper, likely made in somebody's basement, to skim from my kids' loot. The injustices.
I'm saddened that we can't depend on parents to make good decisions on appropriateness of participating in activities based on the kid and not based on "free stuff" or what's in it from a personal gain standpoint. If you ask me (and you did, or you still wouldn't be reading 5 paragraphs down), this is why our country has encountered so many problems as of late. We'd like to blame the elected officials, but in all honesty morality cannot - and should not - be legislated. We can't force people to live in a way that seeks the social good over personal gain, and I kinda wonder if our country was founded on that principle. But because such a notion rules our thinking, we depend on other systems to legislate and decipher good and bad, right and wrong for us. Then, when behavior becomes obnoxious, we legislate it. A new rule.
I read up a bit today in a pre-voting effort. Sure there are distinct differences between candidates, but all want to give us jobs and make education better. They all want us to feel like we won't pay more in taxes. And though I will still vote, I have difficulty believing that any of that matters in the trick-or-treat of it all. I can't depend on my legislators to do everything in an effort to make my community a better place to live. I have to depend on my schools, churches, civic organizations but most of all my neighbors to do that (after, of course, I depend on myself to aid, or even lead, the effort). Everyone is griping and moaning about how the government is broken and politicians are crooked, but that's because I think we've flawed our approach to the system and our expectations of its purpose. When we live up to our responsibility to contribute - and not just take - from a community, then we'll begin to see progress.
Until then, we'll just have to listen to awful political smear campaigns and buy extra Halloween candy.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
no mom, I said thespian
Yesterday at a visit to the midwife's office (no fears, it's not another baby, it was for that appointment) we talked about how things were going, how everyone is getting along, life with two children, blah blah blah. I told her how I quite enjoyed life and I was amazed at how smoothly it has went. And she says, "and you're so laid back about it." As I rehashed the story to KLR, she asked what the nurse over my shoulder looked like. Surely Bonnie couldn't have been referring to THIS girl.
So, it turns out I may have missed my calling as an actress. I had her fooled by playing the part of calm, cool and collected. And in fact this is the first I've ever heard reference made to me being a bit, ahem, dramatic. I guess the STAR Players don't know what they're missing.
It made me think about my career pathing. I never knew how that first job out of college played an important role in getting you a career in the field in which you were trained. Instead, I became Vice President of the Not Using My College Degree club (KLR was president because she had 2 degrees that sh did not use... I may demand a recount now that I have a second degree that is not currently being utilized for a paid position). Then I moved onto yet another position nowhere near the land of journalism. But let it be said, I've enjoyed both of these positions.
So, now that I've been blacklisted from the journalism and professional public relations world, I've created a list of the careers that perhaps I should now seek out. I can feel freedom to venture into far off lands of positions that suit me perfectly.
1. Head lettuce-tearer at any given salad bar. I owe gratitude to my Grandma Mary for this one, she always wanted it as a retirement job, thus now I seem to have an appreciation for proportionately trimmed lettuce.
2. Office organizer. At any office. Not that I want to work schedules or answer phones or anything of that [practical] nature. I just want to make sure the stapler is correctly placed to the left and slightly above the copier as it's supposed to be. This position would also afford me the luxury of wondering the office supply aisle of Target and indulging on someone else's dime.
3. On the side , I would contract out as a kitchen cupboard organizer. My specialty would be move ins. Is there any glee greater than that of efficient spice placement? And how will they know the potholders must be placed in the drawer to the direct right of the oven if someone does not tell them?
4. Office information disseminator. Who has time to keep up on what's happening with their coworkers? And who even reads the company newsletter? Allow me to station myself at the coffee pot and chitter chatter with my colleagues. No worries, I'll bring my own mug and creamer. Payroll will fall under "company morale".
5. Speaking of offices and coffee, my next business venture will be the indoor doughnut cart, complete with decent coffee (read: name brand that doesn't start with an F and end with an "olgers") , seasonally themed creamers and a delectable assortment of sweet carbohydrates. I'd only come twice a week so customers would justify it as a "treat" and "splurge" from their "diet".
I shouldn't really limit myself to these best options, they're only the ones that readily come to mind. What did I miss? Where did you miss your calling?
So, it turns out I may have missed my calling as an actress. I had her fooled by playing the part of calm, cool and collected. And in fact this is the first I've ever heard reference made to me being a bit, ahem, dramatic. I guess the STAR Players don't know what they're missing.
It made me think about my career pathing. I never knew how that first job out of college played an important role in getting you a career in the field in which you were trained. Instead, I became Vice President of the Not Using My College Degree club (KLR was president because she had 2 degrees that sh did not use... I may demand a recount now that I have a second degree that is not currently being utilized for a paid position). Then I moved onto yet another position nowhere near the land of journalism. But let it be said, I've enjoyed both of these positions.
So, now that I've been blacklisted from the journalism and professional public relations world, I've created a list of the careers that perhaps I should now seek out. I can feel freedom to venture into far off lands of positions that suit me perfectly.
1. Head lettuce-tearer at any given salad bar. I owe gratitude to my Grandma Mary for this one, she always wanted it as a retirement job, thus now I seem to have an appreciation for proportionately trimmed lettuce.
2. Office organizer. At any office. Not that I want to work schedules or answer phones or anything of that [practical] nature. I just want to make sure the stapler is correctly placed to the left and slightly above the copier as it's supposed to be. This position would also afford me the luxury of wondering the office supply aisle of Target and indulging on someone else's dime.
3. On the side , I would contract out as a kitchen cupboard organizer. My specialty would be move ins. Is there any glee greater than that of efficient spice placement? And how will they know the potholders must be placed in the drawer to the direct right of the oven if someone does not tell them?
4. Office information disseminator. Who has time to keep up on what's happening with their coworkers? And who even reads the company newsletter? Allow me to station myself at the coffee pot and chitter chatter with my colleagues. No worries, I'll bring my own mug and creamer. Payroll will fall under "company morale".
5. Speaking of offices and coffee, my next business venture will be the indoor doughnut cart, complete with decent coffee (read: name brand that doesn't start with an F and end with an "olgers") , seasonally themed creamers and a delectable assortment of sweet carbohydrates. I'd only come twice a week so customers would justify it as a "treat" and "splurge" from their "diet".
I shouldn't really limit myself to these best options, they're only the ones that readily come to mind. What did I miss? Where did you miss your calling?
Monday, October 25, 2010
ka-noodling
A few simple truths have guided me in my general parenting principles: a) everyone is happier when they've eaten. b) everyone sleeps better after a bath.
The first one is a gimme, but sometimes it goes without saying that you need to keep a spare bag of raisins in the diaper bag and always take a banana with you when you go places where you can't devote 100% of your attention to your child (such as, like this morning, the doctor's office).
However, the bathing thing came unto realization more recently. My mother-in-law led me this way when we were having baths before bed... "it gets the wrinkles out" she said. I know my levels of comfort increase dramatically after a good soak and the same is true of my kiddos.
Turns out, the same is true for your whole wheat carbohydrates. Who knew?
I was first turned on to the concept when I was trying to master beans and rice (still a work in progress). I read in The Art of Simple Cooking (recommend!) that you should rinse the rice and run it through your hands until the water turns all cloudy. Drain, then add the appropriate amount of cooking water. Guess what?! No more crunchy, chewy rice. It was light and fluffy like a pillowy cloud. Then I randomly bought a bag of barley on sale (don't ask, I have no idea), but I tossed it in my vegetable soup following a similar procedure: success!!
Today's magic dish was a whole wheat pasta with homemade pesto (thank you KLR), sundried tomatoes, and the last of last week's roasted chicken. The water was just starting to boil when I saw a cloudy residue. Quick! I thought. To the sink! We must rinse!
After such a close call we got that water boiled (whew, I lead a rousing life), topped it with delicious pasta coverings, and the chewy-factor that typically accompanies a whole wheat pasta- even after boiling it to a near lifeless pulp- had vanished. I had the bowl inhaled in 5.2 seconds.
