The world of youth sports provides an interesting glimpse into American mentality. If there was ever a place to witness the egomania that has become such a widely recognized characteristic of our nation, it is in the stands of a little league baseball game. I know. I've spent countless hours there.
My husband and I signed our son up for his first season of baseball when he was five years old. We thought it would be a great learning experience for him. We hoped he would begin to gain some fundamental sports skills, of course, but mostly we just wanted him to be part of a team and have some fun. Baseball is a game, after all. Turns out we were late in introducing team sports to our first born. At age five, he was already behind. I guess it's more acceptable for kids to begin team sports at age three in suburban Atlanta. You know, while they still trip over their own feet walking on flat, unobstructed surfaces and have attention spans lasting approximately two and a half minutes.
Admittedly, it's adorable to watch three-year-olds on a soccer field. Their shin guards are big enough to protect their thighs and they run in circles chasing one another while the ball rolls in the opposite direction. They're just as cute playing baseball. They dig in the dirt while playing center field and sit down on the bases to rest in the middle of an inning. Let's face it, toddlers doing anything in uniforms are cause for extreme amounts of sideline photography - I get the excitement in that.
I don't think we're doing our children a desservice by encouraging them to play sports at young ages. It's good for kids to try new things, work on their gross motor skills, improve their hand-eye coordination. Sports were a huge part of my life as I grew up and I believe they instilled in me all kinds of important values including confidence, patience, determination, and a positive attitude, just to name a few. I do, however, find it disturbing to see that youth sports no longer seem to be viewed as activities designed to promote physical activity and build values. Youth sports in America today are serious business.
Today, children in elementary school take costly private lessons in the sport of their choice. Today, it's not sufficient for a child to play in a youth league at their local park. Instead, they try out for travel teams and their parents drive them all over town to play in games that prove they are better than the kids playing at their local parks. Today, parents pull their kids out of school and travel across the country for higher levels of competition. Today, men coaching eight year olds get into yelling matches over a score. Today, it seems many parents aren't interested in encouraging their children to gain beneficial values through youth sports. They are more concerned with encouraging their children's success.
I like to tell people that our son Charlie is "dabbling" when they ask me what sport he likes best. He's taken tennis lessons. He hits golf balls on the range with his daddy. He went to soccer camp one summer, lacrosse and flag football camp the next. He plays baseball in the spring and basketball in the winter.
Sadly, it seems our "dabbling" approach is unacceptable to many parents. Some believe my child should already have picked his specific sport - you know, the one he's going to do for the rest of his life and turn into a highly lucrative career that will allow my husband and me to retire early to an oasis on the beach somewhere.
Charlie started to do some pitching last fall. It was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of his life. No . . . not for him. For his parents. While our son was on the mound enjoying the opportunity to be involved in every play of an inning, Adam and I were on the bleachers pulling our hair out with anxiety.
Obviously, we wanted our son to be successful. We wanted him to perform well and contribute to his team. We were also slightly fearful. What if someone hits a line drive right back to Charlie's face? I witnessed that during a softball game in my own days of youth sports and I assure you it wasn't pretty. Yet, as my husband and I watched our child pitch, our overwhelming emotion wasn't fear or a desire for Charlie to pitch so well his team emerged victorious. Our concern centered on our child's overall well-being. The outcome of the game didn't matter. It never will. It's a game. The future didn't matter either. We have no aspirations for Charlie's future in sports. At eight years of age, our son is barely four feet tall and weighs only fifty pounds. We understand how difficult it is to become a world class athlete, especially with stats like those. Still, I will never forget the magnitude of emotions that shook my soul the first time I sat in the stands and watched my son go to work on a little league pitcher's mound. My need for him to do his best, not THE best but HIS best, was a desperate one. I longed for him to feel good about his effort and ability in a way I find difficult to explain.
Charlie was a fine little pitcher during the fall baseball season. He was even better in the spring. In fact, he was so much better that he was asked to try out for a summer all-star team. I was against it on account of the daily practices, the faraway tournaments, and the Atlanta humidity. My husband felt we had to give Charlie the choice. I relented, Charlie tried out, made the team, and our foray into the seriousness of youth sports in America officially began.
I could tell you about the undeniable increase in intensity I felt around me during my son's all-star games. I could tell you about the parents who cheered blatantly against opposing teams instead of simply cheering for their own teams. I could even tell you about the fist fight between fathers that likely would have occured had not a large umpire stepped in to stop it. I think the most important thing I can tell you, however, is that after a month of all-star baseball, I saw a shift in Charlie's mindset. When the spring season ended, our son had only positive feelings about baseball. He loved the game and believed he was good at it. After his all-star team lost EVERY game they played, Charlie no longer had such confidence in his baseball abilities. That's a true shame.
People offered all kinds of reasons for the winless record of Charlie's all-star team - reasons that involved parents lying about birth dates and ignoring rules about practice limits. Some of the kids on the other teams were twice the size of Charlie and one looked like he might have driven himself to the game, so hey, who knows . . . maybe there are parents out there who place such significance on little league baseball that they would rather win than demonstrate basic human decency. Honestly, I just think there are plenty of kids in the metro Atlanta area who have more athletic talent than my kid. And that's okay.
Charlie wanted to play baseball again this fall, so I suppose the all-star season didn't damage his attitude about youth sports in a permanent way. For me, the worst part of the experience wasn't that it opened my eyes to the importance many well-meaning parents have placed on youth sports today. The worst part was that it allowed the American mentality residing within me to rear its ugly head in recognizable fashion. It showed me that no matter how much emphasis I place on my child having fun and being a good teammate and demonstrating sportsmanship and doing his best, I can't help but want his best . . . to be good enough. How else do you explain the fact that while my child was on the pitcher's mound, I was silently praying for him to strike out the kid at the batter's box, even when, deep down, I knew the batter's mother was likely on the other side of the bleachers praying for her child to hit the ball out of the park. Clearly, the other mom must have been praying a whole lot louder.
Or maybe her son takes private hitting lessons three times a week.
About Me
- Alison
- Former educator and current wife, mom, daughter, and friend. Really, I'm just a southern girl trying to live the happiest, healthiest life I can. I do it with the help of those who know me best and love me anyway - God, my family, and my friends.
Monday, January 23, 2012
She said it matter-of-factly and the words themselves held no meaning. Still, they rocked my world.
I stepped into the shower with her, as I did many nights, and positioned myself in the corner so as not to take too much of the hot water. That had been an issue during these showers. She still preferred baths, where she could have all the hot water to herself. But we had eaten dinner out, and on the way home, I informed my daughter it would be a shower night, for the sake of time. I moved my head under the stream of water as quickly as possible, then back out again, and reached for the shampoo on the shelf.
"Mom, I've already washed my hair and my body so I just need to use some conditioner and I'll be good to go."
The words had no significance. They weren't important words. They weren't even interesting words. If I'd heard the sentence come out of someone else's mouth, it would have had no impact. The words meant nothing other than the fact that my daughter was informing me she had removed the grime of the day. Yet, they made my head spin. They made my stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. You see, it wasn't the words she said.
It was the echo of myself I heard so distinctly as she said them.
A smile crossed my face for the briefest of moments as I realized my daughter had said something I would say in exactly the way I would say it. It was like listening to a self-recording. The voice, the intonation, the phrase; all so familiar. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and then . . . what? I couldn't put my finger on it, but my heart clenched inside my chest. My eyes filled and I turned to face the stream of water flowing from the shower head, letting it wash away the tears.
I wanted a daughter. The first go-round I wanted a son and God blessed me with Charlie. He was beautiful and perfect - a dream come true in every way. When I was pregnant for the second time, I wanted a girl. I didn't tell anyone I felt that way because, really, who doesn't just want a healthy baby with ten little fingers and ten tiny toes (and preferably no colic). But in the dark silence, just before I went to sleep each night, I prayed for a girl.
Please God. Please give me a daughter.
God answered that prayer with Libby.
She has been so different from what I expected. So different from her brother, the only other baby I've ever loved with a passion so complete and magnificent it still astounds me.
My son and I are alike in many ways, and those ways seem to grow as he does. We are perfectionists, type A's. We want to do everything well, even things we've never tried before. We like routine. We need to know what's coming next. We like a challenge and take pleasure in striving to meet goals. We can have fun and be silly, but by nature, we are serious much of the time. We don't enjoy chaos and we don't mind sitting in silence.
I'm pleased Charlie inherited much of my personality. It suits him. It works. He's just who he is supposed to be. I believe that to my core. Sometimes he makes choices I would like to change, but rarely because they are bad choices. They are simply safe choices. The choices I would have made at his age.
My daughter isn't like me. She can have the lead in a school play. She can study abroad during college. She can hike through Europe and go on a mission trip to Africa and accept an internship in Manhattan.
My daughter isn't like me. She doesn't judge others. She doesn't envy others. She doesn't plan obsessively, clean incessantly, worry constantly.
My daughter isn't like me. She's more confident than I am. She's more outgoing. She's more spirited, more daring, more thoughtful, more loving, more helpful, more hopeful, more affectionate, more beautiful, more . . .
She's just more.
I don't want Libby to be like me. She's not supposed to be like me. She's supposed to be different. She's supposed to be better.
I guess most mothers project expectations on our children. That's part of our job, after all. We expect our kids to do the things we know they're capable of doing. We expect them to learn to use the bathroom on their own and chew with their mouths closed and ride a two-wheeled bicycle. Before we know it, we expect them to complete homework on time and study for science tests and take the trash out on Friday mornings. Mothers work every day to make sure we're doing our part to help our children meet our expectations and reach their potential because we believe those are our roles as parents. Yet, I can't help but wonder . . . are we really trying to help our children become the best they can be, or are we trying to turn them into everything we wish we were?
I don't want Libby to be like me. Yet, she is. I see myself in her face, her body, her actions, her voice. Genes are strong, my friends. I know this because when I look at a picture of me at the age of five, it looks exactly like a picture of my son at the age of five. I know this because I have the same need for botox in the same spot on my forehead my father needs it. I know this because I made the mistake of wearing shorts while doing yoga not long ago, and when I was in the downward dog position, I saw my mother's knees.
Beyond the genetics, there's the influence factor. I'm blessed to be a stay-at-home mom and I will be forever grateful for that fact. My daughter has spent a large portion of nearly every day of her life in my presence. My influence simply cannot be denied. Of course Libby walks like me and talks like me and, sometimes, acts like me. God made her mine. He chose me to be her mother.
Libby has met every expectation my husband and I have had for her. She rolled over on time and sat up on schedule. She crawled at six months, walked at nine, and started telling us all her opinions not long after her first birthday. She sleeps in a big girl bed, holds a pencil correctly, and reads like the wind.
Still, I suppose my job has always involved more than encouraging my children to meet expectations. I have to lead by example. I have to demonstrate and model and instruct and lecture and demand and train until my children have become the best they can be. And while I do all of that, I have to remember who is ultimately in control. God created my children and He is the one who will shape their lives and direct their paths. No matter what those paths may be, I have to love my children unconditionally while reminding them that my love for them is nothing compared to God's love for them. Then, after all the training and relinquishing control and unconditional loving, I have to pray. And I have to trust. And I have to believe that my children's best will, most likely, be completely different that I ever could have expected. They will go farther, reach higher, dream bigger. They will do everything I couldn't. In the end, Charlie and Libby might turn out to be a lot like me. But I know they will also be smarter, stronger, better. I know they will be . . . more.
I stepped into the shower with her, as I did many nights, and positioned myself in the corner so as not to take too much of the hot water. That had been an issue during these showers. She still preferred baths, where she could have all the hot water to herself. But we had eaten dinner out, and on the way home, I informed my daughter it would be a shower night, for the sake of time. I moved my head under the stream of water as quickly as possible, then back out again, and reached for the shampoo on the shelf.
"Mom, I've already washed my hair and my body so I just need to use some conditioner and I'll be good to go."
The words had no significance. They weren't important words. They weren't even interesting words. If I'd heard the sentence come out of someone else's mouth, it would have had no impact. The words meant nothing other than the fact that my daughter was informing me she had removed the grime of the day. Yet, they made my head spin. They made my stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. You see, it wasn't the words she said.
It was the echo of myself I heard so distinctly as she said them.
A smile crossed my face for the briefest of moments as I realized my daughter had said something I would say in exactly the way I would say it. It was like listening to a self-recording. The voice, the intonation, the phrase; all so familiar. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and then . . . what? I couldn't put my finger on it, but my heart clenched inside my chest. My eyes filled and I turned to face the stream of water flowing from the shower head, letting it wash away the tears.
I wanted a daughter. The first go-round I wanted a son and God blessed me with Charlie. He was beautiful and perfect - a dream come true in every way. When I was pregnant for the second time, I wanted a girl. I didn't tell anyone I felt that way because, really, who doesn't just want a healthy baby with ten little fingers and ten tiny toes (and preferably no colic). But in the dark silence, just before I went to sleep each night, I prayed for a girl.
Please God. Please give me a daughter.
God answered that prayer with Libby.
She has been so different from what I expected. So different from her brother, the only other baby I've ever loved with a passion so complete and magnificent it still astounds me.
My son and I are alike in many ways, and those ways seem to grow as he does. We are perfectionists, type A's. We want to do everything well, even things we've never tried before. We like routine. We need to know what's coming next. We like a challenge and take pleasure in striving to meet goals. We can have fun and be silly, but by nature, we are serious much of the time. We don't enjoy chaos and we don't mind sitting in silence.
I'm pleased Charlie inherited much of my personality. It suits him. It works. He's just who he is supposed to be. I believe that to my core. Sometimes he makes choices I would like to change, but rarely because they are bad choices. They are simply safe choices. The choices I would have made at his age.
My daughter isn't like me. She can have the lead in a school play. She can study abroad during college. She can hike through Europe and go on a mission trip to Africa and accept an internship in Manhattan.
My daughter isn't like me. She doesn't judge others. She doesn't envy others. She doesn't plan obsessively, clean incessantly, worry constantly.
My daughter isn't like me. She's more confident than I am. She's more outgoing. She's more spirited, more daring, more thoughtful, more loving, more helpful, more hopeful, more affectionate, more beautiful, more . . .
She's just more.
I don't want Libby to be like me. She's not supposed to be like me. She's supposed to be different. She's supposed to be better.
I guess most mothers project expectations on our children. That's part of our job, after all. We expect our kids to do the things we know they're capable of doing. We expect them to learn to use the bathroom on their own and chew with their mouths closed and ride a two-wheeled bicycle. Before we know it, we expect them to complete homework on time and study for science tests and take the trash out on Friday mornings. Mothers work every day to make sure we're doing our part to help our children meet our expectations and reach their potential because we believe those are our roles as parents. Yet, I can't help but wonder . . . are we really trying to help our children become the best they can be, or are we trying to turn them into everything we wish we were?
I don't want Libby to be like me. Yet, she is. I see myself in her face, her body, her actions, her voice. Genes are strong, my friends. I know this because when I look at a picture of me at the age of five, it looks exactly like a picture of my son at the age of five. I know this because I have the same need for botox in the same spot on my forehead my father needs it. I know this because I made the mistake of wearing shorts while doing yoga not long ago, and when I was in the downward dog position, I saw my mother's knees.
Beyond the genetics, there's the influence factor. I'm blessed to be a stay-at-home mom and I will be forever grateful for that fact. My daughter has spent a large portion of nearly every day of her life in my presence. My influence simply cannot be denied. Of course Libby walks like me and talks like me and, sometimes, acts like me. God made her mine. He chose me to be her mother.
Libby has met every expectation my husband and I have had for her. She rolled over on time and sat up on schedule. She crawled at six months, walked at nine, and started telling us all her opinions not long after her first birthday. She sleeps in a big girl bed, holds a pencil correctly, and reads like the wind.
Still, I suppose my job has always involved more than encouraging my children to meet expectations. I have to lead by example. I have to demonstrate and model and instruct and lecture and demand and train until my children have become the best they can be. And while I do all of that, I have to remember who is ultimately in control. God created my children and He is the one who will shape their lives and direct their paths. No matter what those paths may be, I have to love my children unconditionally while reminding them that my love for them is nothing compared to God's love for them. Then, after all the training and relinquishing control and unconditional loving, I have to pray. And I have to trust. And I have to believe that my children's best will, most likely, be completely different that I ever could have expected. They will go farther, reach higher, dream bigger. They will do everything I couldn't. In the end, Charlie and Libby might turn out to be a lot like me. But I know they will also be smarter, stronger, better. I know they will be . . . more.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
She’s really cute. She has these big brown eyes that look up at you with that “I’m adorable and you should love me a lot” look. She’s small and round and energetic and thrilled to see you every time you go anywhere near her. She sleeps the majority of the time. She even sleeps through the night in a little metal crate I can’t believe she finds comfortable. She’s only gone to the bathroom in the house a handful of times, most of which were probably my fault because I was too busy doing what I wanted to do instead of grabbing the leash and running for the backyard. She’s soft and fluffy and she learned to fetch in about two minutes. She rolls over so you can rub her belly after a nap. She doesn’t know her tail is attached to her body, which makes for quite a funny game of chase. Her fur is a beautiful caramel color and she has these silly white paws. She’s hypoallergenic and non-shedding. She likes peanut butter . . . a lot. She likes to chew . . . everything. Her name is Macie and she’s really cute.