And to you who are sitting there saying to yourselves, "well, of course you rinse pasta before you boil it" I say, WHAT KIND OF FRIEND ARE YOU ANYWAY? You didn't tell me these things as I've ranted about my failures as a pasta boiler. You even sat idle as I recapped my lost arguments with husband over the virtue of whole wheat pasta over the white. Shame. Shame on you for keeping me in my ignorant state.
As for me, it's time to make a vat of spaghetti. When you've got a skill, flaunt it- right?
The first one is a gimme, but sometimes it goes without saying that you need to keep a spare bag of raisins in the diaper bag and always take a banana with you when you go places where you can't devote 100% of your attention to your child (such as, like this morning, the doctor's office).
However, the bathing thing came unto realization more recently. My mother-in-law led me this way when we were having baths before bed... "it gets the wrinkles out" she said. I know my levels of comfort increase dramatically after a good soak and the same is true of my kiddos.
Turns out, the same is true for your whole wheat carbohydrates. Who knew?
I was first turned on to the concept when I was trying to master beans and rice (still a work in progress). I read in The Art of Simple Cooking (recommend!) that you should rinse the rice and run it through your hands until the water turns all cloudy. Drain, then add the appropriate amount of cooking water. Guess what?! No more crunchy, chewy rice. It was light and fluffy like a pillowy cloud. Then I randomly bought a bag of barley on sale (don't ask, I have no idea), but I tossed it in my vegetable soup following a similar procedure: success!!
Today's magic dish was a whole wheat pasta with homemade pesto (thank you KLR), sundried tomatoes, and the last of last week's roasted chicken. The water was just starting to boil when I saw a cloudy residue. Quick! I thought. To the sink! We must rinse!
After such a close call we got that water boiled (whew, I lead a rousing life), topped it with delicious pasta coverings, and the chewy-factor that typically accompanies a whole wheat pasta- even after boiling it to a near lifeless pulp- had vanished. I had the bowl inhaled in 5.2 seconds.
And to you who are sitting there saying to yourselves, "well, of course you rinse pasta before you boil it" I say, WHAT KIND OF FRIEND ARE YOU ANYWAY? You didn't tell me these things as I've ranted about my failures as a pasta boiler. You even sat idle as I recapped my lost arguments with husband over the virtue of whole wheat pasta over the white. Shame. Shame on you for keeping me in my ignorant state.
As for me, it's time to make a vat of spaghetti. When you've got a skill, flaunt it- right?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
what a girl wants
Every time I change the sheets in H's crib, I find an impressive display of long-launched binkies below the mattress.We keep a rotation of 3 different binks in special hiding places so that in the middle of the night, if one goes astray, we have a go-to backup. After we're down to zero, the cleanup must resume and the clock restarts. This morning as I was re-sheeting I wondered if H actually attempts to challenge my bink-radar by stuffing them away as a trinket prize. The kid loves to give a round of applause for a job well done.
I've been feeling a bit as if H and God have been ganging up in this regard. Not so much in the details of where to hide a binky, but as if it can be a game... "what will she do now? How will she react?" I can't speak for the developmental stages of deities, but I'm positive all toddlers eventually give it a go.
In this, I've been attempting to practice my patience-exemplifying skills, but I've come to the realization that I'm much too selfish for that. However, this morning at Journey we asked the question that God could be asking us... "what do you want?" (or, "what are you looking for?" depending on translation). The discussion walked the path of knowing that Jesus didn't necessarily come to solve the problems of the general population in the ways they looked for it: overthrowing the Roman government, restoring the nation as it was in the "good ol' days", etc etc.
Honestly, I had a tough time even getting to the question. I realized that in our consumerist society, we're constantly being asked that question and then sold a product that will supposedly quench the thirst. Hungry much? Eat a snickers. Want to look nicer? Buy these clothes. Sex appeal? Try this cologne/cigarette/beer/car. We're bombarded with solutions to our problems.
On this eve of husband quite likely loosing his job I realize that I don't want a solution. I don't want someone to sell me a problem-solver. Because come again next month, or year, he'll be looking for employment again. I'm simply not interested in a god that only deals in immediate gratification, the way that he has be sold in the past.
I can legitimize all the offered consolation prize remarks: at least we both have our PT role where I work (and can make far more money); he can sub; at least we're not pregnant; it was an awful situation to begin with, so this is kind of like freedom... but if I'm honest, there's a part of me (probably located in my thighs, where all bitterness resides) that thinks, "yeah, but these things are typically spoken by people who have had health insurance for longer than 3 months at a time." People who know the amount in their paychecks from week to week.
I don't need a solution-god to find immediate employment and I don't want cliche remembrances of how good we really do have it, even if we are fortunate in our misfortune. What I need is the woman who hugs me as I cry in church. The friends who show frustration on our behalf. I want to be disappointed without fear of coloring God unfaithful. I want to feel validated that no matter how great the opportunity that could lie ahead, it sucks monkey balls to be cast out of your current situation. Even when the students are a nightmare and the admin is a trainwreck, something still hurts deep inside to see a good man work extremely hard to do a thankless job and still not catch a break.
If I were following Jesus down that dusty path and he turned and asked, "what do you want?" I'm not sure I'd have an answer. I don't want my husband to keep his job. I don't even want or expect perfection for this life. I guess what I want is a bit of patience. Love. Nothing trite, but rather freedom to simply be and feel.
I've been feeling a bit as if H and God have been ganging up in this regard. Not so much in the details of where to hide a binky, but as if it can be a game... "what will she do now? How will she react?" I can't speak for the developmental stages of deities, but I'm positive all toddlers eventually give it a go.
In this, I've been attempting to practice my patience-exemplifying skills, but I've come to the realization that I'm much too selfish for that. However, this morning at Journey we asked the question that God could be asking us... "what do you want?" (or, "what are you looking for?" depending on translation). The discussion walked the path of knowing that Jesus didn't necessarily come to solve the problems of the general population in the ways they looked for it: overthrowing the Roman government, restoring the nation as it was in the "good ol' days", etc etc.
Honestly, I had a tough time even getting to the question. I realized that in our consumerist society, we're constantly being asked that question and then sold a product that will supposedly quench the thirst. Hungry much? Eat a snickers. Want to look nicer? Buy these clothes. Sex appeal? Try this cologne/cigarette/beer/car. We're bombarded with solutions to our problems.
On this eve of husband quite likely loosing his job I realize that I don't want a solution. I don't want someone to sell me a problem-solver. Because come again next month, or year, he'll be looking for employment again. I'm simply not interested in a god that only deals in immediate gratification, the way that he has be sold in the past.
I can legitimize all the offered consolation prize remarks: at least we both have our PT role where I work (and can make far more money); he can sub; at least we're not pregnant; it was an awful situation to begin with, so this is kind of like freedom... but if I'm honest, there's a part of me (probably located in my thighs, where all bitterness resides) that thinks, "yeah, but these things are typically spoken by people who have had health insurance for longer than 3 months at a time." People who know the amount in their paychecks from week to week.
I don't need a solution-god to find immediate employment and I don't want cliche remembrances of how good we really do have it, even if we are fortunate in our misfortune. What I need is the woman who hugs me as I cry in church. The friends who show frustration on our behalf. I want to be disappointed without fear of coloring God unfaithful. I want to feel validated that no matter how great the opportunity that could lie ahead, it sucks monkey balls to be cast out of your current situation. Even when the students are a nightmare and the admin is a trainwreck, something still hurts deep inside to see a good man work extremely hard to do a thankless job and still not catch a break.