She’s also driving me absolutely crazy.
My friends offered all kinds of positive encouragement when I told them my husband and I planned to surprise our kids with a puppy for Christmas. I know most of them were rather shocked that their Type A friend with a hint of obsessive-compulsive disorder running through her veins was going to allow an animal to inhabit her home, but they didn’t do anything to squelch the idea. They told me I could definitely do it. They told me I would love having a pet. They told me it would be loads of fun. They said it would be a great learning experience for our entire family.
What in the world were they thinking?
Macie has been with us for five weeks now and honestly, I’m thinking if I was going to put our family through this kind of insanity, I should have just had another baby. Seriously friends, it’s one thing to become a slave to a miracle created out of love between you and your husband after drinking too much red wine. It’s an entirely different beast to become a slave to a ridiculously expensive ball of fur that will never learn to talk, use a toilet, or wipe her feet before coming through the front door. If you think I’m being dramatic, I have three words for you . . . get a puppy. A puppy is easily as much work as a newborn, and remember, puppies don’t wear diapers. So not only do you have to clean up poop, you have to clean it off the brand new linen tree skirt your mother made you for your anniversary.
If I’d had a baby, I would be able to stay inside when it’s forty degrees, windy, and raining sideways. I could spend my days snuggled up on the couch with a ten-pound gift from God attached to my chest making adorable little sucking noises and reminding me to treasure every precious minute of life. Instead, I’m spending all my time freezing in the woods behind my house waiting for a ten-pound canine walking in circles trying to decide exactly which patch of the earth is the best spot for her to leave her mark.
If I’d gone ahead and had a third child, I would be receiving lovely gifts in the mail every other day – smocked outfits and tiny onesies and beautiful picture frames. With a new puppy, all I’m receiving are outrageous bills from the vet, who’s had more one-on-one time with me in the last month than my husband.
A newborn would have given me a reprieve from the busyness of life, the power to say “no,” if you will. People stop expecting you to fill your plate with social events and activities and duties when you’ve just had a new baby. You can turn down the many requests for help and volunteering and baked goods for a few relaxing months after you’ve given birth. But a puppy? Please, pile on the requests people. I don’t have anything going on. I can’t leave the house for more than two hours and when I am home, I’m interrupted every fifteen minutes to take a dog outside to sniff every blade of grass in the backyard, but no worries. I have plenty of free time on my hands. What can I do for you?
Babies smell wonderful. Puppies smell like . . . small dogs.
Babies don’t have teeth. Puppies have lots of teeth . . . sharp ones. And they like to use them.
When you put a baby down, she stays in one spot. When you put a puppy down, she runs right to your favorite rug and begins chewing it to bits.
After you give a baby a bath, you get to wrap him up in a warm towel and bury your head in the silky folds of his neck. After you give a puppy a bath, you need a raincoat.
Oh, and did I mention not a single person has offered to bring me dinner.
Okay, you’re right. I am being a tad dramatic. I’m not experiencing sleep deprivation, my nipples aren’t sore, and I don’t have an ice pack in my underwear. But after a month with Macie, I do believe there is something called post-puppy depression. And folks, I’ve got it.
I should probably make a confession here. The truth is . . . I wanted a puppy. Or at least, I wanted my children to have a puppy. I’ve never had a dog. I’m not a dog person - I believe we established that in a previous post. Still, I wanted my children to experience life with a pet. I don’t want them to grow up to be like me – I want them to smile when they see a dog on the street, not turn around and walk the other way. I felt a puppy would serve to bring even more love into our home. I thought she would be another special family member to cherish. I hoped she would make our daughter stop asking me when I’m going to have another baby. I even had the notion that a puppy might be a good form of daily “let it go” therapy for my OCD issues. Hey, statistics show pet owners lead happier, healthier, longer lives – I’m all for happiness, health, and longevity. And of course, like all naïve mothers out there, I also believed a pet would help teach my children to be more responsible.
“It will be good for Charlie and Libby to see what it’s like to care for another living creature.”
Yes, I actually said that. Out loud.
What in the world was I thinking?
I’m fairly certain I don’t need medication for my post-puppy depression. I did see a sign last week in front of a strip mall that said “Puppy adoptions today!” and immediately wondered if anyone would notice if I slipped Macie in one of the cages with the other poor, sad, homeless, orphan dogs. I think someone would adopt her right away. Remember, she’s really cute. Unfortunately, we paid to have that microchip thing inserted underneath our puppy’s skin so we would never lose her. Not so sure that was our best move.
I’ve had numerous inquiries into our puppy adventure over the past few weeks. Everyone is eager to know how things are going with our new addition. My response is the same almost every time.
“It’s a big adjustment, but I know it will be fine.”
Despite many moments of buyer’s remorse, I do believe it’s going to be fine. I feel confident that pet ownership will get easier and our family will begin to find the blessings in it. Macie won’t always be a puppy. One day, she will be an adult dog who doesn’t need four bathroom breaks every hour. One day, she will be able to roam the house with our complete trust in her ability not to damage anything. One day, she will lie at our feet without trying to eat our toes. One day, she will not think of the leash as her worst enemy. And one day, my kitchen will return to its usual state of order and cleanliness and lose the chew toys and baby gates causing my recent heart palpitations.
For now, however, we have a puppy. She’s challenging. She’s exasperating. She’s prompted several “WHO DO WE KNOW WHO WANTS THIS DOG BECAUSE I CAN’T DO THIS FOR ONE MORE SECOND!” phone calls to my husband. She’s even been the cause of one near nervous breakdown when said husband informed me that Cavachons typically live fifteen to eighteen years. Eighteen years. Eighteen years? Are you telling me I’ll be taking this dog out in the rain and the cold and the Atlanta humidity in late August for the next two decades of my life?
Oh. My. Word.
But . . . it will be fine. I know it will be fine. We will adjust and one day soon, we will all be fine. Until then, we will remain optimistic, continue praying for patience, and stay focused on Macie’s positives, or at least the one positive I can find . . . the fact that despite her willingness to look me in the face and squat on my kitchen floor less than thirty seconds after I took her outside, she really is cute.
She’s also driving me absolutely crazy.
My friends offered all kinds of positive encouragement when I told them my husband and I planned to surprise our kids with a puppy for Christmas. I know most of them were rather shocked that their Type A friend with a hint of obsessive-compulsive disorder running through her veins was going to allow an animal to inhabit her home, but they didn’t do anything to squelch the idea. They told me I could definitely do it. They told me I would love having a pet. They told me it would be loads of fun. They said it would be a great learning experience for our entire family.
What in the world were they thinking?
Macie has been with us for five weeks now and honestly, I’m thinking if I was going to put our family through this kind of insanity, I should have just had another baby. Seriously friends, it’s one thing to become a slave to a miracle created out of love between you and your husband after drinking too much red wine. It’s an entirely different beast to become a slave to a ridiculously expensive ball of fur that will never learn to talk, use a toilet, or wipe her feet before coming through the front door. If you think I’m being dramatic, I have three words for you . . . get a puppy. A puppy is easily as much work as a newborn, and remember, puppies don’t wear diapers. So not only do you have to clean up poop, you have to clean it off the brand new linen tree skirt your mother made you for your anniversary.
If I’d had a baby, I would be able to stay inside when it’s forty degrees, windy, and raining sideways. I could spend my days snuggled up on the couch with a ten-pound gift from God attached to my chest making adorable little sucking noises and reminding me to treasure every precious minute of life. Instead, I’m spending all my time freezing in the woods behind my house waiting for a ten-pound canine walking in circles trying to decide exactly which patch of the earth is the best spot for her to leave her mark.
If I’d gone ahead and had a third child, I would be receiving lovely gifts in the mail every other day – smocked outfits and tiny onesies and beautiful picture frames. With a new puppy, all I’m receiving are outrageous bills from the vet, who’s had more one-on-one time with me in the last month than my husband.
A newborn would have given me a reprieve from the busyness of life, the power to say “no,” if you will. People stop expecting you to fill your plate with social events and activities and duties when you’ve just had a new baby. You can turn down the many requests for help and volunteering and baked goods for a few relaxing months after you’ve given birth. But a puppy? Please, pile on the requests people. I don’t have anything going on. I can’t leave the house for more than two hours and when I am home, I’m interrupted every fifteen minutes to take a dog outside to sniff every blade of grass in the backyard, but no worries. I have plenty of free time on my hands. What can I do for you?
Babies smell wonderful. Puppies smell like . . . small dogs.
Babies don’t have teeth. Puppies have lots of teeth . . . sharp ones. And they like to use them.
When you put a baby down, she stays in one spot. When you put a puppy down, she runs right to your favorite rug and begins chewing it to bits.
After you give a baby a bath, you get to wrap him up in a warm towel and bury your head in the silky folds of his neck. After you give a puppy a bath, you need a raincoat.
Oh, and did I mention not a single person has offered to bring me dinner.
Okay, you’re right. I am being a tad dramatic. I’m not experiencing sleep deprivation, my nipples aren’t sore, and I don’t have an ice pack in my underwear. But after a month with Macie, I do believe there is something called post-puppy depression. And folks, I’ve got it.
I should probably make a confession here. The truth is . . . I wanted a puppy. Or at least, I wanted my children to have a puppy. I’ve never had a dog. I’m not a dog person - I believe we established that in a previous post. Still, I wanted my children to experience life with a pet. I don’t want them to grow up to be like me – I want them to smile when they see a dog on the street, not turn around and walk the other way. I felt a puppy would serve to bring even more love into our home. I thought she would be another special family member to cherish. I hoped she would make our daughter stop asking me when I’m going to have another baby. I even had the notion that a puppy might be a good form of daily “let it go” therapy for my OCD issues. Hey, statistics show pet owners lead happier, healthier, longer lives – I’m all for happiness, health, and longevity. And of course, like all naïve mothers out there, I also believed a pet would help teach my children to be more responsible.
“It will be good for Charlie and Libby to see what it’s like to care for another living creature.”
Yes, I actually said that. Out loud.
What in the world was I thinking?
I’m fairly certain I don’t need medication for my post-puppy depression. I did see a sign last week in front of a strip mall that said “Puppy adoptions today!” and immediately wondered if anyone would notice if I slipped Macie in one of the cages with the other poor, sad, homeless, orphan dogs. I think someone would adopt her right away. Remember, she’s really cute. Unfortunately, we paid to have that microchip thing inserted underneath our puppy’s skin so we would never lose her. Not so sure that was our best move.
I’ve had numerous inquiries into our puppy adventure over the past few weeks. Everyone is eager to know how things are going with our new addition. My response is the same almost every time.
“It’s a big adjustment, but I know it will be fine.”
Despite many moments of buyer’s remorse, I do believe it’s going to be fine. I feel confident that pet ownership will get easier and our family will begin to find the blessings in it. Macie won’t always be a puppy. One day, she will be an adult dog who doesn’t need four bathroom breaks every hour. One day, she will be able to roam the house with our complete trust in her ability not to damage anything. One day, she will lie at our feet without trying to eat our toes. One day, she will not think of the leash as her worst enemy. And one day, my kitchen will return to its usual state of order and cleanliness and lose the chew toys and baby gates causing my recent heart palpitations.
For now, however, we have a puppy. She’s challenging. She’s exasperating. She’s prompted several “WHO DO WE KNOW WHO WANTS THIS DOG BECAUSE I CAN’T DO THIS FOR ONE MORE SECOND!” phone calls to my husband. She’s even been the cause of one near nervous breakdown when said husband informed me that Cavachons typically live fifteen to eighteen years. Eighteen years. Eighteen years? Are you telling me I’ll be taking this dog out in the rain and the cold and the Atlanta humidity in late August for the next two decades of my life?
Oh. My. Word.
But . . . it will be fine. I know it will be fine. We will adjust and one day soon, we will all be fine. Until then, we will remain optimistic, continue praying for patience, and stay focused on Macie’s positives, or at least the one positive I can find . . . the fact that despite her willingness to look me in the face and squat on my kitchen floor less than thirty seconds after I took her outside, she really is cute.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
I hate New Year’s resolutions.
Okay, okay.
I guess hate is a bit intense right after the holidays.
The truth is . . . I don’t hate the actual resolutions people often make at the beginning of a new year. It’s wonderfully exciting to look back and think ahead. To consider where you’ve been, what you’ve done, who you were. To plan adjustments that might make yourself and your life a better version of what it once was. I’m all for a little constructive reevaluation from time to time. I believe there can be a great deal of value in purposefully taking stock and deciding if the people and activities that have commanded our focus over a twelve month period have been worth our time and effort.
I make resolutions at the end of December like everyone else. In fact, I have a list that would make Atlas Shrugged seem short. (Just Google "longest novels ever written” if you don’t know what I’m talking about.) I want to improve. I want to be different in a myriad of ways. I want to eat less sugar and more spinach. I want to talk less and listen more. I want to buy less and save more. I want to complain less and celebrate more. I want to judge less and love more. I want to be a more enthusiastic parent, a more attentive wife, a more loving daughter, a more thoughtful friend. I want to be less impatient, less worried, less demanding, less of a perfectionist. I want to make changes in my life. I need to make changes in my life. So, like I said, I make New Year’s resolutions right along with the rest of you. I don’t hate the resolutions. I simply hate my inability to keep them.
I wonder . . . what if all this appraising of life we do at the end of each calendar year is completely futile because of its very nature, because it involves the act of contemplating the past and anticipating the future, because it causes us to immerse ourselves in what has already been and design what is yet to be –the two things we have absolutely no control over.
I wonder . . . what if we didn’t look back. What if we didn’t look ahead. What if we concentrated only on the present. Right now. This moment.
I guess some of those resolutions on our lists wouldn’t make much sense if we realized today could be our last. I mean really, if I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow morning I certainly wouldn’t spend forty-five minutes of today in a pouring sweat in my workout room and I would definitely be eating brownies for breakfast, cookies for lunch, and cake for dinner. Today’s line-up of snacks would involve French fries, chips and salsa, and several slices of pizza . . . IF I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow.
But, are those the kinds of resolutions we need to keep? Sure, it’s important to exercise and eat right, but aren’t those resolutions pretty low on the list of what really matters in our lives. It’s the big resolutions I’m thinking about here. The ones that have to do with how we spend the seconds of each day and how we treat the people we love.
If we viewed this day as our last, we would keep every truly important resolution we’ve ever made. If we could put all our energies into this day, think how we’d be able to transform our thoughts, words, and actions. I could be exactly who I want to be if I didn’t allow what has happened in the past or what might happen in the future to consume a single one of my thoughts. I would be so full of love and celebration and gratitude and joy if I could just consider this day to be the precious gift that it is.
I’ve crumpled up my list of New Year’s resolutions and thrown it in the trash. I don’t need a list to remind me what I want to do and who I want to be in 2012. I just need to remember one short sentence, seventeen simple words.
Psalm 118:24 This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Forget the past.
Ignore the future.
Focus on the present. The gift of today.
That’s all I have to do. It’s my one and only New Year’s resolution. I will probably fail at least three-hundred and sixty-five times, but this year, I will try to remember that each day could be my last. And I will live . . . and love . . . accordingly.
Now, pass me another brownie.:)
Okay, okay.
I guess hate is a bit intense right after the holidays.
The truth is . . . I don’t hate the actual resolutions people often make at the beginning of a new year. It’s wonderfully exciting to look back and think ahead. To consider where you’ve been, what you’ve done, who you were. To plan adjustments that might make yourself and your life a better version of what it once was. I’m all for a little constructive reevaluation from time to time. I believe there can be a great deal of value in purposefully taking stock and deciding if the people and activities that have commanded our focus over a twelve month period have been worth our time and effort.
I make resolutions at the end of December like everyone else. In fact, I have a list that would make Atlas Shrugged seem short. (Just Google "longest novels ever written” if you don’t know what I’m talking about.) I want to improve. I want to be different in a myriad of ways. I want to eat less sugar and more spinach. I want to talk less and listen more. I want to buy less and save more. I want to complain less and celebrate more. I want to judge less and love more. I want to be a more enthusiastic parent, a more attentive wife, a more loving daughter, a more thoughtful friend. I want to be less impatient, less worried, less demanding, less of a perfectionist. I want to make changes in my life. I need to make changes in my life. So, like I said, I make New Year’s resolutions right along with the rest of you. I don’t hate the resolutions. I simply hate my inability to keep them.
I wonder . . . what if all this appraising of life we do at the end of each calendar year is completely futile because of its very nature, because it involves the act of contemplating the past and anticipating the future, because it causes us to immerse ourselves in what has already been and design what is yet to be –the two things we have absolutely no control over.
I wonder . . . what if we didn’t look back. What if we didn’t look ahead. What if we concentrated only on the present. Right now. This moment.
I guess some of those resolutions on our lists wouldn’t make much sense if we realized today could be our last. I mean really, if I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow morning I certainly wouldn’t spend forty-five minutes of today in a pouring sweat in my workout room and I would definitely be eating brownies for breakfast, cookies for lunch, and cake for dinner. Today’s line-up of snacks would involve French fries, chips and salsa, and several slices of pizza . . . IF I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow.
But, are those the kinds of resolutions we need to keep? Sure, it’s important to exercise and eat right, but aren’t those resolutions pretty low on the list of what really matters in our lives. It’s the big resolutions I’m thinking about here. The ones that have to do with how we spend the seconds of each day and how we treat the people we love.
If we viewed this day as our last, we would keep every truly important resolution we’ve ever made. If we could put all our energies into this day, think how we’d be able to transform our thoughts, words, and actions. I could be exactly who I want to be if I didn’t allow what has happened in the past or what might happen in the future to consume a single one of my thoughts. I would be so full of love and celebration and gratitude and joy if I could just consider this day to be the precious gift that it is.
I’ve crumpled up my list of New Year’s resolutions and thrown it in the trash. I don’t need a list to remind me what I want to do and who I want to be in 2012. I just need to remember one short sentence, seventeen simple words.
Psalm 118:24 This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Forget the past.
Ignore the future.
Focus on the present. The gift of today.
That’s all I have to do. It’s my one and only New Year’s resolution. I will probably fail at least three-hundred and sixty-five times, but this year, I will try to remember that each day could be my last. And I will live . . . and love . . . accordingly.
Now, pass me another brownie.:)
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Christmas lists can be rather telling, don’t ya think?
Confession: Last December, I had to seek counseling over my son’s Christmas list. Yes, my friends, a letter written by a seven year old beginning with the words “Dear Santa” sent me to therapy.
Let me explain.
I am a bubble mom. Hey, I’m a control freak and control freaks like to keep their kids in
bubbles . . . teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy, small ones. I discovered not long after becoming a mother that I had very clear visions regarding what I did and did not want to expose my children to, and there were a LOT of things on the “no” list.
To give you an example of how hard-core my list was, I will admit to nursing Charlie while watching HGTV on mute. Why was the TV on mute, you ask? Because I couldn’t stand the thought of exposing my newborn baby to anything that might be even the slightest bit negative, and they might use such appalling words as “hate” or “sexy” on HGTV. (They do, you know, which is why I still don’t allow my kids to watch Divine Design, even though I think Candice Olsen hung the moon, and when I win the lottery and feed as many starving kids as possible, I will then hire her to redecorate my entire life.)
I’m still terrified of the television when it comes to my children. Now that Charlie is older, he wants to watch sporting events with his daddy. Sure, golf is fairly clean, but I have to make sure Adam is armed with the remote control ready to change the channel as soon as any commercials come on. I simply don’t have the inclination to explain why half-naked women show up on all beer commercials and I definitely don’t want to explain what Viagra is all about.
Movies make me nervous too. Although there are guidelines for determining the rating of movies, I’m not so sure they make sense. We even stayed away from the G rated Disney movies until last January, when it snowed so much the kids were out of school for a week and we finally tired of sledding down our driveway. I know they’re classics, but again, the language isn’t always appropriate and the themes irritate me. I mean seriously, what did Walt Disney have against mothers anyway?
Music is yet another issue for bubble moms like myself. There is nothing great out there for school age children. My kids loved Bible songs and the baby and toddler CD’s when they were young, but once they started school, they outgrew “The Wheels on the Bus,” and there just isn’t a next step. I love music with a great beat as much as the next girl, but I don’t need The Black-Eyed Peas on my five-year-old's play list.
My extreme sheltering extends beyond television, movies, and music. Until last Christmas, we didn’t have any toys with weapons in our house. In fact, I never used the word ‘gun’ in front of my children, along with many other words like ‘kill’, ‘die’, or ‘dead.’ I realize my kids will one day learn our world has the potential to be a violent place, but I wanted to put that day off for as long as possible. So, for years, when my daughter saw a beetle on the ground that wasn’t moving, I told her it was simply taking a little snooze on the sidewalk. And when well-meaning family members bought Star Wars Lego sets for my son because they thought I was going overboard with my desire to protect my children’s innocence, I confiscated the weapons in the blink of an eye and threw them immediately into the trash.
Like I said . . . hard-core. I formed a bubble around my children and tired to keep it intact for many years. Of course, every bubble pops eventually, and the one I created around Charlie and Libby finally did. In fact, it probably popped years earlier, but I was too busy making sure my kids still thought the ‘F’ word had to do with releasing bodily gas to realize it. When I saw Charlie’s Christmas list last December, however, I knew my bubble had burst.
My seven-year-old son asked Santa Claus to bring him a Nerf gun, a bow and arrow, and a pocketknife for Christmas.
Every single item on his list was a weapon.
Well, this bubble mom panicked. I called the counselor at Charlie's school and requested an emergency meeting while visions of sociopaths danced in my head.
The amazing school counselor reassured me that my son was not on his way to becoming a dangerous criminal. He was just a little boy who wanted to play like a little boy with toys made specifically for, yep, you got it . . . little boys. It made sense when a trained professional explained it that way, so I went with it, and after my counseling session, Santa delivered in a BIG way. He brought Charlie a nerf gun and a bow and arrow for Christmas. TWO weapons. Of course, in typical fashion, Charlie rarely plays with either of them, but they sit in his closet, reminding me that there is no way I will always be able to protect my children. They will hear things I don’t want them to hear. They will see things I don’t want them to see. They will learn things I don’t want them to learn. All I can do is try to keep the lines of communication open and pray for God’s protection over my children. And I have to trust that the bubble I had around Charlie and Libby for so many years gave them just enough sheltering to allow them to go out into the world and find the good in it.
This year, Charlie’s Christmas list looks like this:
1. Play Station
2. Backpack (it doesn’t matter which color)
3. Another Nerf Gun
4. Surprises!!!
Number two is my favorite. Only a male could be that agreeable. Man, I love that kid. And I'm so glad I won't need any therapy this year.
Merry Christmas my friends! May God richly bless you this holiday weekend and always!
Confession: Last December, I had to seek counseling over my son’s Christmas list. Yes, my friends, a letter written by a seven year old beginning with the words “Dear Santa” sent me to therapy.
Let me explain.
I am a bubble mom. Hey, I’m a control freak and control freaks like to keep their kids in
bubbles . . . teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy, small ones. I discovered not long after becoming a mother that I had very clear visions regarding what I did and did not want to expose my children to, and there were a LOT of things on the “no” list.
To give you an example of how hard-core my list was, I will admit to nursing Charlie while watching HGTV on mute. Why was the TV on mute, you ask? Because I couldn’t stand the thought of exposing my newborn baby to anything that might be even the slightest bit negative, and they might use such appalling words as “hate” or “sexy” on HGTV. (They do, you know, which is why I still don’t allow my kids to watch Divine Design, even though I think Candice Olsen hung the moon, and when I win the lottery and feed as many starving kids as possible, I will then hire her to redecorate my entire life.)
I’m still terrified of the television when it comes to my children. Now that Charlie is older, he wants to watch sporting events with his daddy. Sure, golf is fairly clean, but I have to make sure Adam is armed with the remote control ready to change the channel as soon as any commercials come on. I simply don’t have the inclination to explain why half-naked women show up on all beer commercials and I definitely don’t want to explain what Viagra is all about.
Movies make me nervous too. Although there are guidelines for determining the rating of movies, I’m not so sure they make sense. We even stayed away from the G rated Disney movies until last January, when it snowed so much the kids were out of school for a week and we finally tired of sledding down our driveway. I know they’re classics, but again, the language isn’t always appropriate and the themes irritate me. I mean seriously, what did Walt Disney have against mothers anyway?
Music is yet another issue for bubble moms like myself. There is nothing great out there for school age children. My kids loved Bible songs and the baby and toddler CD’s when they were young, but once they started school, they outgrew “The Wheels on the Bus,” and there just isn’t a next step. I love music with a great beat as much as the next girl, but I don’t need The Black-Eyed Peas on my five-year-old's play list.
My extreme sheltering extends beyond television, movies, and music. Until last Christmas, we didn’t have any toys with weapons in our house. In fact, I never used the word ‘gun’ in front of my children, along with many other words like ‘kill’, ‘die’, or ‘dead.’ I realize my kids will one day learn our world has the potential to be a violent place, but I wanted to put that day off for as long as possible. So, for years, when my daughter saw a beetle on the ground that wasn’t moving, I told her it was simply taking a little snooze on the sidewalk. And when well-meaning family members bought Star Wars Lego sets for my son because they thought I was going overboard with my desire to protect my children’s innocence, I confiscated the weapons in the blink of an eye and threw them immediately into the trash.
Like I said . . . hard-core. I formed a bubble around my children and tired to keep it intact for many years. Of course, every bubble pops eventually, and the one I created around Charlie and Libby finally did. In fact, it probably popped years earlier, but I was too busy making sure my kids still thought the ‘F’ word had to do with releasing bodily gas to realize it. When I saw Charlie’s Christmas list last December, however, I knew my bubble had burst.
My seven-year-old son asked Santa Claus to bring him a Nerf gun, a bow and arrow, and a pocketknife for Christmas.
Every single item on his list was a weapon.
Well, this bubble mom panicked. I called the counselor at Charlie's school and requested an emergency meeting while visions of sociopaths danced in my head.
The amazing school counselor reassured me that my son was not on his way to becoming a dangerous criminal. He was just a little boy who wanted to play like a little boy with toys made specifically for, yep, you got it . . . little boys. It made sense when a trained professional explained it that way, so I went with it, and after my counseling session, Santa delivered in a BIG way. He brought Charlie a nerf gun and a bow and arrow for Christmas. TWO weapons. Of course, in typical fashion, Charlie rarely plays with either of them, but they sit in his closet, reminding me that there is no way I will always be able to protect my children. They will hear things I don’t want them to hear. They will see things I don’t want them to see. They will learn things I don’t want them to learn. All I can do is try to keep the lines of communication open and pray for God’s protection over my children. And I have to trust that the bubble I had around Charlie and Libby for so many years gave them just enough sheltering to allow them to go out into the world and find the good in it.
This year, Charlie’s Christmas list looks like this:
1. Play Station
2. Backpack (it doesn’t matter which color)
3. Another Nerf Gun
4. Surprises!!!
Number two is my favorite. Only a male could be that agreeable. Man, I love that kid. And I'm so glad I won't need any therapy this year.
Merry Christmas my friends! May God richly bless you this holiday weekend and always!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
I’ve lied to my children. I would love to meet a mother who hasn’t, but still, it’s tough to teach the value of honesty when you’ve looked your kid in the eyes and told him that, yes indeed, a pacifier fairy really did fly through his window in the middle of the night because she knew he was ready to go to sleep without his favorite security item. Lying to my child in order to force him to take a developmental leap I deemed necessary probably isn't quality parenting.
There have been plenty of little lies throughout the years as well.
“No, honey, we can’t go to the ice skating rink because, ummmm, it’s closed today.”
“Sorry, sweetheart, we can’t buy that new toy because I only brought enough money to the store to buy the other thirty things in our shopping cart."
"Why yes, love, I do think you look beautiful with six bows in your hair and pink lipstick smeared all over your face.”
I justify the inaccurate statements I make to my children in the hopes of building their self-confidence, or protecting them, or letting them down easily, or getting out of a public place without causing an embarrassing meltdown, or . . . or maybe just because I’m too chicken to deal with the ramifications my honesty might bring. I want my children to understand what it means to have restraint, but I don’t always know how to handle their reaction when I deny the instant gratification they crave. I want them to know they don’t have to go somewhere special to have a great time, but I struggle to find pleasure in the ordinary myself some days. I want my kids to be able to find the magic of life, but I’m not sure how much of it I should create for them and when to let reality settle in.
There have been bigger deceptions in my almost nine year stint as a mother as well. Like most American children, I loved the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus when I was a child, and I’ve enjoyed passing down their unique traditions to my own son and daughter. But as Christmas approaches this year and my children are now eight and six, I'm beginning to wonder, at what point do I put a stop to the sham? I received gifts from “Santa” on Christmas morning when I was a college student and thought it was great fun. Still, do I want to continue in this manner with my own kids?
I’ve received all kinds of advice on how to handle the beginning of the end; the moment when your child begins to realize you have tricked him into playing along with a con involving a large bearded man sliding down a chimney while his eight flying reindeer wait on the roof. ?????
Some suggest it’s best to use the old ‘you gotta believe to receive’ adage. I like that one. It doesn’t spill the beans, but it doesn’t come right out and deliver a blatant lie either.
Some people turn the question around when they begin to notice a child having the doubts of a non-believer. “Well honey, who do you think puts the presents under the tree on Christmas Eve?” I like that one too. It encourages critical thinking without incorporating any admission of dishonesty on the part of the parent.
Many people can tell you about the exact moment they learned Santa Claus wasn't real, and some claim is was a devastating event in their lives. I think I suspected long before I truly knew, but either way, I don't remember being significantly upset when I became certain my parents were the ones delivering gifts on Christmas Eve. I think it didn't matter because, regardless of who was doing the actual delivering, I was thrilled to wake up on Christmas day and find packages under the tree with my name on them. Santa or no Santa, I bubbled over with excitement every Christmas Eve, rushing downstairs before the sun came up each Christmas morning. It was ALWAYS my favorite day of the year.
My son is very logical. I could see his wheels turning even before he started kindergarten when his dad and I would tell him about Santa and sleighs and chimneys. He just wasn't buying it. He had lots of questions. Good ones. And I found it tough to come up with explanations that satisfied his skepticism.
After a couple years, Charlie's questions about Santa Claus stopped. Some of my friends think my son decided to believe in Santa despite his doubts. Honestly, I think he just decided to go along with the idea of Santa because his parents weren't leaving him any other choice. I think Charlie knows his dad and I are the ones leaving presents for him and his sister on Christmas Day, and frankly, I'm okay with that. In fact, part of me wants to come right out and confirm his suspicions. Then we can let him get in on the fun of being on the other side of the charade.
I think the reason I'm not distressed about my son's status as a Santa believer has to do with the fact that I have some real concerns about the deceptions we feed our children in the name of good holiday fun. I have concerns that there is real potential for the magical characters of childhood to weaken the case of God.
Whoa. Now that’s serious. You didn't think I was going that deep, did you? Neither did I, but hey, it's good to get out of the shallow end every once in a while, don't you think?
I know it sounds a little nuts, but stick with me for a minute.
Is it possible we're setting our kids up to question the existence of God by putting money under their pillows every time they lose a tooth?
If you think about it, children are likely to put God in the same realm as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. In fact, they might even place God somewhere below such fictional characters, because they can actually sit on Santa’s lap every year. They can talk to him at the mall and receive letters from him in the mail and see the evidence of his existence when they open their eyes to a room full of new goodies every Christmas morning.
What about God? He's not hanging around handing out candy canes in parking lots every December.
We try to explain God's important characteristics to our children with examples, both verbal and physical. We read books about God, tell Bible stories about Him, listen to songs about Him, and pray to Him. Yet, in many homes, God is just a person kids know about because they hear His name mentioned now and again when somebody sneezes.
When I visualize heaven, I think of streets paved in shimmering gold. I picture every flower, tree, and bush of spring blooming at the exact same time. I see layers upon layers of open petals; the bright yellow forsythia has a towering backdrop of pale pink cherry trees, bright pink red buds, and white Dogwoods, while tulips, daffodils, pansies, and violas burst forth in flaming pastels from all directions. I imagine a luminous light reflecting every color in the spectrum so everything around me is exquisitely warm and cheery. I hear angels making the most beautiful music I’ve ever known, music from every instrument harmonizing together to create a constant, fluid melody that rings in my ears and echoes in my soul.
When my kids think about heaven, do they imagine the same glorious splendor of sights and sounds and emotions that I do . . . or are they picturing a workshop filled with toys at the top of the North Pole?
My son hasn't come right out and asked me if Santa Claus is real. I'm not sure he ever will. If he does, I'm sure I'll dodge the question with something about Santa being the symbol of the Christmas spirit, which is most definitely real in those who choose to make it a part of their lives during the holiday season, and hopefully, every day of the year. Or maybe I'll tell him the story of Nicholas, who was born during the third century and raised to care for and help others, especially children. Back then, and still in many places today, he became known as Saint Nicholas - you see where this leads, right?
As long as my son isn't asking me any direct questions about Santa, however, I'm going to keep my mouth shut. I'm going to wrap all his gifts in paper he's never seen. I'm going to make sure he leaves cookies and milk by the fireplace on Christmas Eve. I'm going to be amazed at the treasures in his stocking on Christmas morning. And when the holidays are over and the jolly man has resumed his post on top of the world, I'll stop talking about Santa Claus and how wonderful he is at Christmas time, and instead, I'll tell my son about God, and how wonderful He is ALL THE TIME.