If I were following Jesus down that dusty path and he turned and asked, "what do you want?" I'm not sure I'd have an answer. I don't want my husband to keep his job. I don't even want or expect perfection for this life. I guess what I want is a bit of patience. Love. Nothing trite, but rather freedom to simply be and feel.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
the long and short of 4 years
Soraya arrived only 4 short years ago, forever changing the landscape of her extended family, from everything to how we eat out, to regularly conversing about poop and skin fungus, and strategizing how we all might sleep in the same house and hope for more than 3 hours rest. She now stands as the ringleader and head cart-pusher of my parents' 5 grandbabies.
I can't begin to fathom H being able to do all that she can do now - hold normal conversations (well, about fictional characters and the correct spanish word for "ear"), create giftcards, eat at a normal sized table and chair and comprehend the value of a good chocolate chip cookie. She has grown up so fast. Watch out, soon we'll be buying bras, homecoming dresses and the correct accessories for a wedding gown. Well, "we" as in my sister, who will give me the play-by-play later. Then I'll have a full 3 years to mentally prepare myself for the same ordeals with Miss M.
This morning I watched the video I made of all the pictures from the day Raya was born. I started thinking back on that time, what life was like, how it's now different...
Happy birthday, Raya Boo.
I can't begin to fathom H being able to do all that she can do now - hold normal conversations (well, about fictional characters and the correct spanish word for "ear"), create giftcards, eat at a normal sized table and chair and comprehend the value of a good chocolate chip cookie. She has grown up so fast. Watch out, soon we'll be buying bras, homecoming dresses and the correct accessories for a wedding gown. Well, "we" as in my sister, who will give me the play-by-play later. Then I'll have a full 3 years to mentally prepare myself for the same ordeals with Miss M.
This morning I watched the video I made of all the pictures from the day Raya was born. I started thinking back on that time, what life was like, how it's now different...
- I wasn't a part of facebook. I had shared the video on my Xanga. (I know! What's that?! Does it even still exist?)
- I was a newlywed.
- We were still living in our little love shack on the hill.
- Husband was a funeral director, I was a youth director. Together we directed the young and old. Together we lacked a lot of direction.
- Husband wore a suit nearly every day. He now claims he doesn't have a decent suit (and his best one has a hole in an inappropriate area. Don't tell Dean - he wore it to be an usher in his wedding).
- I rarely got dressed before 9. And by "dressed" I mean jeans and a hoodie. Well... somethings never change.
- In the time since Raya was born, husband and I have each earned a masters degree.
- I had not yet met my friend Sarah.
- I'd never grown a garden. Which means I didn't like tomatoes.
- KLR had not yet met her husband.
Happy birthday, Raya Boo.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
On the lighter side
My recent posts tend to be quite heavy, like homemade bread that wasn't given enough time to rise. Mmmm... bread. Perhaps a goal for the afternoon... But I digress. Which is the whole point of this post. Aimless digression.
You know you're too old for the clothes in a store when your stroller won't fit between the racks. However, these new Maurices jeans fit so wonderfully (and they're a size SMALLER than my regular numbers) that I'll be ramming my children into racks of sweaters very soon. And I decided that the best way to break in a new pair is to wear them every day for a week. Every. Single. Day. Take that, tight waistband.
Now you can wrap me up and call me thrifty. Those chickens I bought a few weeks ago from a local farmer? Grandma Marj was so good to prep it up and toss it in the oven for me that we enjoyed it last night. We have at least 2 more meals of chicken left (quesedillas tonight, maybe a wrap of sorts for lunch. And why is spell check telling me that quesedillas is spelled wrong but not offering any options to rectify the problem?). And now I smell the broth simmering on the stove thanks to a well-seasoned carcass. Aww, what? You don't like knowing your broth comes from a carcass? Sorry. Spoiler alert. But I just bought some broth the other day and it's ex-pennnn-sive, especially at the rate that this house goes through soups. We've got to pinch a penny where we can.
Speaking of lack of pennypenching, tomorrow evening our intentions are to go out and enjoy a good Japanese hibachi with a friend crossing the line of 30. I might even put on my "going out shirt." We all know what jeans I'll be wearing. Still debating on babysitters as the hibachi might just be entertaining enough for the little guy to sit through. But can one really enjoy an evening in a going out shirt with 2 children astride? Surely there's a rule about that somewhere.
Finally, a note about my most recent success in the laundry department: homemade soap. Husband was a bit apprehensive (when he got a tough stain on his pants he demanded "real" laundry detergent), but after a brief mishap of leaving wet clothes in the washer a few er, days, too long, I ran a load with said Miracle Detergent and pulled out the rewash with a fresh, clean scent. I've noticed at times that "real detergent" doesn't always offer the same success. Not that I frequently leave my laundry wet in the washer for days at a time or anything.
Ok, I can't get that bread off my mind. I've got at least one sleeping so I think this could be an achievable goal for the day.
You know you're too old for the clothes in a store when your stroller won't fit between the racks. However, these new Maurices jeans fit so wonderfully (and they're a size SMALLER than my regular numbers) that I'll be ramming my children into racks of sweaters very soon. And I decided that the best way to break in a new pair is to wear them every day for a week. Every. Single. Day. Take that, tight waistband.
Now you can wrap me up and call me thrifty. Those chickens I bought a few weeks ago from a local farmer? Grandma Marj was so good to prep it up and toss it in the oven for me that we enjoyed it last night. We have at least 2 more meals of chicken left (quesedillas tonight, maybe a wrap of sorts for lunch. And why is spell check telling me that quesedillas is spelled wrong but not offering any options to rectify the problem?). And now I smell the broth simmering on the stove thanks to a well-seasoned carcass. Aww, what? You don't like knowing your broth comes from a carcass? Sorry. Spoiler alert. But I just bought some broth the other day and it's ex-pennnn-sive, especially at the rate that this house goes through soups. We've got to pinch a penny where we can.
Speaking of lack of pennypenching, tomorrow evening our intentions are to go out and enjoy a good Japanese hibachi with a friend crossing the line of 30. I might even put on my "going out shirt." We all know what jeans I'll be wearing. Still debating on babysitters as the hibachi might just be entertaining enough for the little guy to sit through. But can one really enjoy an evening in a going out shirt with 2 children astride? Surely there's a rule about that somewhere.
Finally, a note about my most recent success in the laundry department: homemade soap. Husband was a bit apprehensive (when he got a tough stain on his pants he demanded "real" laundry detergent), but after a brief mishap of leaving wet clothes in the washer a few er, days, too long, I ran a load with said Miracle Detergent and pulled out the rewash with a fresh, clean scent. I've noticed at times that "real detergent" doesn't always offer the same success. Not that I frequently leave my laundry wet in the washer for days at a time or anything.
Ok, I can't get that bread off my mind. I've got at least one sleeping so I think this could be an achievable goal for the day.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Delivery notice
Lately, several instances have caused me to stop and reflect on my life and all that encompasses it. I feel very fortunate, lucky, blessed. I can give a brief synopsis why:
Glee highlighted it as a common stumbling block when Finn up and left his Grilled Cheesus faith because the guidance counselor told him that the graven image didn't really make him special. He wanted an all-access pass to the good life, thanks be to the almighty Bread and Cheese. When he discovered that the universe operated otherwise, he jumped ship on the whole belief system of something beyond.
We like the idea of a God who will bless us if we follow Him. A+B=C. I follow, you give, we're both happy. As a rule-driven creature of logic, I grasp this concept with clenched knuckles. But when faced with "when bad things happen to good people" one of our only choices of response tends to be "We don't know why God does things" and "We can't see the whole picture." They are true; we don't know and we can't see. But that doesn't offer much hope to a family at the hospital whose loved one is loosing a battle with depression and a destructive lifestyle.
My wanderings take me to the original father of faith, Abraham. God told Abe that he would bless him - lots of descendants, a promised land, lots o' milk and honey. But a key phrase is often omitted.
"I will make you into a great nation
and I will bless you;
I will make your name great,
and you will be a blessing.
3 I will bless those who bless you,
and whoever curses you I will curse;
and all peoples on earth
will be blessed through you."
And you will be a blessing... and all will be blessed through you. What if faith is about far more than ourselves and God, something our individualistic culture frequently abhors?
I'm not trying to take God out of the blessing-giver role. Clearly, he's the main show. And I'm not about to heap fault on to someone for the bad things happening. But what if my blessings aren't just the direct result of something good I've done, but rather the faith of those around me? What if, because my parents are faithful, I have become the recipient of the blessings of opportunity and provision? What if, because my friends tend to live in a way that is loving, generous, patient (oh, my friends ARE patient with me!) and kind, and my life is blessed as a result. God still gives, but it's a matter of vehicle.
Taking this on adds a whole new level of codependency that I'm sure some counselor would resist. But it's an option I'm willing to explore.
- Last night at midnight when M was hungry, my ultra-thoughtful husband retrieved her and I didn't have to get out of bed.
- I have a freezer full of cow and chickens to eat whenever so inclined.
- All 8 million of my cousins and their kids live within driving distance to regularly wreck havoc in a well-reciprocated manner.
- My kids' grandmas and grandpas (all 4 of them) live close enough to feed them too much junk food.
- My bookshelf offers multiple options for my next bookclub selection.
- I speak to at least one of my friends on a daily basis.
- I own shoes that can match any outfit I put together.
- I don't hate my job.
Glee highlighted it as a common stumbling block when Finn up and left his Grilled Cheesus faith because the guidance counselor told him that the graven image didn't really make him special. He wanted an all-access pass to the good life, thanks be to the almighty Bread and Cheese. When he discovered that the universe operated otherwise, he jumped ship on the whole belief system of something beyond.
We like the idea of a God who will bless us if we follow Him. A+B=C. I follow, you give, we're both happy. As a rule-driven creature of logic, I grasp this concept with clenched knuckles. But when faced with "when bad things happen to good people" one of our only choices of response tends to be "We don't know why God does things" and "We can't see the whole picture." They are true; we don't know and we can't see. But that doesn't offer much hope to a family at the hospital whose loved one is loosing a battle with depression and a destructive lifestyle.
My wanderings take me to the original father of faith, Abraham. God told Abe that he would bless him - lots of descendants, a promised land, lots o' milk and honey. But a key phrase is often omitted.
"I will make you into a great nation
and I will bless you;
I will make your name great,
and you will be a blessing.
3 I will bless those who bless you,
and whoever curses you I will curse;
and all peoples on earth
will be blessed through you."
And you will be a blessing... and all will be blessed through you. What if faith is about far more than ourselves and God, something our individualistic culture frequently abhors?
I'm not trying to take God out of the blessing-giver role. Clearly, he's the main show. And I'm not about to heap fault on to someone for the bad things happening. But what if my blessings aren't just the direct result of something good I've done, but rather the faith of those around me? What if, because my parents are faithful, I have become the recipient of the blessings of opportunity and provision? What if, because my friends tend to live in a way that is loving, generous, patient (oh, my friends ARE patient with me!) and kind, and my life is blessed as a result. God still gives, but it's a matter of vehicle.
Taking this on adds a whole new level of codependency that I'm sure some counselor would resist. But it's an option I'm willing to explore.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Hi Kettle! This is pot, just calling to say...
In a matter of one post and 350 words or less I managed to make several unfair assumptions.
1. That people actually read this, other than KLM (or Connie G or Anna G).
2. That readers would be guaranteed hear what I'm trying to say, rather than what is actually said.
3. That I am incapable of committing the same blunders as that which I critique.
Those are just the big ones. There's a comments section, feel free to add your own running tally.
Now that I realize my blunders (thanks to the loving awareness of a good friend... and a quick sidenote: everyone needs at least one, if not four, friends that can play the awareness card for you without fear), I must make bloggy amends. Because if I don't, then I wouldn't be living what I strongly to be true about God, people, words and love.
Today on the View (how's that for a segue?) they revisited last week's debacle of the Bill O'Reilly interview. Because I don't watch much TV (including news) and apparently none of my facebook friends watched either (because that's where I get my news) I had no idea. But today's conversation about how people speak of others really made me think. BO'R makes his mark through extreme, unthoughtful comments, often at the expense of others who typically have no voice. I don't appreciate that. I think it's lousy entertainment and downright awful "journalism" if you insist upon putting him in that category.
But this evening served as a reminder that these clothes aren't fireproof. Though not intended (and I will attempt to limit this as my only justification), perhaps my flippant comments may also seem to be at the expense of others. I've said before how I hate limiting a conversation to simply issues, but I nevertheless find myself painting with a wide brush. If I claim to respect differing opinions but my remarks can be interpreted on the scale of hurtful, unthoughtful or disrespectful, then perhaps I should take up paper mache rather than writing.
The book of Hebrews tells us that the Word is a double-edged sword, able to cut to the deep (MM Paraphrase). Though I hold the scriptures in higher regard than other literature, or perhaps a blog, I do live with a profound conviction that words matter. I wouldn't be at my desk night after night if they didn't. Words have the ability to heal and to hurt. It is by a person's word that you discover true identity. I believe the differentiator between really, really good parents and the rest of us lies in how they speak to their children and one another (Do they do what they say? How do they speak of & respect others?). God created the universe with the power of words; He spoke Life into being.
So let tonight be an open letter of apology to anyone who I've carelessly tossed under the bus, as they say in corporate-world speak, especially when done so inadvertently. If I've taken your liberties in telling a story or painted a picture with the wrong colors, please forgive me. If I've recklessly tossed around words or ideas and you care deeply about those concepts, allow me the grace to say, "I'm learning" and also "I'm sorry."
That, any perhaps I should hire an editor.
1. That people actually read this, other than KLM (or Connie G or Anna G).
2. That readers would be guaranteed hear what I'm trying to say, rather than what is actually said.
3. That I am incapable of committing the same blunders as that which I critique.
Those are just the big ones. There's a comments section, feel free to add your own running tally.
Now that I realize my blunders (thanks to the loving awareness of a good friend... and a quick sidenote: everyone needs at least one, if not four, friends that can play the awareness card for you without fear), I must make bloggy amends. Because if I don't, then I wouldn't be living what I strongly to be true about God, people, words and love.
Today on the View (how's that for a segue?) they revisited last week's debacle of the Bill O'Reilly interview. Because I don't watch much TV (including news) and apparently none of my facebook friends watched either (because that's where I get my news) I had no idea. But today's conversation about how people speak of others really made me think. BO'R makes his mark through extreme, unthoughtful comments, often at the expense of others who typically have no voice. I don't appreciate that. I think it's lousy entertainment and downright awful "journalism" if you insist upon putting him in that category.
But this evening served as a reminder that these clothes aren't fireproof. Though not intended (and I will attempt to limit this as my only justification), perhaps my flippant comments may also seem to be at the expense of others. I've said before how I hate limiting a conversation to simply issues, but I nevertheless find myself painting with a wide brush. If I claim to respect differing opinions but my remarks can be interpreted on the scale of hurtful, unthoughtful or disrespectful, then perhaps I should take up paper mache rather than writing.
The book of Hebrews tells us that the Word is a double-edged sword, able to cut to the deep (MM Paraphrase). Though I hold the scriptures in higher regard than other literature, or perhaps a blog, I do live with a profound conviction that words matter. I wouldn't be at my desk night after night if they didn't. Words have the ability to heal and to hurt. It is by a person's word that you discover true identity. I believe the differentiator between really, really good parents and the rest of us lies in how they speak to their children and one another (Do they do what they say? How do they speak of & respect others?). God created the universe with the power of words; He spoke Life into being.
So let tonight be an open letter of apology to anyone who I've carelessly tossed under the bus, as they say in corporate-world speak, especially when done so inadvertently. If I've taken your liberties in telling a story or painted a picture with the wrong colors, please forgive me. If I've recklessly tossed around words or ideas and you care deeply about those concepts, allow me the grace to say, "I'm learning" and also "I'm sorry."