There have been plenty of little lies throughout the years as well.
“No, honey, we can’t go to the ice skating rink because, ummmm, it’s closed today.”
“Sorry, sweetheart, we can’t buy that new toy because I only brought enough money to the store to buy the other thirty things in our shopping cart."
"Why yes, love, I do think you look beautiful with six bows in your hair and pink lipstick smeared all over your face.”
I justify the inaccurate statements I make to my children in the hopes of building their self-confidence, or protecting them, or letting them down easily, or getting out of a public place without causing an embarrassing meltdown, or . . . or maybe just because I’m too chicken to deal with the ramifications my honesty might bring. I want my children to understand what it means to have restraint, but I don’t always know how to handle their reaction when I deny the instant gratification they crave. I want them to know they don’t have to go somewhere special to have a great time, but I struggle to find pleasure in the ordinary myself some days. I want my kids to be able to find the magic of life, but I’m not sure how much of it I should create for them and when to let reality settle in.
There have been bigger deceptions in my almost nine year stint as a mother as well. Like most American children, I loved the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus when I was a child, and I’ve enjoyed passing down their unique traditions to my own son and daughter. But as Christmas approaches this year and my children are now eight and six, I'm beginning to wonder, at what point do I put a stop to the sham? I received gifts from “Santa” on Christmas morning when I was a college student and thought it was great fun. Still, do I want to continue in this manner with my own kids?
I’ve received all kinds of advice on how to handle the beginning of the end; the moment when your child begins to realize you have tricked him into playing along with a con involving a large bearded man sliding down a chimney while his eight flying reindeer wait on the roof. ?????
Some suggest it’s best to use the old ‘you gotta believe to receive’ adage. I like that one. It doesn’t spill the beans, but it doesn’t come right out and deliver a blatant lie either.
Some people turn the question around when they begin to notice a child having the doubts of a non-believer. “Well honey, who do you think puts the presents under the tree on Christmas Eve?” I like that one too. It encourages critical thinking without incorporating any admission of dishonesty on the part of the parent.
Many people can tell you about the exact moment they learned Santa Claus wasn't real, and some claim is was a devastating event in their lives. I think I suspected long before I truly knew, but either way, I don't remember being significantly upset when I became certain my parents were the ones delivering gifts on Christmas Eve. I think it didn't matter because, regardless of who was doing the actual delivering, I was thrilled to wake up on Christmas day and find packages under the tree with my name on them. Santa or no Santa, I bubbled over with excitement every Christmas Eve, rushing downstairs before the sun came up each Christmas morning. It was ALWAYS my favorite day of the year.
My son is very logical. I could see his wheels turning even before he started kindergarten when his dad and I would tell him about Santa and sleighs and chimneys. He just wasn't buying it. He had lots of questions. Good ones. And I found it tough to come up with explanations that satisfied his skepticism.
After a couple years, Charlie's questions about Santa Claus stopped. Some of my friends think my son decided to believe in Santa despite his doubts. Honestly, I think he just decided to go along with the idea of Santa because his parents weren't leaving him any other choice. I think Charlie knows his dad and I are the ones leaving presents for him and his sister on Christmas Day, and frankly, I'm okay with that. In fact, part of me wants to come right out and confirm his suspicions. Then we can let him get in on the fun of being on the other side of the charade.
I think the reason I'm not distressed about my son's status as a Santa believer has to do with the fact that I have some real concerns about the deceptions we feed our children in the name of good holiday fun. I have concerns that there is real potential for the magical characters of childhood to weaken the case of God.
Whoa. Now that’s serious. You didn't think I was going that deep, did you? Neither did I, but hey, it's good to get out of the shallow end every once in a while, don't you think?
I know it sounds a little nuts, but stick with me for a minute.
Is it possible we're setting our kids up to question the existence of God by putting money under their pillows every time they lose a tooth?
If you think about it, children are likely to put God in the same realm as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. In fact, they might even place God somewhere below such fictional characters, because they can actually sit on Santa’s lap every year. They can talk to him at the mall and receive letters from him in the mail and see the evidence of his existence when they open their eyes to a room full of new goodies every Christmas morning.
What about God? He's not hanging around handing out candy canes in parking lots every December.
We try to explain God's important characteristics to our children with examples, both verbal and physical. We read books about God, tell Bible stories about Him, listen to songs about Him, and pray to Him. Yet, in many homes, God is just a person kids know about because they hear His name mentioned now and again when somebody sneezes.
When I visualize heaven, I think of streets paved in shimmering gold. I picture every flower, tree, and bush of spring blooming at the exact same time. I see layers upon layers of open petals; the bright yellow forsythia has a towering backdrop of pale pink cherry trees, bright pink red buds, and white Dogwoods, while tulips, daffodils, pansies, and violas burst forth in flaming pastels from all directions. I imagine a luminous light reflecting every color in the spectrum so everything around me is exquisitely warm and cheery. I hear angels making the most beautiful music I’ve ever known, music from every instrument harmonizing together to create a constant, fluid melody that rings in my ears and echoes in my soul.
When my kids think about heaven, do they imagine the same glorious splendor of sights and sounds and emotions that I do . . . or are they picturing a workshop filled with toys at the top of the North Pole?
My son hasn't come right out and asked me if Santa Claus is real. I'm not sure he ever will. If he does, I'm sure I'll dodge the question with something about Santa being the symbol of the Christmas spirit, which is most definitely real in those who choose to make it a part of their lives during the holiday season, and hopefully, every day of the year. Or maybe I'll tell him the story of Nicholas, who was born during the third century and raised to care for and help others, especially children. Back then, and still in many places today, he became known as Saint Nicholas - you see where this leads, right?
As long as my son isn't asking me any direct questions about Santa, however, I'm going to keep my mouth shut. I'm going to wrap all his gifts in paper he's never seen. I'm going to make sure he leaves cookies and milk by the fireplace on Christmas Eve. I'm going to be amazed at the treasures in his stocking on Christmas morning. And when the holidays are over and the jolly man has resumed his post on top of the world, I'll stop talking about Santa Claus and how wonderful he is at Christmas time, and instead, I'll tell my son about God, and how wonderful He is ALL THE TIME.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
I won’t forget the crisp sound of the slap as their hands met in the air. It was the sound of understanding. A surprising moment of connection, not just of flesh but of hearts; an unspoken agreement between two strangers who, for a moment at least, identified completely with one another.
They could have been a lot alike. In some ways, I guess they were. They were both boys, born and living in Atlanta. They were about the same age and smaller than they’d like to be. They had little sisters, loved hot dogs, and played basketball. And for this one afternoon, they sat side-by-side at a table while people in Santa hats mingled around them, sharing hugs and good cheer for the holiday fast approaching. They could have been a lot alike . . . but they weren’t.
One hand much lighter. Our son. Born into all the good fortune a life can hold. Two parents living together, both educated, one a provider of income and insurance. Two sets of healthy grandparents. A warm and safe home. Plenty of love. Plenty to eat. Plenty to wear. Plenty to play with. Plenty of everything. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.
One hand shades darker. Her son. Born into another set of circumstances. A single mother, uneducated, working nights to support her three children. A grandmother addicted to drugs. Ten aunts and uncles; some placed out of reach in undisclosed foster homes. Plenty of love, but not enough of the other things, the things we had brought to give, the things we think of as basic necessities – food, clothes, blankets, toys. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.
Funny how easily kids can get along despite their differences. They talked about sports and skateboards. They laughed about sitting on Santa’s lap. They smiled at each other when their mothers told them they could eat their dessert. They both knew why we were there. They might have known they wouldn’t have met otherwise. It didn’t matter. Because for the two hours they were together, they searched for the things they had in common, and when they found something, their hands reached up high, coming together in a celebratory slap of mutual appreciation.
I won’t forget the sound of that slap because I easily could have missed it. You see, when a friend asked if our family would like to participate in an adopt-a-family for Christmas program, I hesitated. I thought about the idea and I actually considered turning it down. With a husband working in commercial real estate, this is the first Christmas in several years that hasn’t caused a significant amount of financial strain, and I wanted to relish in our abundance. I wanted to buy bigger, better gifts for everyone on my list. I wanted to say yes to all the ornament exchanges and spoil family members I never get to spoil and have two Christmas trees instead of one. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.
We’re having our basement renovated. As I write this, there are all kinds of crazy noises coming from below and I can see dust floating in from under the basement door and settling on my kitchen floor. I wanted hardwood floors in the basement. I wanted marble countertops and a glass tile backsplash and travertine floors. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.
We’ve never adopted a family before. My parents used to participate in a similar program when I was a kid, but I wasn’t really involved. My mom and dad would leave my brother and me with a babysitter and deliver “Christmas” to the family they had been matched with in downtown Atlanta. The program my friend invited us to join this year wasn’t a drop-off kind of program. It was a deliver “Christmas” in person kind of program. It was a sit down for lunch in a church fellowship hall with the family you adopted kind of program. That scared me. I was concerned about my own comfort. And so . . . I hesitated.
I don’t know what made me finally agree to participate in the program my friend invited us to be a part of, but we ended up in that church fellowship hall having lunch with our adopted family this past weekend. I left with questions. Why are there such differences between my son and hers?Why is my son so lucky? Why does he get it easy, with an abundance of opportunities surrounding him from every side? Why should someone else’s son have fewer chances? Why should someone else’s son have to fight so hard? Yet, despite my questions, the lasting impression of the day had nothing to do with the inequalities of life I often forget about because they so rarely impact me in a negative way. The image that will remain with me is the picture of my son and hers, their hands clasped together.
I don’t have the answers to my questions, and I never will, but I know God does. I think he was looking down on us in that church fellowship hall, rejoicing in the glorious sound as two of his children, so different and yet so much the same, found a reason to share, smile, and give one another a high five.
And next year . . . I won’t hesitate.
They could have been a lot alike. In some ways, I guess they were. They were both boys, born and living in Atlanta. They were about the same age and smaller than they’d like to be. They had little sisters, loved hot dogs, and played basketball. And for this one afternoon, they sat side-by-side at a table while people in Santa hats mingled around them, sharing hugs and good cheer for the holiday fast approaching. They could have been a lot alike . . . but they weren’t.
One hand much lighter. Our son. Born into all the good fortune a life can hold. Two parents living together, both educated, one a provider of income and insurance. Two sets of healthy grandparents. A warm and safe home. Plenty of love. Plenty to eat. Plenty to wear. Plenty to play with. Plenty of everything. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.
One hand shades darker. Her son. Born into another set of circumstances. A single mother, uneducated, working nights to support her three children. A grandmother addicted to drugs. Ten aunts and uncles; some placed out of reach in undisclosed foster homes. Plenty of love, but not enough of the other things, the things we had brought to give, the things we think of as basic necessities – food, clothes, blankets, toys. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.
Funny how easily kids can get along despite their differences. They talked about sports and skateboards. They laughed about sitting on Santa’s lap. They smiled at each other when their mothers told them they could eat their dessert. They both knew why we were there. They might have known they wouldn’t have met otherwise. It didn’t matter. Because for the two hours they were together, they searched for the things they had in common, and when they found something, their hands reached up high, coming together in a celebratory slap of mutual appreciation.
I won’t forget the sound of that slap because I easily could have missed it. You see, when a friend asked if our family would like to participate in an adopt-a-family for Christmas program, I hesitated. I thought about the idea and I actually considered turning it down. With a husband working in commercial real estate, this is the first Christmas in several years that hasn’t caused a significant amount of financial strain, and I wanted to relish in our abundance. I wanted to buy bigger, better gifts for everyone on my list. I wanted to say yes to all the ornament exchanges and spoil family members I never get to spoil and have two Christmas trees instead of one. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.
We’re having our basement renovated. As I write this, there are all kinds of crazy noises coming from below and I can see dust floating in from under the basement door and settling on my kitchen floor. I wanted hardwood floors in the basement. I wanted marble countertops and a glass tile backsplash and travertine floors. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.
We’ve never adopted a family before. My parents used to participate in a similar program when I was a kid, but I wasn’t really involved. My mom and dad would leave my brother and me with a babysitter and deliver “Christmas” to the family they had been matched with in downtown Atlanta. The program my friend invited us to join this year wasn’t a drop-off kind of program. It was a deliver “Christmas” in person kind of program. It was a sit down for lunch in a church fellowship hall with the family you adopted kind of program. That scared me. I was concerned about my own comfort. And so . . . I hesitated.
I don’t know what made me finally agree to participate in the program my friend invited us to be a part of, but we ended up in that church fellowship hall having lunch with our adopted family this past weekend. I left with questions. Why are there such differences between my son and hers?Why is my son so lucky? Why does he get it easy, with an abundance of opportunities surrounding him from every side? Why should someone else’s son have fewer chances? Why should someone else’s son have to fight so hard? Yet, despite my questions, the lasting impression of the day had nothing to do with the inequalities of life I often forget about because they so rarely impact me in a negative way. The image that will remain with me is the picture of my son and hers, their hands clasped together.
I don’t have the answers to my questions, and I never will, but I know God does. I think he was looking down on us in that church fellowship hall, rejoicing in the glorious sound as two of his children, so different and yet so much the same, found a reason to share, smile, and give one another a high five.
And next year . . . I won’t hesitate.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
I have CDO. It’s like OCD, but the letters are in order like they should be. - From a
t-shirt in a catalog that somehow ended up in my mailbox this week. Coincidence???
I think not.
My friends, I have reached a new level of maturity. Frankly, I’m thinking my status as supermom might need reinstatement, for this week at least. I, control freak since birth and lifetime queen of wanting things done exactly like I want them done, have allowed my children to put colored lights on our Christmas tree this year.
Yep, you read it correctly.
Colored Christmas lights . . . on my tree . . . right now.
There are blue ones. There are yellow ones. There are red and green ones. There are even, heaven help me, pink ones. Pink lights are twinkling all over my Fraser Fir at this very moment and I don’t have a single urge to rip them off and replace them with white ones. Well, I might have a teensy eensy weensy little tiny urge. But I will not act on it.
Like I said, I have reached a new pinnacle of maturity.
Christmas lights have been a long-standing issue in our home. They simply don’t bring out the best in my husband and me. Well, mainly me. While we both employ the squinty eye technique to determine precise placement, we don’t go about the placement in the same manner. I prefer to start low and stay there until all dark spaces are illuminated. Adam likes to wind up and down and around the tree in a more haphazard spreading of the bulbs. After several Christmases and countless hours attempting to undo tangled strings of lights, we worked out a solution to this particular problem. Adam puts the lights on the Christmas tree every year in whatever manner he so chooses. When it’s time for the tree to come down, he tosses it in the woods with the lights still wound a hundred times around its branches. A wise budget decision? No. Vital to our marriage? Absolutely.
Last year, a new issue popped up in regards to Christmas lights. While I was off shopping one lovely Saturday morning, Adam and Charlie hung icicle lights on our front porch. Sound lovely? Well certainly, they are lovely . . . at night. But what about the other twelve hours of each day. How are you supposed to conceal all that tacky cording and those hideously large white plugs as they hang down in front of your beautifully wreathed front door?
I apologize if I’m offending anyone. To each his own – I love that about life. And I admit, I have seen good-looking icicle lights that probably cost a lot more than the ones my well-meaning husband purchased. At my house, however, cheap icicle lights on the front porch are not on the pre-approved list of appropriate holiday decorations. The beauty they provide from dusk until my bedtime is simply not worth it to me, possibly because I go to bed at 9:30.
I held it together in front of my son when this atrocity of Christmas preparation occurred last December. I oooed and ahhhed over the lights while Charlie was standing there. I admired his handiwork and raved about his creativity. Later, however, my husband received a verbal lashing of the worst kind. It was ugly. It was mean. It was completely un-Christmaslike. The icicle lights stayed up until December 26th, but only because the mother in me actually has a soul.
My husband and I had a pre-decorating discussion the following fall, solving the problem before it presented itself for a second time. The icicle lights are once again shining brightly at our house this December, only they’re on the back deck instead of the front porch. Still not my favorite, but a reasonable compromise, don’t you think, and certainly a clear sign of my evolving maturity.
As we’ve begun preparing for Christmas 2011 in the last couple of weeks, the kids have been helping me create ornaments for an advent tree. We have a book that traces the lineage of Christ through the Old Testament and gives specific Bible stories that show what led to Jesus’ birth. We are making an ornament to go along with each story. To further display my growing maturity, I must tell you that I have readily relinquished important tasks to my children during our recent ornament making sessions; tasks that involve markers, paint, pipe cleaners, glue, feathers, cotton balls, sequins, and (pray for me on this one) glitter. Our carpet is somehow sparkling and there is a lamb on our advent tree that looks like he’s robbing a bank, but still, it’s been hands off for me.