That, any perhaps I should hire an editor.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
here comes the bride
If I were to count all the weddings I've attended since college graduation, I'd ballpark today's to be number 387. Though perhaps a harsh overestimation, the year we did 13 (mostly crammed into July) did push us to our limits. It's been a lot of Sherry's baked chicken and stuffed shells with a chocolate fountain or two.
Of all these nuptial celebrations, I still enjoy the traditional liturgy ("with this ring, I thee wed..." and "let no man put asunder"). I've heard it enough that until this afternoon I would've felt confident reciting as if a monologue.
However, today's service caught me off guard. I'm not sure if it was the extra man up front with the colorful robing or if I simply listened a tad better with no toddlers pulling on my dress. Perhaps Stephanie comes from a background that is more pacifist in nature - she did go to Ashland, you know.
Whatever the case may be, I heard no less than three times the charge for D & S to love one another so that the peace of God may bless their home. Now, though all of these are church-y enough words to be peppered throughout a service, the cause and effect nature of them - and then mostly the effect end - had me pause to reflect.
Wayne read that they were called to a "perfect love." I was thrilled to hear that: we're not called to perfection, or even a perfect marriage, only a perfect love. This type of lofty goal doesn't immediately send me into doomed-for-failure mode, so it's a starting block.
But the many times I heard "peace" this afternoon turned my wheels. What does a household established in peace even look like? Is it one of those places where you have to take off your shoes to enter the dining room, complete with dishes never used? Is it a garden with a little running water fountain to "reflect" in solitude? I hope not, because neither of these sound either exciting nor attainable.
Peace, if you ask me, lies not in the absence of conflict but in the ability to navigate through it with grace and love. I'd laugh in your face if you told me that contemplative reflection should encompass at least an hour of the day in my household - 2 under 2 just doesn't make room for that. But I still believe that peace can rule it. I believe that in the stacks of books and in the toys strewn about comes opportunity to live peacefully. Sure, chaos might ensue when trying to leave the house before a predetermined time, but as moments in time are strung together, if done so with a bit of foresight and thoughtfulness, it can be worn as a necklace marking beauty amid struggle.
I've been in homes where, by entering, your blood pressure begins to rise and you find yourself envying the coats in the closet, hidden from the awkward, tense atmosphere. But I've also been welcomed into spaces that encourage you to kick back, take off your shoes and simply enjoy. Coincidentally, the second type of house typically offers the best conversation.
So here's to establishing the home in peace, rooted in love. Here's to cutting out the words that reduce and belittle others. Here's to having *enough* patience to listen and respond carefully. And here's to loving and enjoying everything I have, not just what I wish would be.
Of all these nuptial celebrations, I still enjoy the traditional liturgy ("with this ring, I thee wed..." and "let no man put asunder"). I've heard it enough that until this afternoon I would've felt confident reciting as if a monologue.
However, today's service caught me off guard. I'm not sure if it was the extra man up front with the colorful robing or if I simply listened a tad better with no toddlers pulling on my dress. Perhaps Stephanie comes from a background that is more pacifist in nature - she did go to Ashland, you know.
Whatever the case may be, I heard no less than three times the charge for D & S to love one another so that the peace of God may bless their home. Now, though all of these are church-y enough words to be peppered throughout a service, the cause and effect nature of them - and then mostly the effect end - had me pause to reflect.
Wayne read that they were called to a "perfect love." I was thrilled to hear that: we're not called to perfection, or even a perfect marriage, only a perfect love. This type of lofty goal doesn't immediately send me into doomed-for-failure mode, so it's a starting block.
But the many times I heard "peace" this afternoon turned my wheels. What does a household established in peace even look like? Is it one of those places where you have to take off your shoes to enter the dining room, complete with dishes never used? Is it a garden with a little running water fountain to "reflect" in solitude? I hope not, because neither of these sound either exciting nor attainable.
Peace, if you ask me, lies not in the absence of conflict but in the ability to navigate through it with grace and love. I'd laugh in your face if you told me that contemplative reflection should encompass at least an hour of the day in my household - 2 under 2 just doesn't make room for that. But I still believe that peace can rule it. I believe that in the stacks of books and in the toys strewn about comes opportunity to live peacefully. Sure, chaos might ensue when trying to leave the house before a predetermined time, but as moments in time are strung together, if done so with a bit of foresight and thoughtfulness, it can be worn as a necklace marking beauty amid struggle.
I've been in homes where, by entering, your blood pressure begins to rise and you find yourself envying the coats in the closet, hidden from the awkward, tense atmosphere. But I've also been welcomed into spaces that encourage you to kick back, take off your shoes and simply enjoy. Coincidentally, the second type of house typically offers the best conversation.
So here's to establishing the home in peace, rooted in love. Here's to cutting out the words that reduce and belittle others. Here's to having *enough* patience to listen and respond carefully. And here's to loving and enjoying everything I have, not just what I wish would be.
Friday, October 15, 2010
skipping October
Just below the surface of Upper Sandusky lies an underground group of people who, I believe, will someday just up and leave on September 30th to fly to some Caribbean island, only to return after the safety of November holds them in its arms. Though surviving is involved, it would not be for a million dollar prize.
This weekend climaxes the October-hating for myself; just 5 years ago I experienced my first deep loss of someone other than a grandparent. You know, one of those who "wasn't supposed to go just yet." A character that puts truth behind the sentiment that the "good ones go young." A cult following still misses her ability to breathe life into you through a brief conversation.
Because so many loved her, I didn't mourn well. Her role as wife and mother took precedent; then came her hundreds of third-grade children and the teacher-friends beside her. She made a priority of her partners in crime, friendships formed early in her career and life in Upper who walked beside her through the regularness of life. I believe Anna has so many strong friendships because of the way her mother modeled it.
I was simply a youth director at her church, the third of which her daughter endured. She handed over the van keys without question and supplied a constant stream of Death by Chocolate and White Trash. When I moved to town she tried to set me up with a friendship with another recent college grad who was new to town; I must say her knack of helping people connect and feel included should be bottled and sold for steep price.
She influenced so many that I thought perhaps I was magnifying her significance in my own life. Little old me wouldn't make her list of top 100 and our Sunday lunch gatherings probably lacked importance in her own personal formation.
But finally, I've decided: I don't care. I don't care that others loved her longer or saw her more frequently or knew more about her. She would tell me in her own words to "build a bridge and get over it", that these levels of significance are my own way of shutting down and turning off rather than letting myself hurt and heal. It's much easier to tell yourself that it "probably didn't matter anyway" than it is to grieve.
Professionals say there's a tendency to "perfect" those who have passed away- to only remember the good, to make them saints and forget their faults. But in Vanessa's case, it was her acceptance of her own faults that made her so beautiful. She'd be the first to tell you that she loved to bake, but she didn't cook. She gave me permission to not be perfect. One time I took a student on a retreat who was known to be a "problem". She told me that he had caused her to cry every night for a year when she had him in the third grade. She gave me permission to know that loving a student isn't easy and sometimes takes everything out of you.
She provided me the foundations of what I believe to be true about being a wife and mother; she once said, the most important thing a father can do for his children is love their mother. She told me that the week after I got engaged. So I married a man who personifies that piece of advice.
If I really want to honor her, I'll acknowledge that her presence had meaning in my life. I'll put myself in the place of privilege and say she changed me. I'll give myself the gift of being a brighter light for having known Vanessa.
This weekend climaxes the October-hating for myself; just 5 years ago I experienced my first deep loss of someone other than a grandparent. You know, one of those who "wasn't supposed to go just yet." A character that puts truth behind the sentiment that the "good ones go young." A cult following still misses her ability to breathe life into you through a brief conversation.