I’m not sure what set off my fresh take on Christmas. I suppose my laidback approach might be a sign of defeat. Perhaps I’m learning to wave the white flag in this war we affectionately call parenting. And make no mistake about it, my friends – it is a war. We are at war with the world and all the wonderfully awful things in it that can keep our children from being and doing what is good and right. When my kids were young, it was easy to convince them that their desires were the same as mine. Now, they know what they want, they tell me what they want, and I have to decide if what they want lines up with what I want for them. I’m fairly certain that as my children grow, the chance that their desires and mine will line up is going to get a whole lot slimmer, and quite frankly, the color of the lights on a Christmas tree isn’t a battle I’m up for fighting.
Maybe, though . . . maybe my carefree attitude exists because I finally decided to embrace the reality of Christmas, which is that it really is all about the kids. Well, it’s REALLY all about Jesus. But after that, it’s totally about the kids. I want Christmas to be magical for my kids. The wreath on our front door doesn’t need to be fancy. It simply announces to the world that we believe in the hope and peace that Christmas has to offer. Our mantel doesn’t need to look like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. It only needs to hold the stockings with my children’s names on them. We don’t need to wrap our tree with the perfect ribbon at just the right angle. It’s beautiful because it’s full of the symbols that remind Charlie and Libby of everything that is important to our family – love and life and fun and God. The gifts don’t have to be numerous and they certainly don’t need to be expensive. They just need to show the people we care about that they are special to us.
I’m pleased with the mature Christmas I’m having in 2011. I’m proud of the way I’m letting go of perfection and trying to bask in the glory of the holiday season instead. My cards don’t have the ideal picture, my tree leans slightly to the right, and the swags of garland on my staircase are a bit uneven. But I have an adoring husband. I have friends who care about me. I have a home. I have shoes on my feet, clothes in my closet, food in my refrigerator, gifts under my tree, Jesus in my heart. And I have two healthy children, my dreams come true, who are counting down the days until December 25th with pure excitement, and who are happy because they asked if they could have colored lights on their Christmas tree, and their mama remembered what it was all about, smiled, and said . . . yes.
t-shirt in a catalog that somehow ended up in my mailbox this week. Coincidence???
I think not.
My friends, I have reached a new level of maturity. Frankly, I’m thinking my status as supermom might need reinstatement, for this week at least. I, control freak since birth and lifetime queen of wanting things done exactly like I want them done, have allowed my children to put colored lights on our Christmas tree this year.
Yep, you read it correctly.
Colored Christmas lights . . . on my tree . . . right now.
There are blue ones. There are yellow ones. There are red and green ones. There are even, heaven help me, pink ones. Pink lights are twinkling all over my Fraser Fir at this very moment and I don’t have a single urge to rip them off and replace them with white ones. Well, I might have a teensy eensy weensy little tiny urge. But I will not act on it.
Like I said, I have reached a new pinnacle of maturity.
Christmas lights have been a long-standing issue in our home. They simply don’t bring out the best in my husband and me. Well, mainly me. While we both employ the squinty eye technique to determine precise placement, we don’t go about the placement in the same manner. I prefer to start low and stay there until all dark spaces are illuminated. Adam likes to wind up and down and around the tree in a more haphazard spreading of the bulbs. After several Christmases and countless hours attempting to undo tangled strings of lights, we worked out a solution to this particular problem. Adam puts the lights on the Christmas tree every year in whatever manner he so chooses. When it’s time for the tree to come down, he tosses it in the woods with the lights still wound a hundred times around its branches. A wise budget decision? No. Vital to our marriage? Absolutely.
Last year, a new issue popped up in regards to Christmas lights. While I was off shopping one lovely Saturday morning, Adam and Charlie hung icicle lights on our front porch. Sound lovely? Well certainly, they are lovely . . . at night. But what about the other twelve hours of each day. How are you supposed to conceal all that tacky cording and those hideously large white plugs as they hang down in front of your beautifully wreathed front door?
I apologize if I’m offending anyone. To each his own – I love that about life. And I admit, I have seen good-looking icicle lights that probably cost a lot more than the ones my well-meaning husband purchased. At my house, however, cheap icicle lights on the front porch are not on the pre-approved list of appropriate holiday decorations. The beauty they provide from dusk until my bedtime is simply not worth it to me, possibly because I go to bed at 9:30.
I held it together in front of my son when this atrocity of Christmas preparation occurred last December. I oooed and ahhhed over the lights while Charlie was standing there. I admired his handiwork and raved about his creativity. Later, however, my husband received a verbal lashing of the worst kind. It was ugly. It was mean. It was completely un-Christmaslike. The icicle lights stayed up until December 26th, but only because the mother in me actually has a soul.
My husband and I had a pre-decorating discussion the following fall, solving the problem before it presented itself for a second time. The icicle lights are once again shining brightly at our house this December, only they’re on the back deck instead of the front porch. Still not my favorite, but a reasonable compromise, don’t you think, and certainly a clear sign of my evolving maturity.
As we’ve begun preparing for Christmas 2011 in the last couple of weeks, the kids have been helping me create ornaments for an advent tree. We have a book that traces the lineage of Christ through the Old Testament and gives specific Bible stories that show what led to Jesus’ birth. We are making an ornament to go along with each story. To further display my growing maturity, I must tell you that I have readily relinquished important tasks to my children during our recent ornament making sessions; tasks that involve markers, paint, pipe cleaners, glue, feathers, cotton balls, sequins, and (pray for me on this one) glitter. Our carpet is somehow sparkling and there is a lamb on our advent tree that looks like he’s robbing a bank, but still, it’s been hands off for me.
I’m not sure what set off my fresh take on Christmas. I suppose my laidback approach might be a sign of defeat. Perhaps I’m learning to wave the white flag in this war we affectionately call parenting. And make no mistake about it, my friends – it is a war. We are at war with the world and all the wonderfully awful things in it that can keep our children from being and doing what is good and right. When my kids were young, it was easy to convince them that their desires were the same as mine. Now, they know what they want, they tell me what they want, and I have to decide if what they want lines up with what I want for them. I’m fairly certain that as my children grow, the chance that their desires and mine will line up is going to get a whole lot slimmer, and quite frankly, the color of the lights on a Christmas tree isn’t a battle I’m up for fighting.
Maybe, though . . . maybe my carefree attitude exists because I finally decided to embrace the reality of Christmas, which is that it really is all about the kids. Well, it’s REALLY all about Jesus. But after that, it’s totally about the kids. I want Christmas to be magical for my kids. The wreath on our front door doesn’t need to be fancy. It simply announces to the world that we believe in the hope and peace that Christmas has to offer. Our mantel doesn’t need to look like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. It only needs to hold the stockings with my children’s names on them. We don’t need to wrap our tree with the perfect ribbon at just the right angle. It’s beautiful because it’s full of the symbols that remind Charlie and Libby of everything that is important to our family – love and life and fun and God. The gifts don’t have to be numerous and they certainly don’t need to be expensive. They just need to show the people we care about that they are special to us.
I’m pleased with the mature Christmas I’m having in 2011. I’m proud of the way I’m letting go of perfection and trying to bask in the glory of the holiday season instead. My cards don’t have the ideal picture, my tree leans slightly to the right, and the swags of garland on my staircase are a bit uneven. But I have an adoring husband. I have friends who care about me. I have a home. I have shoes on my feet, clothes in my closet, food in my refrigerator, gifts under my tree, Jesus in my heart. And I have two healthy children, my dreams come true, who are counting down the days until December 25th with pure excitement, and who are happy because they asked if they could have colored lights on their Christmas tree, and their mama remembered what it was all about, smiled, and said . . . yes.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Heeeeeeee’s coooommmmmmiiinnngggg!!!!!!!!!
I know he’s coming because my daughter helped me heave our jack-o-lanterns into the trashcan last week, soft and moldy from a month of sitting on our front porch greeting the neighbors with spooky smiles. I know because my favorite clothing stores have replaced the neutral shades of fall with sequins on every item. I know because there are people outside in thirty-eight degree temperatures stringing flashing lights along their bushes as the rain drips down their backs.
I know he’s coming because after eleven months of strolling to the mailbox without a hint of anticipation, I now rush towards it each afternoon awaiting glimpses of friends and family I haven’t seen in a while. I also know because when I open my mailbox to retrieve the festive greetings I’m so anxiously hoping to find, catalogs from every company ever established in the proximity of the world come tumbling out, their covers displaying all the latest in ornaments, stockings, and the $600 Lego set my son has requested this year.
I know he’s coming because although I don’t drink much coffee and I certainly can’t afford an eight-dollar cup of it, I suddenly find myself longing to sip on a gingerbread latte from Starbucks. I know because when I walk the ten steps from my bedroom to the kitchen each morning, I end up with at least a dozen pine needles stuck to the bottom of my fuzzy socks. I know he’s coming because my early morning quiet time is now being routinely interrupted by two children in matching plaid pajamas who rush around the house in search of a visitor from the North Pole they creatively named “Elfie.”
I know he’s coming because when I’m sitting alone in the carpool line at my kids’ school enjoying the calm before the storm, I realize I’m humming songs about a snowman who dances and, apparently, smokes? Plus, there’s a car behind me in said carpool line sporting antlers and a nose. I know he’s coming because despite the fact that I do not have a job, I have something that needs to be accomplished every day this week . . . and the next . . . and, oh please help me, the next.
I know he’s coming because I have begun to stash things inside bags, inside boxes, inside drawers my children never open. I know he’s coming because my house is awash in red and green, embroidered footwear hangs from my mantel, and I just spent close to a hundred bucks on “baking items.” Yes, parking lots are full, stores are swamped, and bank accounts are dwindling.
It’s official.
He’s coming. I know he’s coming.
The signs appeared early and the magic is everywhere, flowing through the air, bringing twinkles to eyes and tingles to hearts; making the whole world seem as if it’s glowing. On the twenty-fifth day of December, in all his Christmas glory, he will arrive, and children of all ages will scream and shout and jump for joy. And lives all over the world will be forever transformed.
Oh, wait. I’m sorry. Did you think I was talking about Santa? I mean . . . I totally love Santa. Actually . . . I am Santa. Most of the moms I know are. But I wasn’t talking about Santa. Don’t get me wrong. I know Santa Claus brings packages and toys and fun and, temporarily, happiness. He even has the power to make children scream and shout and jump for joy. But Santa isn’t in the business of changing lives forever. Santa can’t bring grace and mercy and peace and salvation and eternal life.
Only He can. And He’s coming.
He won’t come in a sleigh. He won’t come down a chimney. He won’t leave gifts.
He is the gift.
The greatest gift. The ultimate gift. The only gift we'll ever really need.
And He’s coming.
I know he’s coming because my daughter helped me heave our jack-o-lanterns into the trashcan last week, soft and moldy from a month of sitting on our front porch greeting the neighbors with spooky smiles. I know because my favorite clothing stores have replaced the neutral shades of fall with sequins on every item. I know because there are people outside in thirty-eight degree temperatures stringing flashing lights along their bushes as the rain drips down their backs.
I know he’s coming because after eleven months of strolling to the mailbox without a hint of anticipation, I now rush towards it each afternoon awaiting glimpses of friends and family I haven’t seen in a while. I also know because when I open my mailbox to retrieve the festive greetings I’m so anxiously hoping to find, catalogs from every company ever established in the proximity of the world come tumbling out, their covers displaying all the latest in ornaments, stockings, and the $600 Lego set my son has requested this year.
I know he’s coming because although I don’t drink much coffee and I certainly can’t afford an eight-dollar cup of it, I suddenly find myself longing to sip on a gingerbread latte from Starbucks. I know because when I walk the ten steps from my bedroom to the kitchen each morning, I end up with at least a dozen pine needles stuck to the bottom of my fuzzy socks. I know he’s coming because my early morning quiet time is now being routinely interrupted by two children in matching plaid pajamas who rush around the house in search of a visitor from the North Pole they creatively named “Elfie.”
I know he’s coming because when I’m sitting alone in the carpool line at my kids’ school enjoying the calm before the storm, I realize I’m humming songs about a snowman who dances and, apparently, smokes? Plus, there’s a car behind me in said carpool line sporting antlers and a nose. I know he’s coming because despite the fact that I do not have a job, I have something that needs to be accomplished every day this week . . . and the next . . . and, oh please help me, the next.
I know he’s coming because I have begun to stash things inside bags, inside boxes, inside drawers my children never open. I know he’s coming because my house is awash in red and green, embroidered footwear hangs from my mantel, and I just spent close to a hundred bucks on “baking items.” Yes, parking lots are full, stores are swamped, and bank accounts are dwindling.
It’s official.
He’s coming. I know he’s coming.
The signs appeared early and the magic is everywhere, flowing through the air, bringing twinkles to eyes and tingles to hearts; making the whole world seem as if it’s glowing. On the twenty-fifth day of December, in all his Christmas glory, he will arrive, and children of all ages will scream and shout and jump for joy. And lives all over the world will be forever transformed.
Oh, wait. I’m sorry. Did you think I was talking about Santa? I mean . . . I totally love Santa. Actually . . . I am Santa. Most of the moms I know are. But I wasn’t talking about Santa. Don’t get me wrong. I know Santa Claus brings packages and toys and fun and, temporarily, happiness. He even has the power to make children scream and shout and jump for joy. But Santa isn’t in the business of changing lives forever. Santa can’t bring grace and mercy and peace and salvation and eternal life.
Only He can. And He’s coming.
He won’t come in a sleigh. He won’t come down a chimney. He won’t leave gifts.
He is the gift.
The greatest gift. The ultimate gift. The only gift we'll ever really need.
And He’s coming.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The day was a normal one and for that, I was grateful. The week had started off with a bang that goes by the name of "Halloween," so I was happy for a typical Friday filled with only the mundane of life as a stay at home wife and mother of two. There was laundry to fold, toilets to clean, floors to vacuum, errands to run. I sent the kids off to school with a quick kiss and my morning catch phrases.
"Have a great day. Be your best selves. I love you."
Then I took a deep breath, gave myself a pat on the back for refusing to succumb to the pressure of two children begging for Halloween candy for breakfast, and turned to face the chores that would fill the coming hours of the day, thankful for the temporary quiet of an empty house.
I thought about my children many times throughout the day. I pictured their sweet faces, wondered how their day was going, considered things I'd like to do with them over the next few weeks. I even missed them for a moment or two as I went about the process of checking off items on my to-do list. Yet, there were other things on my mind as well, things that had nothing to do with my children.
The afternoon was as ordinary as the morning. The kids smiled as they hopped in the car after school and began answering my usual array of questions about their day. We got home and our routine unfolded the way it always does. Snacks, homework, reading, playtime, showers, dinner, bedtime. I talked to my children. I smiled at them. I read to them. I let them have dessert and brought their pajamas down and combed their wet hair and even put toothpaste on their toothbrushes, just to be helpful. I hugged them, I think. And when I turned out their lights and left their bedrooms, I was sure to send them off to dreamland with my evening catch phrases.
"Say your prayers. Sleep tight. I love you."
It was a good day. A normal day. When I entered my own bedroom a couple hours after leaving my children's, I felt content . . . fulfilled. I believed I had accomplished things of importance to myself and my family as I had done all the things a mother was supposed to do. I kept a safe, clean, organized home for my children. I prepared meals for them. I talked to them, helped them, reminded them, drove them. I played with them. I loved them. I hugged them, I think. It was a good day.
My daughter loves sweets as much as I do. That might seem hard to believe if you know me, but, lest we forget, she does have half my genes and on my side of the family a love of sweets runs deep. Real deep. My daughter doesn't simply have a sweet tooth. She has a mouth full of them. She asks for a treat after every single meal, every single day. I'm not sure if she thinks I'll slip up one day and allow her to have dessert after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or if she just believes her consistency will eventually wear me down, but either way, the child is nothing short of relentless.
My kids came home with obscene amounts of candy on Halloween night. I knew we reached a rite of passage as Charlie and Libby discovered the ultimate goal of trick-or-treating is quantity. Their bags were literally overflowing with every kind of junk in the book after sprinting through our entire neighborhood on October 31st.
I allowed them to bask in their sugary abundance for a day or two. Then, I did the good mom thing and forced them to choose thirty pieces of candy they wanted to keep and set aside the rest for an organization that would ship it to American troops overseas. The kids actually got into the giving once they started. They were quite concerned with what the troops would really want to have, and they put a great deal more thought into creating an even mix of deliciousness for the soldiers than to which pieces of candy they would save for their own enjoyment.
And so when I began to crawl into bed that Friday night, less than a week after Halloween, I was satisfied. It had been a good day, a normal day. All was well in my world.
Then, I picked up my pillow. And I saw what was underneath it. And my heart shattered into a million pieces as love and pride and gratitude and shame consumed my every cell.
A pack of peanut M&M's. My favorite candy. I knew exactly who had left it there for me. And all I could think was . . . I hugged her today . . . didn't I?
"Have a great day. Be your best selves. I love you."