Because so many loved her, I didn't mourn well. Her role as wife and mother took precedent; then came her hundreds of third-grade children and the teacher-friends beside her. She made a priority of her partners in crime, friendships formed early in her career and life in Upper who walked beside her through the regularness of life. I believe Anna has so many strong friendships because of the way her mother modeled it.
I was simply a youth director at her church, the third of which her daughter endured. She handed over the van keys without question and supplied a constant stream of Death by Chocolate and White Trash. When I moved to town she tried to set me up with a friendship with another recent college grad who was new to town; I must say her knack of helping people connect and feel included should be bottled and sold for steep price.
She influenced so many that I thought perhaps I was magnifying her significance in my own life. Little old me wouldn't make her list of top 100 and our Sunday lunch gatherings probably lacked importance in her own personal formation.
But finally, I've decided: I don't care. I don't care that others loved her longer or saw her more frequently or knew more about her. She would tell me in her own words to "build a bridge and get over it", that these levels of significance are my own way of shutting down and turning off rather than letting myself hurt and heal. It's much easier to tell yourself that it "probably didn't matter anyway" than it is to grieve.
Professionals say there's a tendency to "perfect" those who have passed away- to only remember the good, to make them saints and forget their faults. But in Vanessa's case, it was her acceptance of her own faults that made her so beautiful. She'd be the first to tell you that she loved to bake, but she didn't cook. She gave me permission to not be perfect. One time I took a student on a retreat who was known to be a "problem". She told me that he had caused her to cry every night for a year when she had him in the third grade. She gave me permission to know that loving a student isn't easy and sometimes takes everything out of you.
She provided me the foundations of what I believe to be true about being a wife and mother; she once said, the most important thing a father can do for his children is love their mother. She told me that the week after I got engaged. So I married a man who personifies that piece of advice.
If I really want to honor her, I'll acknowledge that her presence had meaning in my life. I'll put myself in the place of privilege and say she changed me. I'll give myself the gift of being a brighter light for having known Vanessa.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Randomness makes the world go round
Time for another logging of the excitement that exudes from this household. Ladies first.
Miss M
H-Boy
Miss M
- What a sitter. A little weebeley-wobbeley at times, but on the whole she likes this upright thing. Which means...
- Food is in our future. What?! Can it be that time already? Super pioneer mom has been putting back this season's apples and pears in anticipation of future fruit consumption. I think, because it's in season, either squash or pumpkin will be her first go. However, I need to buy more ice cube trays before the food making commences as I threw them out in a fit of rage last year after i couldn't get the green beans out. They may or may not have been frozen in there for a matter of months, forgotten once H had the tactile skills of self feeding.
- Belly laughing. And she finds lots of things funny - mom's string on the hoodie, anything big brother does, and a tickle on the tummy.
- Once again, dad's the favorite as she's starting a bit more babbling - dadadada, gagaga, gooooo. Music to a mama's ears.
- Due to the large numbers of books we've been reading, Miss M is also a fan. She likes to help turn the page and touch all the pictures.
H-Boy
- Read, read, read. It seems that's all we do. I know I shouldn't complain, but the boy can recite Hop on Pop. Also in the running for favorites is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. All the time he's patting the couch beside him "mommy? mommy? booook?" He doesn't understand that mommy has facebooking to do.
- Lots of words!!! We're getting good at naming food (at least he has priorities). Pumpkin ("umpkin"), apple (which also refers to oranges), toast, tea, juice, pepper, yogurt, milk, burger, and snack.
- We can identify things by sounds now- the other day we were in his room and there was construction happening down the street and he told me it was a tractor. WOW! Also, drove by an airplane and he did "aaahhhh" which is the learning to listen sound associated with airplane.
- Animals are a big favorite and we went to get our chickens yesterday. He really wanted to go in the barn with the Moooo, but we weren't invited. Perhaps next trip.
- We're working on our polite words - please, help, open, close, etc. Not just the sign, but the word. We're getting there. He can do up and down, so that gives us an inclination of where he wants to go.
- He helped daddy carve a pumpkin. Daddy did the carving, H did the "cleaning" out with a spoon.
- We've been doing lots of running, jumping, dancing and arm flapping as well. The arm flapping was daddy's skill addition. Mommy taught him a few moves, including a nice spin.
- Favorite foods: fruit (always), raisins, toasted almonds, crackers, and anything that mom or dad are eating in front of him.
- Loves to: brush his teeth, stand in front of the potty with no pants on (won't sit... unless clothed), put in his "ears", put on and take off shoes, wrestle with the dogs, give sissy toys and talk to her when they're in car seats. Also, sorting crayons and doing puzzles.
- I'm starting to see the emergence of imagination as he begins some building. He'll take all the couch pillows and blankets to the stairs and arrange them "just so". Then there's lots of navigating steps as he really doesn't like his masterpiece messed with.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Gleesus related thoughts
It seems every week facebook offers a new cause to support via status update. I'm not sure how exactly new money gets funneled into cancer research or preventing teenagers from falling into a deep fryer, but people proudly support their moms, cats and loved ones in the chain letters of facebook.
Today I noticed a few friends who sported: NAME is a straight ally and today is National Coming Out Day. I'm coming out for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender equality because it's 2010 and almost 90% of LGBT youth experience harassment in school, and too many lives have been lost. Donate your status and join me by clicking here: http://bit.ly/cX0mcD
I almost reposted. Or shared. Or liked. Or whatever the facebook version of retweet might be. And I'm nothing close to a gay-rights activist. Or even a passive participant in the sexual orientation conversation. I'm pretty anopinionated (isn't that the state of being without opinion? And what's with me making up all kinds of words and phrases today?).
However, these support statuses came on the heels of last week's Glee (and apparently, as a show, you either love or hate it) which broached the topic of faith and spirituality but slid in the homosexuality card. One of the characters, Kurt, a self-proclaimed atheist (who I believe technically would fall under the umbrella of agnostic, but the one who makes up words shouldn't get all pointy-pointy) states that he has difficulty believing in a god who would make him gay and then make him endure the criticisms of Christians who torment him for being that way. That, on top of his mother dying at a young age.
I hate that when opportunity for dialogue arises, conversation immediately turns there. Have we not made any impression on the world beyond this topic? But a wise person listens to his critic to make sure there is no validity in his argument.
I appreciated that Glee gave us a story, a person. We wanted Kurt to have his dad back. We wanted Kurt to feel loved and supported. Maybe some of us even wanted Kurt to know that Jesus wept. And a story takes it from "how do you feel about homosexuality" to "how can we help Kurt?"
I almost re-whatevered my status not because this particular issue lies close to my heart, but because I want to rage against it being an issue.
They're not issues, they're people.
No person deserves to be bullied or ridiculed because they experience love. I don't care what side of the fence you land on with the born-that-way vs. choice, sin vs. not sin, and clergy-ordaining issues. If you're one who follows Jesus, then our first instinct should be to realize that any person is worth protecting simply because they're human. Take your choice of Matt, Mark, Luke or John and you'll see Jesus do that every time.
Oh, now, stop with your she-thinks-you-can-do-anything-so-what-about-sin? thoughts. Why immediately go there? Why immediately protect your issue rather than living in the reality of a real person? Please don't contribute to the case for shows to portray Christians as less-than-loving. Don't be scared to be wrong.
Now, Finn's later turning from the faith of grilled cheesus gives fodder for future discussion, but let's save that for another day... that's a whole new chapter to read.
Today I noticed a few friends who sported: NAME is a straight ally and today is National Coming Out Day. I'm coming out for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender equality because it's 2010 and almost 90% of LGBT youth experience harassment in school, and too many lives have been lost. Donate your status and join me by clicking here: http://bit.ly/cX0mcD
I almost reposted. Or shared. Or liked. Or whatever the facebook version of retweet might be. And I'm nothing close to a gay-rights activist. Or even a passive participant in the sexual orientation conversation. I'm pretty anopinionated (isn't that the state of being without opinion? And what's with me making up all kinds of words and phrases today?).
However, these support statuses came on the heels of last week's Glee (and apparently, as a show, you either love or hate it) which broached the topic of faith and spirituality but slid in the homosexuality card. One of the characters, Kurt, a self-proclaimed atheist (who I believe technically would fall under the umbrella of agnostic, but the one who makes up words shouldn't get all pointy-pointy) states that he has difficulty believing in a god who would make him gay and then make him endure the criticisms of Christians who torment him for being that way. That, on top of his mother dying at a young age.
I hate that when opportunity for dialogue arises, conversation immediately turns there. Have we not made any impression on the world beyond this topic? But a wise person listens to his critic to make sure there is no validity in his argument.
I appreciated that Glee gave us a story, a person. We wanted Kurt to have his dad back. We wanted Kurt to feel loved and supported. Maybe some of us even wanted Kurt to know that Jesus wept. And a story takes it from "how do you feel about homosexuality" to "how can we help Kurt?"
I almost re-whatevered my status not because this particular issue lies close to my heart, but because I want to rage against it being an issue.
They're not issues, they're people.
No person deserves to be bullied or ridiculed because they experience love. I don't care what side of the fence you land on with the born-that-way vs. choice, sin vs. not sin, and clergy-ordaining issues. If you're one who follows Jesus, then our first instinct should be to realize that any person is worth protecting simply because they're human. Take your choice of Matt, Mark, Luke or John and you'll see Jesus do that every time.
Oh, now, stop with your she-thinks-you-can-do-anything-so-what-about-sin? thoughts. Why immediately go there? Why immediately protect your issue rather than living in the reality of a real person? Please don't contribute to the case for shows to portray Christians as less-than-loving. Don't be scared to be wrong.
Now, Finn's later turning from the faith of grilled cheesus gives fodder for future discussion, but let's save that for another day... that's a whole new chapter to read.
the price of sanity
I'd rank it in one of the top 3 best weekends. Ever. Somewhere in that lineup holds a place for my wedding and probably some other birthday or event that doesn't readily come to mind, and now the weekend of my 30th joins the ranks. Amazingness on so many levels. I probably won't do it justice to explain.
First was the getaway. Husband took me to a wine bar near Grandview and we tried a few that I probably would not have pulled from the shelf at Meijer because a) they didn't have a catchy name and b) they're a bit too classy for Meijer (though I think Meijer has the best wine selection of any grocery at great prices). But they were fabulous. Then we headed to the Tip Top for dinner. I love local eateries. Sure, Macaroni Grill has a place in my heart thanks to Chicken Milano, but I love the uniquness that you get at a local eatery. We drove by several options in the Short North that we'd love to try, but the valet parking reminded us that we likely would feel out of place. Though, I was rocking my "going out shirt" that JWE convinced me to buy last summer, so it wasn't for lack of appearances.
THEN we used up a Marriott gift card, thanks to credit card points. Guess what we heard at 2am? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. And at 6, during normal feeding time? Yup. Just husband snoring. We slept in to a glorious 9am. Mid-day we remarked how tired we were - all the sleeping had us plumb tuckered out.
After a cup of coffee from a local coffeeshop (another fettish), we headed to Polaris for some Old Navy $10 off shopping and Target browsing. We watched a bit of the game over lunch and went to the mall. I perused PaperThread, a store full of stationary and books and gifts. It's like the Target office supply aisle, only better! After husband drug me out we wondered aimlessly through Barnes & Noble. I could touch all the books... feel the paper... read a paragraph mid-book. And there were no toddlers pulling all the other books off the shelf. Glory, glory hallelujah.
Of course, such opportunity requires some give and take... there was lots of formula feeding M, packing up kids, and letting go of the fear of price tag regret. We didn't purchase much while shopping, but just the cost of eating and being away can add up, something we have to work really hard in our budget to allow. But it's totally worth the price of the sanity. I wore a cute outfit, drank good coffee and better beer (Great Lake's Octoberfest is the best fall brew. Ever. ), and did not adhere to any sort of schedule. Well, of which I was aware.
Husband, parents & sister capped off the weekend with nothing short of a Me-Fest. They cleaned out the barn and simmered a few cauldrons of chili & stew and invited 200 of our closest family and friends. I may be exaggerating the number or I may not, I have no idea. But if I've ever held a good conversation with someone or can tell a good story involving them, it seems they received an invite. Husband said he tried to keep the guest list slightly under that of our wedding. And though I had a slight suspicion that something was brewing, nothing could have prepared me for the obscenity that commenced. Did I mention a bounce house was involved? And hayrides? And the pie. Oh. The. Glorious. Pie. My momma knows me well- I'd take a piece of pie over cake ANY day.
I stayed up late. I laughed with my friends and chatted with my cousins. I entrusted a few teenage babysitters to listen for my kids after they went to bed (another great think-ahead by Marj!). I even served as the target to a few karaoke serenades. I felt very loved.
Chalk another one into Reasons I'm Grateful for my Life column. I'm nothing short of blessed to have a husband who could concoct such a memorable way to enter my 30s and parents and family and friends who help make it all happen. Blessed.
First was the getaway. Husband took me to a wine bar near Grandview and we tried a few that I probably would not have pulled from the shelf at Meijer because a) they didn't have a catchy name and b) they're a bit too classy for Meijer (though I think Meijer has the best wine selection of any grocery at great prices). But they were fabulous. Then we headed to the Tip Top for dinner. I love local eateries. Sure, Macaroni Grill has a place in my heart thanks to Chicken Milano, but I love the uniquness that you get at a local eatery. We drove by several options in the Short North that we'd love to try, but the valet parking reminded us that we likely would feel out of place. Though, I was rocking my "going out shirt" that JWE convinced me to buy last summer, so it wasn't for lack of appearances.
THEN we used up a Marriott gift card, thanks to credit card points. Guess what we heard at 2am? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. And at 6, during normal feeding time? Yup. Just husband snoring. We slept in to a glorious 9am. Mid-day we remarked how tired we were - all the sleeping had us plumb tuckered out.
After a cup of coffee from a local coffeeshop (another fettish), we headed to Polaris for some Old Navy $10 off shopping and Target browsing. We watched a bit of the game over lunch and went to the mall. I perused PaperThread, a store full of stationary and books and gifts. It's like the Target office supply aisle, only better! After husband drug me out we wondered aimlessly through Barnes & Noble. I could touch all the books... feel the paper... read a paragraph mid-book. And there were no toddlers pulling all the other books off the shelf. Glory, glory hallelujah.
Of course, such opportunity requires some give and take... there was lots of formula feeding M, packing up kids, and letting go of the fear of price tag regret. We didn't purchase much while shopping, but just the cost of eating and being away can add up, something we have to work really hard in our budget to allow. But it's totally worth the price of the sanity. I wore a cute outfit, drank good coffee and better beer (Great Lake's Octoberfest is the best fall brew. Ever. ), and did not adhere to any sort of schedule. Well, of which I was aware.
Husband, parents & sister capped off the weekend with nothing short of a Me-Fest. They cleaned out the barn and simmered a few cauldrons of chili & stew and invited 200 of our closest family and friends. I may be exaggerating the number or I may not, I have no idea. But if I've ever held a good conversation with someone or can tell a good story involving them, it seems they received an invite. Husband said he tried to keep the guest list slightly under that of our wedding. And though I had a slight suspicion that something was brewing, nothing could have prepared me for the obscenity that commenced. Did I mention a bounce house was involved? And hayrides? And the pie. Oh. The. Glorious. Pie. My momma knows me well- I'd take a piece of pie over cake ANY day.
I stayed up late. I laughed with my friends and chatted with my cousins. I entrusted a few teenage babysitters to listen for my kids after they went to bed (another great think-ahead by Marj!). I even served as the target to a few karaoke serenades. I felt very loved.