Then I took a deep breath, gave myself a pat on the back for refusing to succumb to the pressure of two children begging for Halloween candy for breakfast, and turned to face the chores that would fill the coming hours of the day, thankful for the temporary quiet of an empty house.
I thought about my children many times throughout the day. I pictured their sweet faces, wondered how their day was going, considered things I'd like to do with them over the next few weeks. I even missed them for a moment or two as I went about the process of checking off items on my to-do list. Yet, there were other things on my mind as well, things that had nothing to do with my children.
The afternoon was as ordinary as the morning. The kids smiled as they hopped in the car after school and began answering my usual array of questions about their day. We got home and our routine unfolded the way it always does. Snacks, homework, reading, playtime, showers, dinner, bedtime. I talked to my children. I smiled at them. I read to them. I let them have dessert and brought their pajamas down and combed their wet hair and even put toothpaste on their toothbrushes, just to be helpful. I hugged them, I think. And when I turned out their lights and left their bedrooms, I was sure to send them off to dreamland with my evening catch phrases.
"Say your prayers. Sleep tight. I love you."
It was a good day. A normal day. When I entered my own bedroom a couple hours after leaving my children's, I felt content . . . fulfilled. I believed I had accomplished things of importance to myself and my family as I had done all the things a mother was supposed to do. I kept a safe, clean, organized home for my children. I prepared meals for them. I talked to them, helped them, reminded them, drove them. I played with them. I loved them. I hugged them, I think. It was a good day.
My daughter loves sweets as much as I do. That might seem hard to believe if you know me, but, lest we forget, she does have half my genes and on my side of the family a love of sweets runs deep. Real deep. My daughter doesn't simply have a sweet tooth. She has a mouth full of them. She asks for a treat after every single meal, every single day. I'm not sure if she thinks I'll slip up one day and allow her to have dessert after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or if she just believes her consistency will eventually wear me down, but either way, the child is nothing short of relentless.
My kids came home with obscene amounts of candy on Halloween night. I knew we reached a rite of passage as Charlie and Libby discovered the ultimate goal of trick-or-treating is quantity. Their bags were literally overflowing with every kind of junk in the book after sprinting through our entire neighborhood on October 31st.
I allowed them to bask in their sugary abundance for a day or two. Then, I did the good mom thing and forced them to choose thirty pieces of candy they wanted to keep and set aside the rest for an organization that would ship it to American troops overseas. The kids actually got into the giving once they started. They were quite concerned with what the troops would really want to have, and they put a great deal more thought into creating an even mix of deliciousness for the soldiers than to which pieces of candy they would save for their own enjoyment.
And so when I began to crawl into bed that Friday night, less than a week after Halloween, I was satisfied. It had been a good day, a normal day. All was well in my world.
Then, I picked up my pillow. And I saw what was underneath it. And my heart shattered into a million pieces as love and pride and gratitude and shame consumed my every cell.
A pack of peanut M&M's. My favorite candy. I knew exactly who had left it there for me. And all I could think was . . . I hugged her today . . . didn't I?
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Happy Thanksgiving!!!
Thank you, God. Thank you for allowing me to wake up and take another breath. Thank you for the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and the words to tell others what you did . . . what you still do. Thank you for a warm bed, in a dry home, in a city filled with every convenience, in a country where freedom reigns. Thank you for the thousands of men and women who serve and, sometimes, sacrifice it all to protect that freedom. Thank you for the man lying next to me, who shows me each day what it means to truly love. Thank you for Charlie and Libby, who are love. Thank you for my family and friends, for the lessons they share and the joy they bring. Thank you for health, for a body that moves and functions without a thought. Thank you for the abundance of food on my table today. Enough for many days. Enough for many people. Thank you for the countless miracles I can witness every second if I simply take the time to notice them - the glory of nature, the change of seasons, the passing of time. Thank you for happiness. Thank you for laughter. Thank you for peace. Thank you, God.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Life's like an hourglass glued to the table. No one can find the rewind button girl. From "Breathe" by Anna Nalick
I remember the way his head fit perfectly against my chest. I remember when only my embrace could make his tears stop. I remember when he wouldn't take a step forward unless I took the step with him. I remember when my lap was his favorite place to be. I remember when he looked at me with stars in his eyes. I remember when my entrance into a room made him the happiest boy in the world.
I remember it all. I have to. I have to remember because . . . he won't. Already, he doesn't.
He's eight now and he's forgotten. I know he's forgotten because lately, when I reach for his hand and squeeze tight, he doesn't grab hold and squeeze back as though he never wants to let go. That warm, soft, innocent hand, still so small inside my own, no longer squeezes back. It just goes limp, his fingers hanging loosely across my knuckles while his eyes dart around to see if any older kids are witnessing him holding his mother's hand.
He still loves me, I know. He'll always love me, I hope. Still, a shift has occurred. A noticable one. The relationship has transformed and it will never go back to what it once was. I suppose this change didn't happen all at once. I suppose I played a bigger role in the change than I'd like to admit. Every time I said, "Go play upstairs and mommy will be there in a few minutes," I was nudging him forward. Every time I persuaded him to try something without my help, I loosened our connection. Every time I kissed his forehead and put him down to tend to laundry, or dishes, or his little sister, I was moving him towards independence. Every time I dropped him off at preschool or at a play date or at his grandparents' house, I helped him realize he wouldn't always need me.
Looking back, I'd do it again. It's my job to encourage my children's autonomy. That's always been a responsibility of parents, along with a whole lot of other messy stuff. I want my son to be a confident child who believes in his abilities. I praise him when he tries something he's never done before and cheer for him when he accomplishes a new skill. It fills me with joy to witness him master something that was once out of his reach.
Most of the time, I'm glad my son doesn't demand my constant attention the way he did as a newborn, infant, and toddler. I'm grateful the physicality of the early years of parenthood has ended and each of my son's actions no longer requires a reaction from me. I enjoy having more time to myself, more time to complete tasks that don't involve nurturing another.
The shift in my relationship with my son isn't always in the forefront of my mind. Some days it seems nothing has changed - he wants me to get a knot out of his shoelace and help him with his homework and find a prized lego. He looks at me after making a great catch on the baseball field to see my response and asks me to lie in bed with him for just a few more minutes at night. He needs me just enough to reassure me I'm still an essential part of his life. Sometimes, however, the shift in our relationship takes my breath away. Sometimes, it's so evident, so blatant that it makes me want to turn back time, to press a rewind button that can never be found. Because sometimes, when we're walking together and I reach for my son's hand, I can tell he is wishing I wouldn't. He doesn't want to hold my hand. He doesn't need it anymore. And my heart clenches inside my chest as I realize I am doing my job. I am doing exactly what the Lord has called me to do.
I am helping my little boy grow up.
I remember it all. I have to. I have to remember because . . . he won't. Already, he doesn't.
He's eight now and he's forgotten. I know he's forgotten because lately, when I reach for his hand and squeeze tight, he doesn't grab hold and squeeze back as though he never wants to let go. That warm, soft, innocent hand, still so small inside my own, no longer squeezes back. It just goes limp, his fingers hanging loosely across my knuckles while his eyes dart around to see if any older kids are witnessing him holding his mother's hand.
He still loves me, I know. He'll always love me, I hope. Still, a shift has occurred. A noticable one. The relationship has transformed and it will never go back to what it once was. I suppose this change didn't happen all at once. I suppose I played a bigger role in the change than I'd like to admit. Every time I said, "Go play upstairs and mommy will be there in a few minutes," I was nudging him forward. Every time I persuaded him to try something without my help, I loosened our connection. Every time I kissed his forehead and put him down to tend to laundry, or dishes, or his little sister, I was moving him towards independence. Every time I dropped him off at preschool or at a play date or at his grandparents' house, I helped him realize he wouldn't always need me.
Looking back, I'd do it again. It's my job to encourage my children's autonomy. That's always been a responsibility of parents, along with a whole lot of other messy stuff. I want my son to be a confident child who believes in his abilities. I praise him when he tries something he's never done before and cheer for him when he accomplishes a new skill. It fills me with joy to witness him master something that was once out of his reach.
Most of the time, I'm glad my son doesn't demand my constant attention the way he did as a newborn, infant, and toddler. I'm grateful the physicality of the early years of parenthood has ended and each of my son's actions no longer requires a reaction from me. I enjoy having more time to myself, more time to complete tasks that don't involve nurturing another.
The shift in my relationship with my son isn't always in the forefront of my mind. Some days it seems nothing has changed - he wants me to get a knot out of his shoelace and help him with his homework and find a prized lego. He looks at me after making a great catch on the baseball field to see my response and asks me to lie in bed with him for just a few more minutes at night. He needs me just enough to reassure me I'm still an essential part of his life. Sometimes, however, the shift in our relationship takes my breath away. Sometimes, it's so evident, so blatant that it makes me want to turn back time, to press a rewind button that can never be found. Because sometimes, when we're walking together and I reach for my son's hand, I can tell he is wishing I wouldn't. He doesn't want to hold my hand. He doesn't need it anymore. And my heart clenches inside my chest as I realize I am doing my job. I am doing exactly what the Lord has called me to do.
I am helping my little boy grow up.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
I'm not a dog person. I know, I know. Some of you are vowing to ignore me forever because I must be a terrible human being. I get it. You're dog people. If you're running down the sidewalk and see a neighbor with a dog coming towards you, I'm sure you squat right down and rub that pooch behind his ears. You tickle him under his chin as you ask your neighbor the dog's name, age, breed, and favorite type of bone. If I'm running down the sidewalk and see a neighbor with a dog coming towards me, I cross the street.
I blame it on my parents. My brother and I requested a dog for every birthday and Christmas throughout our childhoods to no avail. I don't know why my parents were against our family owning a dog. My father had a boxer named King when he was growing up. My Granny used to tell the story of how King let her know her youngest son, my uncle John, had fallen off his bicycle in the street by jumping up in front of the kitchen window and barking his head off until my grandmother finally looked outside. I find that rather impressive. My mother grew up on a tobacco farm in rural North Carolina. We visited my grandparents there several times a year and almost every time we did, there was a litter of puppies frolicking in the backyard. My brother and I would inevitably become attached to the cutest one and beg our mom to let us take him home. She never caved.
We had a couple of goldfish for a while. They didn't smell so great. We even had a parakeet named Joey. We chose Joey because the teenager at the pet store told us male parakeets make wonderful pets. He claimed male parakeets like people, enjoy being held, and even have the capability of learning to speak. I spent hours recording myself saying phrases like, "Hello, how are you," over and over on a blank tape in the hopes that Joey would begin saying such phrases himself. Unfortunately, we had to return Joey to the pet store after only a few weeks of ownership. He hated us. He pecked and bit and flew around his cage as though desperate to escape. He also made more noise than any animal on the face of the earth. Turns out the teenager who sold Joey to our family suffered from gender confusion. Joey was actually a Joanna.
About a year ago, my in-laws purchased a puppy. Her name is Lucy and she's a Cavachon, which is a cross between a Bichon Frise and a King Charles Cavalier. I suppose that means she can bark in French AND in English. We used to call dogs like Lucy mutts. Now we call them boutique or specialty breeds. Don't you love how humans do that? We can make anything sound special.
Lucy was a cute puppy, I admit. Yet you must remember, I'm not a dog person, so I didn't fall in love with her at first sight. Recently, however, my in-laws have been traveling and our family has become the dog sitter. Surprisingly, Lucy has grown on me. In fact, I'm starting to like her a lot. Lucy has quite a personality, when she isn't sleeping. Actually, her extensive sleep schedule might be one of the reasons I like her so much. She keeps me company, but doesn't demand much of me. She simply wants to be in the same room I'm in while she takes one of her many naps. Sometimes, I wish the other inhabitants of my home were so effortless.
When my in-laws purchased Lucy, they hired a canine expert to come to their home and teach them how to train her. The expert suggested Lucy be kept on a leash at all times. This was meant to help her get used to the leash while also teaching her she would not have full reign in my in-laws home. Lucy is over a year old now and the only time she does not have a leash around her neck is when she goes to sleep in her crate each night.
Recently, while dog sitting, I decided to take Lucy's leash off while we were hanging out with the kids in the basement. I thought she would enjoy running around unhindered. Within seconds of its removal, Lucy picked up the leash in her mouth and dropped it in front of me. She looked down at the leash and back up at me, down at the leash and back up at me. Then she barked, which is rare, and tried to push the leash towards me with her noes, which didn't exactly work but certainly got the point across, regardless of the fact that I'm no dog whisperer. I hooked the leash back onto Lucy's collar and off she went, happy as could be. I grinned, instantly reminded of a toddler dragging a dingy, frayed baby blanket behind him wherever he goes.
We all have our leashes, I guess. We have things in life that bring us comfort; things we don't want to live without, and we hold to those things tightly. Freedom can ignite fear and when we are afraid, we look to the steady, reliable things in our lives to provide assurance.
My husband is a comfort to me. When he walks in the door after being at work all day, I feel my shoulders instantly relax as I take in the pleasant fact that my reinforcement has arrived. I find it comforting that my partner in crime has appeared to help me take care of all those things that need to be cared for - the children, the laundry, the evening meal.
Control is comforting to me as well. When my home and my life and my family are in order, I feel a sense of calm. That peace simply doesn't exist if I haven't cleaned my toilets in a few days or it's after 8:00 pm and my children have not been fed, bathed, and tucked into bed.
In 1 Corinthians 1, it says, "Blessed be the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in trouble, with the comfort which we ourselve are comforted by God."
Whoa. That's a whole lot of comfort in there. Comfort from God . . . for us . . . to give to others.
I want to find comfort in God. When I'm scared and can't seem to find stable ground, I want to believe the One who created me can also comfort me. I want to look to Him to soothe my anxieties, because He is the only one who knows my heart and can provide exactly what I need.
I often wear a necklace with a cross charm on it. It looks good with just about everything so I slip it on over my head many mornings as I rush off to complete my daily to-do list. "Cute necklace," someone will say at the grocery store or in carpool or in the check-out line at Nordstrom. "Thank you. My friend gave this to me when I finished graduate school." I twist the charm in my fingers as the casual exchange of words ends; an exchange I probably won't remember minutes later.
But . . . what if I realized the potential in such an exchange? What if I responded differently? What if I took the opportunity to make the exchange a meaningful one? Maybe even a memorable one?
"Thank you. This charm gives me comfort because it helps me remember where peace comes from.
Hey, I didn't say I've done this people. Trust me, there isn't a bit of evangelical in this chick. But what if I did? What if I reached out with the comfort so freely lavished upon me and offered it to someone who crosses my path. Someone God might have placed in my path for a specific reason. Someone who might need comfort more than I do.
I'm going to start paying a little more attention to the cross charm hanging around my neck. I'm going to think of it in the way Lucy thinks of the leash around her neck - as a symbol of safety and security. As a necessary reminder that comfort is available to me whenever I want it, as long as I look for it in the right place. And maybe, if the opportunity presents itself and I'm feeling my inner Billy Graham, maybe I'll take a chance and offer that comfort, God's everlasting comfort, to someone else. Because who doesn't need a little more comfort in their life? Everyone needs a little more comfort now and then.
Even dog people.
I blame it on my parents. My brother and I requested a dog for every birthday and Christmas throughout our childhoods to no avail. I don't know why my parents were against our family owning a dog. My father had a boxer named King when he was growing up. My Granny used to tell the story of how King let her know her youngest son, my uncle John, had fallen off his bicycle in the street by jumping up in front of the kitchen window and barking his head off until my grandmother finally looked outside. I find that rather impressive. My mother grew up on a tobacco farm in rural North Carolina. We visited my grandparents there several times a year and almost every time we did, there was a litter of puppies frolicking in the backyard. My brother and I would inevitably become attached to the cutest one and beg our mom to let us take him home. She never caved.
We had a couple of goldfish for a while. They didn't smell so great. We even had a parakeet named Joey. We chose Joey because the teenager at the pet store told us male parakeets make wonderful pets. He claimed male parakeets like people, enjoy being held, and even have the capability of learning to speak. I spent hours recording myself saying phrases like, "Hello, how are you," over and over on a blank tape in the hopes that Joey would begin saying such phrases himself. Unfortunately, we had to return Joey to the pet store after only a few weeks of ownership. He hated us. He pecked and bit and flew around his cage as though desperate to escape. He also made more noise than any animal on the face of the earth. Turns out the teenager who sold Joey to our family suffered from gender confusion. Joey was actually a Joanna.
About a year ago, my in-laws purchased a puppy. Her name is Lucy and she's a Cavachon, which is a cross between a Bichon Frise and a King Charles Cavalier. I suppose that means she can bark in French AND in English. We used to call dogs like Lucy mutts. Now we call them boutique or specialty breeds. Don't you love how humans do that? We can make anything sound special.