Chalk another one into Reasons I'm Grateful for my Life column. I'm nothing short of blessed to have a husband who could concoct such a memorable way to enter my 30s and parents and family and friends who help make it all happen. Blessed.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Losing relevancy
Over the past decade, one of my favorite publications became Relevant magazine. I enjoyed the variety of perspectives offered by the editorial staff and the gamut of topics covered, like what you shouldn't expect from marriage, how facebook is killing our souls and anything Donald Miller submits. I appreciate its movie & music section, and not just in a "which are the Christian movies to see" way. And the paper it's printed on is just delightful to the eye and touch. I even got published once (well, the online version). I believe that was the climax of my coolness factor. Yes, Relevant saw me through quite a tumultuous time in my life, known as my 20s.
This week we say farewell.
Admittedly, I haven't been most faithful as of late, only popping in on occasion. My print subscription lapsed a few years ago and I never followed through to renew (even though it's a mere $12 for such joy to be delivered to your mailbox). Nowadays I even tend to delete the weekly email, known to us old-schoolers as the 850, based upon the subject line. So in our breakup, though articles about dating and college campuses far outnumber those that appeal to my demographic, if we're honest, it's not you. It's me.
I'm turning 30.
There's even an article highlighting my to do's before the big three-oh, and now I've come to terms with my divergence from the hipster cool crowd. The piece offers a valedictorian speech adieu. It's been a good run. We had some good times. We've seen Jesus in the News around the globe. We've dissected everything wrong with the church and world today and even offered [solid] proposals for what could make it better.
Now, if Strang could just offer a version for those of us who can't wear skinny jeans and who limit caffeine intake after 7pm, perhaps the separation would be a bit more amicable. You know, something I could read while pushing a stroller.
This week we say farewell.
Admittedly, I haven't been most faithful as of late, only popping in on occasion. My print subscription lapsed a few years ago and I never followed through to renew (even though it's a mere $12 for such joy to be delivered to your mailbox). Nowadays I even tend to delete the weekly email, known to us old-schoolers as the 850, based upon the subject line. So in our breakup, though articles about dating and college campuses far outnumber those that appeal to my demographic, if we're honest, it's not you. It's me.
I'm turning 30.
There's even an article highlighting my to do's before the big three-oh, and now I've come to terms with my divergence from the hipster cool crowd. The piece offers a valedictorian speech adieu. It's been a good run. We had some good times. We've seen Jesus in the News around the globe. We've dissected everything wrong with the church and world today and even offered [solid] proposals for what could make it better.
Now, if Strang could just offer a version for those of us who can't wear skinny jeans and who limit caffeine intake after 7pm, perhaps the separation would be a bit more amicable. You know, something I could read while pushing a stroller.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Fight or flight. Or just flight.
I've got skinny kids. Wee little ones. M fits in her "appropriate" bracket of baby clothes (3-6 mo) and until this fall, H did as well, but the jump from the 18-24mo to 2T is a big one, and thanks to the fact he has a Wingfield Butt and skinny jeans are in style, we're not forking out for new threads just yet.
But with both children, my doctor managed to consistently stress me out about their weight. They don't follow the normal pattern and arc that his handy-dandy chart says they should. They plane off around 4-6 months and then after a few months of "real" food, make another jump. Well, H did, and I'm guessing M will too because she's quite an eater as well.
I tell myself all the normal things - she's not fussy, she doesn't get mad at the end of a feeding like H did (not because he wants more but because he likes to eat. He gets it honest. Look at his parents). She's developmentally on target; the little lady is even sitting up on her own pretty well, when mommy remembers to give her opportunity. Really, it's a miracle any second child develops at all... And the mommy gut in me says, "she's fine." I could go on and on about that stupid chart - how it's made by the formula companies - you know, the guys who want to sell more formula - or how it's just an average, or how childhood obesity is a rising concern or how the WHO has a separate chart for babies that are exclusively breastfed, but that's not even the point.
The point? This blog has a point?
The doctor, and the society we live in, operates on a baseline of fear, not hope. We fear what *could* happen vs hoping for the reality which is to come. Waiting and expecting good.
I've been following a blog, FreeRangeKids, which linked to a wonderful editorial in Australia today. The blog mostly covers the way we don't offer our kids freedom to explore the world, or even walk to the bus stop, and encourages parents to let go just a little. It also exposes our culture of fear, and if you ask me, brings to light the many ways we've been marketed to simply because we're scared of getting this parenting-thing wrong.
I have a friend who fears her daughter will choke on small foods. Another fears her son will impale himself an anything long and skinny. Clearly, I fear that my kids will grow up nutritionally deficient. We all have something and it can have the power to control us. We overreact to it. Well, everyone but myself... no one has ever seen me get slightly hysterical about anything, right?
I enjoyed the editorial's thought:
Parents are particularly vulnerable to this cluster of anxieties. Ideas of nurturing go hand in hand with protecting children from danger. But if some protection is good, more is not necessarily better. Before long it becomes stifling and stultifying. It prevents children from learning to assess danger for themselves, and from thinking how to avoid it. Driving children to school rather then letting them walk, ride bicycles or catch the bus not only wastes energy, it encourages laziness and the lifestyle diseases that afflict growing numbers of the young.
Life is not perfect and cannot be made so. Certainly a small number of children are hurt each year. But by trying to eliminate risk from children’s lives, overzealous parents are stunting their development, and inhibiting the ability of the vast majority to respond to challenges.
So, here's to a day that says There is no fear in love, because perfect love casts out all fear.
But with both children, my doctor managed to consistently stress me out about their weight. They don't follow the normal pattern and arc that his handy-dandy chart says they should. They plane off around 4-6 months and then after a few months of "real" food, make another jump. Well, H did, and I'm guessing M will too because she's quite an eater as well.
I tell myself all the normal things - she's not fussy, she doesn't get mad at the end of a feeding like H did (not because he wants more but because he likes to eat. He gets it honest. Look at his parents). She's developmentally on target; the little lady is even sitting up on her own pretty well, when mommy remembers to give her opportunity. Really, it's a miracle any second child develops at all... And the mommy gut in me says, "she's fine." I could go on and on about that stupid chart - how it's made by the formula companies - you know, the guys who want to sell more formula - or how it's just an average, or how childhood obesity is a rising concern or how the WHO has a separate chart for babies that are exclusively breastfed, but that's not even the point.
The point? This blog has a point?
The doctor, and the society we live in, operates on a baseline of fear, not hope. We fear what *could* happen vs hoping for the reality which is to come. Waiting and expecting good.
I've been following a blog, FreeRangeKids, which linked to a wonderful editorial in Australia today. The blog mostly covers the way we don't offer our kids freedom to explore the world, or even walk to the bus stop, and encourages parents to let go just a little. It also exposes our culture of fear, and if you ask me, brings to light the many ways we've been marketed to simply because we're scared of getting this parenting-thing wrong.
I have a friend who fears her daughter will choke on small foods. Another fears her son will impale himself an anything long and skinny. Clearly, I fear that my kids will grow up nutritionally deficient. We all have something and it can have the power to control us. We overreact to it. Well, everyone but myself... no one has ever seen me get slightly hysterical about anything, right?
I enjoyed the editorial's thought:
Parents are particularly vulnerable to this cluster of anxieties. Ideas of nurturing go hand in hand with protecting children from danger. But if some protection is good, more is not necessarily better. Before long it becomes stifling and stultifying. It prevents children from learning to assess danger for themselves, and from thinking how to avoid it. Driving children to school rather then letting them walk, ride bicycles or catch the bus not only wastes energy, it encourages laziness and the lifestyle diseases that afflict growing numbers of the young.
Life is not perfect and cannot be made so. Certainly a small number of children are hurt each year. But by trying to eliminate risk from children’s lives, overzealous parents are stunting their development, and inhibiting the ability of the vast majority to respond to challenges.
So, here's to a day that says There is no fear in love, because perfect love casts out all fear.
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