Lucy was a cute puppy, I admit. Yet you must remember, I'm not a dog person, so I didn't fall in love with her at first sight. Recently, however, my in-laws have been traveling and our family has become the dog sitter. Surprisingly, Lucy has grown on me. In fact, I'm starting to like her a lot. Lucy has quite a personality, when she isn't sleeping. Actually, her extensive sleep schedule might be one of the reasons I like her so much. She keeps me company, but doesn't demand much of me. She simply wants to be in the same room I'm in while she takes one of her many naps. Sometimes, I wish the other inhabitants of my home were so effortless.
When my in-laws purchased Lucy, they hired a canine expert to come to their home and teach them how to train her. The expert suggested Lucy be kept on a leash at all times. This was meant to help her get used to the leash while also teaching her she would not have full reign in my in-laws home. Lucy is over a year old now and the only time she does not have a leash around her neck is when she goes to sleep in her crate each night.
Recently, while dog sitting, I decided to take Lucy's leash off while we were hanging out with the kids in the basement. I thought she would enjoy running around unhindered. Within seconds of its removal, Lucy picked up the leash in her mouth and dropped it in front of me. She looked down at the leash and back up at me, down at the leash and back up at me. Then she barked, which is rare, and tried to push the leash towards me with her noes, which didn't exactly work but certainly got the point across, regardless of the fact that I'm no dog whisperer. I hooked the leash back onto Lucy's collar and off she went, happy as could be. I grinned, instantly reminded of a toddler dragging a dingy, frayed baby blanket behind him wherever he goes.
We all have our leashes, I guess. We have things in life that bring us comfort; things we don't want to live without, and we hold to those things tightly. Freedom can ignite fear and when we are afraid, we look to the steady, reliable things in our lives to provide assurance.
My husband is a comfort to me. When he walks in the door after being at work all day, I feel my shoulders instantly relax as I take in the pleasant fact that my reinforcement has arrived. I find it comforting that my partner in crime has appeared to help me take care of all those things that need to be cared for - the children, the laundry, the evening meal.
Control is comforting to me as well. When my home and my life and my family are in order, I feel a sense of calm. That peace simply doesn't exist if I haven't cleaned my toilets in a few days or it's after 8:00 pm and my children have not been fed, bathed, and tucked into bed.
In 1 Corinthians 1, it says, "Blessed be the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in trouble, with the comfort which we ourselve are comforted by God."
Whoa. That's a whole lot of comfort in there. Comfort from God . . . for us . . . to give to others.
I want to find comfort in God. When I'm scared and can't seem to find stable ground, I want to believe the One who created me can also comfort me. I want to look to Him to soothe my anxieties, because He is the only one who knows my heart and can provide exactly what I need.
I often wear a necklace with a cross charm on it. It looks good with just about everything so I slip it on over my head many mornings as I rush off to complete my daily to-do list. "Cute necklace," someone will say at the grocery store or in carpool or in the check-out line at Nordstrom. "Thank you. My friend gave this to me when I finished graduate school." I twist the charm in my fingers as the casual exchange of words ends; an exchange I probably won't remember minutes later.
But . . . what if I realized the potential in such an exchange? What if I responded differently? What if I took the opportunity to make the exchange a meaningful one? Maybe even a memorable one?
"Thank you. This charm gives me comfort because it helps me remember where peace comes from.
Hey, I didn't say I've done this people. Trust me, there isn't a bit of evangelical in this chick. But what if I did? What if I reached out with the comfort so freely lavished upon me and offered it to someone who crosses my path. Someone God might have placed in my path for a specific reason. Someone who might need comfort more than I do.
I'm going to start paying a little more attention to the cross charm hanging around my neck. I'm going to think of it in the way Lucy thinks of the leash around her neck - as a symbol of safety and security. As a necessary reminder that comfort is available to me whenever I want it, as long as I look for it in the right place. And maybe, if the opportunity presents itself and I'm feeling my inner Billy Graham, maybe I'll take a chance and offer that comfort, God's everlasting comfort, to someone else. Because who doesn't need a little more comfort in their life? Everyone needs a little more comfort now and then.
Even dog people.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
It was one of those mornings. You know the kind. Before the clock had even struck seven, I was already cursing motherhood.
It should have been a great morning. We love Wednesdays in our house. The kids have what they call "late arrival" at their school, which means they have to be there at 9 am instead of 8 am. If your school doesn't know about this late arrival idea, I encourage you to bring it up. You might even want to start a petition or, honestly, a picket line. Late arrival is that good. I don't know how to explain the greatness of a sixty-minute schedule adjustment other than to say that is's a perfectly timed change of pace, a blissful way to reach the middle of the week. I'm sure it's even more blissful in some homes because there are probably children in the world who are capable of sleeping past 6:45 in the morning. Unfortunately, I don't live with such children. Still, our family looks forward to late arrival Wednesdays.
Why?
One word . . .
Breakfast.
On Wednesdays, mommy bakes.
I try to feed my kids healthy foods like the rest of you well-meaning parents out there. They eat a lot of high fiber cereal in the mornings, with almond milk for the protein, of course. Sometimes they have Greek yogurt and bagels. My daughter has even been known to go for a cheese stick and some applesauce before school.
But not on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we have an extra hour of prep time on account of the fact that my kids get up at the same time every morning regardless of their school's schedule, or their parents' for that matter. On Wednesdays, we can make waffles and pancakes and blueberry muffins and, if daddy is up for it, his famous French toast. I even throw a little flax seed and protein powder in whatever we make just to ease the guilt over the amount of sugar I'm allowing my children to consume before they begin their day.
So this Wednesday started out like the others, with plans for baked goods. Only mama had an inspiration. You see, the night before, when daddy was putting Charlie to bed, he issued his usual Tuesday evening reminder.
"Now remember son, tomorrow is late arrival so you can sleep late."
Hey, you can't blame us for trying, can you?
Charlie's response, however, had nothing to do with sleep.
"Yay! I love late arrival. What is mommy going to bake for us?"
Well . . . when my husband told me what Charlie had said, my chest got all puffy with mama pride. You know that feeling too, don't you? It makes your heart swell and sing and feel as if it's lifting right out of your chest with unbridled happiness. As my heart lifted, I decided I would make something extra special for my kids the following morning. Forget the waffles. I would surprise my children with something new, something exciting, something they would swoon over. And so I jumped out of bed on Wednesday morning and headed straight for the oven to begin preheating.
The kids came downstairs a few minutes later and did what they always do. They headed straight for our bed and climbed in to snuggle with their dad so I could go through my morning routine - turning on the coffee maker, emptying the dishwasher, transferring laundry. But this morning, I put the routine on hold and got right to work on my baked goods.
My plan wasn't unique, I assure you. I just rolled out some canned biscuits, coated them with butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar, and topped each one with a chocolate chip. I popped them in the oven before the kids emerged from their snuggling session (which, as usual, had turned into a wrestling session) and eagerly anticipated the smiles on the faces of my kids when they discovered what chef mom had made for breakfast on this late arrival Wednesday.
And then, in all it's impossible glory, motherhood came calling.
"What's for breakfast mama?" He grinned as he walked towards the kitchen and saw the oven light shining like a sweet beacon.
"How about we have muffins, mom?" Her grin was just as wide, right before she put her thumb back in her mouth.
"Well kids, we're going to have something different today."
As I turned to face my offspring, the smile on my face was, by far, the biggest of all. Unfortunately, it didn't last long.
The grumbling was both immediate and intense. It sounded a lot like this, only in stereo because the words were tumbling out of the mouths of BOTH my children at the same time.
"I don't want anything new because I wan't waffles or blueberry muffins because it's Wednesday and we always have something good and I don't want something I've never tried before and it's probably something I won't even like because it's not waffles or blueberry muffins and why can't we just have something we love like waffles or muffins because it's Wednesday."
The heart that had been raised in gratitude for almost twelve hours sunk like lead in my chest.
They presisted with the complaints and I decided to go the ignoring route. It seemed my only option as I knew I couldn't convince my kids that the baked goods in the oven were sure to knock their socks off. They did, in fact, knock their socks off. They ate all but two. Still, the tone of the morning had been set. My kids were ungrateful and I was pissed off about it.
We made it through the extra hour that late arrival Wednesday, but only by the grace of the God whose wisdom I was secretly questioning the entire time. And the moment I dropped my kids off in the carpool line at a quarter to nine, the tears began to fall. My mind raced with thoughts of inadequacy.
How can I be doing such a terrible job? What kind of mother raises kids who are so rude? How can I be such a failure when I'm trying so hard?
I didn't say anything to the kids that afternoon or evening about how tough my day had been because of their bad attitudes that morning. I wasn't quite ready to have those conversations about being open to new experiences and treating people with respect and being thankful to have food on their plates every day when millions of people all over the world do not. Those are big conversations. Conversations I've already had with my children on numerous occasions. Conversations I'll likely need to have with them a dozen more times . . . this month alone. I just couldn't muster up the strength that afternoon. I was spent. I was hurt. I was defeated. I was sure it wouldn't matter anyway.
I put them to bed the way I always do. With books and prayers and cuddles and the phrase I say a dozen times a day but which seemed to come out a little less smoothly that particular night.
"I love you."
And when I got into my own bed a short while later, the prayers poured.
Dear God, please help me. Please help me love my children when they act unlovable. Please help me have patience with my children when they try my patience. Please help me know what to say when my children say things they shouldn't. Please help me model the attitudes and actions I want my children to emulate when their attitudes and actions upset me.
I could feel my anger dissolving, my sadness dissipating with each whispered prayer.
After the events of the day, I was certain of two things . . .
My children weren't always listening.
God was.
I slept well that night. And the next Wednesday . . . I made waffles.
It should have been a great morning. We love Wednesdays in our house. The kids have what they call "late arrival" at their school, which means they have to be there at 9 am instead of 8 am. If your school doesn't know about this late arrival idea, I encourage you to bring it up. You might even want to start a petition or, honestly, a picket line. Late arrival is that good. I don't know how to explain the greatness of a sixty-minute schedule adjustment other than to say that is's a perfectly timed change of pace, a blissful way to reach the middle of the week. I'm sure it's even more blissful in some homes because there are probably children in the world who are capable of sleeping past 6:45 in the morning. Unfortunately, I don't live with such children. Still, our family looks forward to late arrival Wednesdays.
Why?
One word . . .
Breakfast.
On Wednesdays, mommy bakes.
I try to feed my kids healthy foods like the rest of you well-meaning parents out there. They eat a lot of high fiber cereal in the mornings, with almond milk for the protein, of course. Sometimes they have Greek yogurt and bagels. My daughter has even been known to go for a cheese stick and some applesauce before school.
But not on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we have an extra hour of prep time on account of the fact that my kids get up at the same time every morning regardless of their school's schedule, or their parents' for that matter. On Wednesdays, we can make waffles and pancakes and blueberry muffins and, if daddy is up for it, his famous French toast. I even throw a little flax seed and protein powder in whatever we make just to ease the guilt over the amount of sugar I'm allowing my children to consume before they begin their day.
So this Wednesday started out like the others, with plans for baked goods. Only mama had an inspiration. You see, the night before, when daddy was putting Charlie to bed, he issued his usual Tuesday evening reminder.
"Now remember son, tomorrow is late arrival so you can sleep late."
Hey, you can't blame us for trying, can you?
Charlie's response, however, had nothing to do with sleep.
"Yay! I love late arrival. What is mommy going to bake for us?"
Well . . . when my husband told me what Charlie had said, my chest got all puffy with mama pride. You know that feeling too, don't you? It makes your heart swell and sing and feel as if it's lifting right out of your chest with unbridled happiness. As my heart lifted, I decided I would make something extra special for my kids the following morning. Forget the waffles. I would surprise my children with something new, something exciting, something they would swoon over. And so I jumped out of bed on Wednesday morning and headed straight for the oven to begin preheating.
The kids came downstairs a few minutes later and did what they always do. They headed straight for our bed and climbed in to snuggle with their dad so I could go through my morning routine - turning on the coffee maker, emptying the dishwasher, transferring laundry. But this morning, I put the routine on hold and got right to work on my baked goods.
My plan wasn't unique, I assure you. I just rolled out some canned biscuits, coated them with butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar, and topped each one with a chocolate chip. I popped them in the oven before the kids emerged from their snuggling session (which, as usual, had turned into a wrestling session) and eagerly anticipated the smiles on the faces of my kids when they discovered what chef mom had made for breakfast on this late arrival Wednesday.
And then, in all it's impossible glory, motherhood came calling.
"What's for breakfast mama?" He grinned as he walked towards the kitchen and saw the oven light shining like a sweet beacon.
"How about we have muffins, mom?" Her grin was just as wide, right before she put her thumb back in her mouth.
"Well kids, we're going to have something different today."
As I turned to face my offspring, the smile on my face was, by far, the biggest of all. Unfortunately, it didn't last long.
The grumbling was both immediate and intense. It sounded a lot like this, only in stereo because the words were tumbling out of the mouths of BOTH my children at the same time.
"I don't want anything new because I wan't waffles or blueberry muffins because it's Wednesday and we always have something good and I don't want something I've never tried before and it's probably something I won't even like because it's not waffles or blueberry muffins and why can't we just have something we love like waffles or muffins because it's Wednesday."
The heart that had been raised in gratitude for almost twelve hours sunk like lead in my chest.
They presisted with the complaints and I decided to go the ignoring route. It seemed my only option as I knew I couldn't convince my kids that the baked goods in the oven were sure to knock their socks off. They did, in fact, knock their socks off. They ate all but two. Still, the tone of the morning had been set. My kids were ungrateful and I was pissed off about it.
We made it through the extra hour that late arrival Wednesday, but only by the grace of the God whose wisdom I was secretly questioning the entire time. And the moment I dropped my kids off in the carpool line at a quarter to nine, the tears began to fall. My mind raced with thoughts of inadequacy.
How can I be doing such a terrible job? What kind of mother raises kids who are so rude? How can I be such a failure when I'm trying so hard?
I didn't say anything to the kids that afternoon or evening about how tough my day had been because of their bad attitudes that morning. I wasn't quite ready to have those conversations about being open to new experiences and treating people with respect and being thankful to have food on their plates every day when millions of people all over the world do not. Those are big conversations. Conversations I've already had with my children on numerous occasions. Conversations I'll likely need to have with them a dozen more times . . . this month alone. I just couldn't muster up the strength that afternoon. I was spent. I was hurt. I was defeated. I was sure it wouldn't matter anyway.
I put them to bed the way I always do. With books and prayers and cuddles and the phrase I say a dozen times a day but which seemed to come out a little less smoothly that particular night.
"I love you."
And when I got into my own bed a short while later, the prayers poured.
Dear God, please help me. Please help me love my children when they act unlovable. Please help me have patience with my children when they try my patience. Please help me know what to say when my children say things they shouldn't. Please help me model the attitudes and actions I want my children to emulate when their attitudes and actions upset me.
I could feel my anger dissolving, my sadness dissipating with each whispered prayer.
After the events of the day, I was certain of two things . . .
My children weren't always listening.
God was.
I slept well that night. And the next Wednesday . . . I made waffles.
Friday, November 18, 2011
I've always wanted an egg person. I know plenty of women whose best friends live next door, or across the street, or seven houses down. My husband and I have lived in our neighborhood in for almost nine years and I barely know any of our neighbors. It isn't that I haven't made an effort. I smile, I wave, I greet. I even deliver holiday goodies. Our neighborhood, however, is full of empty nesters and couples who work full time. The stay-at-home mom of young children demographic isn't thriving and I happen to belong in that demographic. So, I don't have an egg person.
What's an egg person, you ask. An egg person is the same as a cup of sugar person. Or a stick of butter person. An egg person is the neighbor you can go to in a pinch. When you lock yourself out of the house, you can knock on your egg person's door and they will invite you to come in and hang out until your husband gets home with a key. When you cut your hand trimming bushes, your egg person will watch your kids while you head to the emergency room. When you are out of town, your egg person waters your flowers and picks up your mail. Most importantly, when you are in the middle of an emotional crisis and desperately need brownies to solve your problems, but you only have one egg and the brownie mix calls for two, your egg person saves the day. You can walk to her house, knock on her door, and she will gladly give you an egg out of her own fridge without even an inquiry as to why you need it.
An egg person is essential to good living, in my opinion, and I don't have one. When I'm in the middle of an emotional crisis and brownies are the only thing that will help, I have to drive to the grocery store for a missing egg. I find this very depressing.
The neighbors who used to live across the street from us were potential egg people, but they moved to the lake years ago and have rented out their house ever since. The first family that rented was from Sweden. They were quite nice and even a bit fascinating, but they weren't egg people. The second family to rent came from Japan, here in the United States for three years. The husband speaks little English. The wife speaks less. We first met her just days after they moved in when, believe it or not, she locked herself out of the house. My husband found an open window, she crawled through, we were the great American heroes, and our relationship with the new neighbors began.
Throughout the next few months, our neighbors came to visit on a regular basis, usually showing up when we were outside playing. Along with a baby, they have a daughter who is the same age as our little girl and, surprisingly, language barriers don't seem to be an issue for six year olds. So the girls played together while I talked to my new Japanese neighbor, who nodded her head but rarely attempted to respond to my incessant efforts at conversation.
After about a month of hanging out together in our yard, the neighbors knocked on our door one afternoon. I had bread baking in the oven so I invited the neighbors inside to play. The mother was very hesitant to come in, but once she did, she uttered the same phrase over and over. "So happy. First time." Trust me, if I had known inviting my neighbor in my home would have made her face light up so brightly, I would have done it weeks earlier.
The relationship progressed, although 'progressed' probably isn't the right word because there is very little progression in a relationship between two people who are unable to communicate with one another. I'm ashamed to admit it, but there were times when I wished for different neighbors. I wondered why I couldn't have a friend across the street who would be able to sit on the porch with me and talk about husbands and children and botox and the Bible. Instead, our doorbell would ring and I would feel a twing of bitterness in my heart about having to entertain someone who couldn't understand a word I said. And trust me, I was saying a LOT of words. On one occasion, I launched into a ten-minute tirade about our backyard and how it used to be filled with "all trees" until we had landscapers remove the trees to put in grass. At the end of my lengthy monologue, my neighbor held out her arms in the manner of someone shooting a bow and arrow and said, "Ah, archery." I guess "all trees" sounds a lot like "archery" to someone trying to learn one of the most difficult languages in the world.
Despite my occasional frustrations, our neighbors became regulars in our lives. I made them bread for Thanksgiving. They brought our children gifts from their trip to Disney World. I made them candy for Christmas, wrapped in a brand new kitchen towel. They brought the kitchen towel back, not realizing it was meant to be part of the gift. In January, we received a written invitation to our neighbor's house for lunch. We politely accepted, set a date, and spent days preparing our children for the possibility of what might appear on their plates in the home of a Japanese family. On the day of the lunch, I had many concerns. How do we share a meal with people when we can barely speak to one another? What if the food is unrecognizable? How long should we stay? How can we show our gratitude without words?
When we arrived at our neighbor's home, the wife was in the kitchen making sushi. It looked just like the sushi my husband and I often enjoy at local restaurants. A good sign. I relaxed. We sat down to lunch. There were no forks, only chopsticks. I got nervous. The food was set on the table and my nerves grew. My children would never be able to fake interest in raw tuna and seaweed salad.
Lunch ensued and the kids, as they often do, surprised me. Our son found pieces of rice and avocado in the sushi. Our daughter discovered edamame in the seaweed salad. My husband tried to make small talk with the husband while I kept telling his wife how amazing the meal was. Then, out of nowhere, God appeared. I don't think the neighbors saw Him because they're Buddhists, but I did. Well, I didn't actually see Him. I heard Him. God spoke in the form of a Japanese man who left his family, his friends, his culture, his home to spend three years working in a foreign land on the other side of the globe. He showed up in suburban Atlanta over a table full of tea and miso soup and He said one simple sentence, in broken English.
"We so nervous, we thought we just order pizza."
The tredpidation I had been feeling for days dissolved into disgust. I had spent hours worrying about visiting someone's home who couldn't speak my language. What I'd failed to do, however, was consider how it must feel to move to a country you've never seen, to a city you can't navigate, to a neighborhood full of strangers.
We had been studying the book of James in my weekly Bible study. How appropriate. For weeks I had been discussing God's ideas of loving neighbors as yourself, and loving one another, and loving as Jesus loves, and loving deeply and loving, loving, loving. And all that time, God was trying to tell me something important. He had been speaking specifically to me.
It's been close to two years since we met our neighbors from Japan and recently, we had a breakthrough. The doorbell rang and my daughter called out, "The neighbors are here!" I opened the door and over the course of the next few minutes my neighbor attempted to tell me something from the steps of our front porch. I kept trying to invite her in but she wasn't interested. Finally, I gathered that she had something she needed to do at home and she wanted her girls to stay at our house while she did it. Now, you must understand, this family had been in my house at least once a week for well over a year and the mother had never been more than a few steps away from her children. If her six year old wanted to go upstairs with my daughter, she scooped up the baby and followed right behind. Of course I brought up the rear, probably clambering on about trees or archery or something else that seemed relevant in my life that day. Yet now, despite our inability to understand one another fully, my neighbor was leaving her most prized possessions in my care. She left her daughters in my home while she returned to her house across the street. I was shocked, proud, and, honestly, honored. She couldn't speak to me, but it didn't matter because . . . she trusted me.
Once again I heard God's voice, only this time, He was speaking in perfect English. He reminded me that He puts people in our lives for specific reasons. He reminded me that He is the creator of all things and the orchestrator of every experience and encounter. He reminded me that my words will always have the potential to be significant but it is my actions that show who I am - who HE is. God reminded me that the best way for me to share His love is to give it away.
I don't think I can just walk across the street, knock on my neighbor's door, and ask for an egg the next time my life requires brownies. I think I'll probably have to go inside my neighbors' house, open their refrigerator, and point out exactly what I need. But that's okay. Because in the most unlikely of circumstances, God showed up when I needed Him most. He spoke directly to me with the simplest of messages. Love. And finally, I think I have an egg person.
What's an egg person, you ask. An egg person is the same as a cup of sugar person. Or a stick of butter person. An egg person is the neighbor you can go to in a pinch. When you lock yourself out of the house, you can knock on your egg person's door and they will invite you to come in and hang out until your husband gets home with a key. When you cut your hand trimming bushes, your egg person will watch your kids while you head to the emergency room. When you are out of town, your egg person waters your flowers and picks up your mail. Most importantly, when you are in the middle of an emotional crisis and desperately need brownies to solve your problems, but you only have one egg and the brownie mix calls for two, your egg person saves the day. You can walk to her house, knock on her door, and she will gladly give you an egg out of her own fridge without even an inquiry as to why you need it.
An egg person is essential to good living, in my opinion, and I don't have one. When I'm in the middle of an emotional crisis and brownies are the only thing that will help, I have to drive to the grocery store for a missing egg. I find this very depressing.
The neighbors who used to live across the street from us were potential egg people, but they moved to the lake years ago and have rented out their house ever since. The first family that rented was from Sweden. They were quite nice and even a bit fascinating, but they weren't egg people. The second family to rent came from Japan, here in the United States for three years. The husband speaks little English. The wife speaks less. We first met her just days after they moved in when, believe it or not, she locked herself out of the house. My husband found an open window, she crawled through, we were the great American heroes, and our relationship with the new neighbors began.
Throughout the next few months, our neighbors came to visit on a regular basis, usually showing up when we were outside playing. Along with a baby, they have a daughter who is the same age as our little girl and, surprisingly, language barriers don't seem to be an issue for six year olds. So the girls played together while I talked to my new Japanese neighbor, who nodded her head but rarely attempted to respond to my incessant efforts at conversation.
After about a month of hanging out together in our yard, the neighbors knocked on our door one afternoon. I had bread baking in the oven so I invited the neighbors inside to play. The mother was very hesitant to come in, but once she did, she uttered the same phrase over and over. "So happy. First time." Trust me, if I had known inviting my neighbor in my home would have made her face light up so brightly, I would have done it weeks earlier.
The relationship progressed, although 'progressed' probably isn't the right word because there is very little progression in a relationship between two people who are unable to communicate with one another. I'm ashamed to admit it, but there were times when I wished for different neighbors. I wondered why I couldn't have a friend across the street who would be able to sit on the porch with me and talk about husbands and children and botox and the Bible. Instead, our doorbell would ring and I would feel a twing of bitterness in my heart about having to entertain someone who couldn't understand a word I said. And trust me, I was saying a LOT of words. On one occasion, I launched into a ten-minute tirade about our backyard and how it used to be filled with "all trees" until we had landscapers remove the trees to put in grass. At the end of my lengthy monologue, my neighbor held out her arms in the manner of someone shooting a bow and arrow and said, "Ah, archery." I guess "all trees" sounds a lot like "archery" to someone trying to learn one of the most difficult languages in the world.
Despite my occasional frustrations, our neighbors became regulars in our lives. I made them bread for Thanksgiving. They brought our children gifts from their trip to Disney World. I made them candy for Christmas, wrapped in a brand new kitchen towel. They brought the kitchen towel back, not realizing it was meant to be part of the gift. In January, we received a written invitation to our neighbor's house for lunch. We politely accepted, set a date, and spent days preparing our children for the possibility of what might appear on their plates in the home of a Japanese family. On the day of the lunch, I had many concerns. How do we share a meal with people when we can barely speak to one another? What if the food is unrecognizable? How long should we stay? How can we show our gratitude without words?
When we arrived at our neighbor's home, the wife was in the kitchen making sushi. It looked just like the sushi my husband and I often enjoy at local restaurants. A good sign. I relaxed. We sat down to lunch. There were no forks, only chopsticks. I got nervous. The food was set on the table and my nerves grew. My children would never be able to fake interest in raw tuna and seaweed salad.
Lunch ensued and the kids, as they often do, surprised me. Our son found pieces of rice and avocado in the sushi. Our daughter discovered edamame in the seaweed salad. My husband tried to make small talk with the husband while I kept telling his wife how amazing the meal was. Then, out of nowhere, God appeared. I don't think the neighbors saw Him because they're Buddhists, but I did. Well, I didn't actually see Him. I heard Him. God spoke in the form of a Japanese man who left his family, his friends, his culture, his home to spend three years working in a foreign land on the other side of the globe. He showed up in suburban Atlanta over a table full of tea and miso soup and He said one simple sentence, in broken English.
"We so nervous, we thought we just order pizza."
The tredpidation I had been feeling for days dissolved into disgust. I had spent hours worrying about visiting someone's home who couldn't speak my language. What I'd failed to do, however, was consider how it must feel to move to a country you've never seen, to a city you can't navigate, to a neighborhood full of strangers.
We had been studying the book of James in my weekly Bible study. How appropriate. For weeks I had been discussing God's ideas of loving neighbors as yourself, and loving one another, and loving as Jesus loves, and loving deeply and loving, loving, loving. And all that time, God was trying to tell me something important. He had been speaking specifically to me.
It's been close to two years since we met our neighbors from Japan and recently, we had a breakthrough. The doorbell rang and my daughter called out, "The neighbors are here!" I opened the door and over the course of the next few minutes my neighbor attempted to tell me something from the steps of our front porch. I kept trying to invite her in but she wasn't interested. Finally, I gathered that she had something she needed to do at home and she wanted her girls to stay at our house while she did it. Now, you must understand, this family had been in my house at least once a week for well over a year and the mother had never been more than a few steps away from her children. If her six year old wanted to go upstairs with my daughter, she scooped up the baby and followed right behind. Of course I brought up the rear, probably clambering on about trees or archery or something else that seemed relevant in my life that day. Yet now, despite our inability to understand one another fully, my neighbor was leaving her most prized possessions in my care. She left her daughters in my home while she returned to her house across the street. I was shocked, proud, and, honestly, honored. She couldn't speak to me, but it didn't matter because . . . she trusted me.
Once again I heard God's voice, only this time, He was speaking in perfect English. He reminded me that He puts people in our lives for specific reasons. He reminded me that He is the creator of all things and the orchestrator of every experience and encounter. He reminded me that my words will always have the potential to be significant but it is my actions that show who I am - who HE is. God reminded me that the best way for me to share His love is to give it away.
I don't think I can just walk across the street, knock on my neighbor's door, and ask for an egg the next time my life requires brownies. I think I'll probably have to go inside my neighbors' house, open their refrigerator, and point out exactly what I need. But that's okay. Because in the most unlikely of circumstances, God showed up when I needed Him most. He spoke directly to me with the simplest of messages. Love. And finally, I think I have an egg person.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
I should be a big fan of Halloween. I love chocolate. I adore chocolate. I NEED chocolate. That fact alone should be enough to make me love Halloween. I mean, how cool is it that every year on the last day of October, you can knock on someone’s door you don’t even know and they will open it, smile, and hand you a free Hershey bar. That’s just good living in my opinion. Of course, sometimes they hand you the cheap stuff like Tootsie Rolls and Blow Pops, but that’s not a huge problem because there’s probably someone in your family who likes that junk. You can just pass it along to them. Or trade it for their chocolate.
My real problem with Halloween has to do with the costumes. And the decorations. And the staying up late on a school night to go running around the neighborhood begging for dessert. I don’t need a bloody, mangled rubber hand in my house. Not at Halloween and not ever. I don’t care for plastic skeleton heads hanging from windows and I definitely don’t like fake witches with warty faces playing spooky music. I’m a pumpkin and mum kind of girl. Maybe a hay bale or two on the front porch with some cute scarecrows smiling out at the world, happy to be enjoying the crisp fall weather and the smell of burning leaves in the air. Instead, there are inflatable spiders the size of my car sitting in the yard across the street.
My children love Halloween. God has a sense of humor like that, doesn’t he? My kids will pore over the catalogs that start arriving in the mail the day after school starts, searching for the perfect costumes and the best decorations for our house. Their top pick in the decorations department this year? A bag of rats. Not one rat people. An entire bag. Of rats. They actually asked me to shell out good money to purchase this particular decoration. It’s the middle of October and I’m still holding out for the bag of rats “to go on sale.” Because then I’m going to buy them. Wink, wink.
Last year, we hosted a Halloween party I had absolutely no intention of hosting. My kids began talking about the party we were going to have the moment October rolled around. I kept listening and nodding my head, telling them what great ideas they had and then quickly changing the subject. When October 20th arrived and my children had made a guest list, created handmade invitations, and planned both the party menu and entertainment, I figured there was no way out of it. I played along with their fun and we hosted a gaggle of kids in costumes for a fabulous little soirée in our backyard. There was pizza and candy and even a haunted trail. There were no inflatable spiders.
This year, my eight-year-old son decided to break tradition when it came to his Halloween costume. In the past, he has allowed me to persuade him to wear what I wanted him to wear, usually something that turned him and his little sister into a matching pair. They have been Minnie and Mickey Mouse, a cowboy and cowgirl. You get the drift. This year, my son was determined to have a scary costume. And by scary, he meant completely and totally inappropriate for a child.
I asked around for advice on the costume dilemma and my friends had some stellar ideas.
“Show your son three costumes you approve of and let him choose the one he likes best.”
“Explain to your son that you don’t want his costume to be so scary he frightens his little sister and any other small children he might run into while trick-or-treating.”
“Tell your son you tried to order the scary costume he wanted but, what a bummer, it was sold out.”
That last one was my personal favorite. It was a win, win – he didn’t get the scary costume and it wasn’t my fault.
I think my real problem with Halloween is that it exposes my children to the fact that there is a dark side to this world we live in. It might not come in the form of ghosts and goblins, but evil does exist. I realize scary costumes don’t automatically inform children about crime and rape and murder, but costumes that include fake blood and sharp accessories, and which have names like grim reaper, evil phantom, gothic vampire, crypt master, psycho clown, and wicked werewolf bring up terms I’m not ready to discuss with my eight year old. And how do you explain the fact that we teach our kids not to eat any candy they get while trick-or-treating until after we have inspected every piece to make sure it’s “safe.” One of my strongest memories of Halloween involves my parents teaching me this same rule. It was how I learned there were people in the world who might intentionally want to hurt children. That’s a big lesson in the life of a child. A necessary lesson, no doubt, but one that is life-changing.
Our family will celebrate Halloween on October 31st along with everyone else. We have made our annual trek to the local pumpkin patch in search of the perfect pumpkins, one for each child, and there was a great deal of photography involved in the outing. We will carve our pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns on Halloween Eve while the seeds roast in the oven. Orange and black decorations sit out around our house and the kids’ costumes are hanging in their closets ready for a big night of trick-or-treating. I was able to talk my son out of his first choice costume with honesty. I told him I didn’t think it was appropriate for an eight year old and he had to choose something else. He was mad at first. I even got the ol’ “I’m not going to dress up as anything” line for a few days, complete with a very smug look. Eventually, my son came around. It might have had something to do with the fact that I told him children without costumes wouldn’t be trick-or-treating on my watch, but either way, we went online and found a costume my son loved. He’s going to be a warlock. I have absolutely no idea what a warlock is and, frankly, I don’t think my son does either. Basically, the costume looks like a wizard from Harry Potter, which is okay with me. There is no blood, no suggestion of death. I suppose a warlock is some sort of human like creature who performs magic spells.
You know . . . I wouldn’t mind being a warlock myself. I could perform all kinds of amazing magic spells. I could make the scary costumes and decorations disappear. I could turn the lollipops and gumballs into Butterfingers and Milky Ways. I could make the blow up spiders vanish into thin air.
Most importantly, I could make my son’s innocence last just a little bit longer.
My real problem with Halloween has to do with the costumes. And the decorations. And the staying up late on a school night to go running around the neighborhood begging for dessert. I don’t need a bloody, mangled rubber hand in my house. Not at Halloween and not ever. I don’t care for plastic skeleton heads hanging from windows and I definitely don’t like fake witches with warty faces playing spooky music. I’m a pumpkin and mum kind of girl. Maybe a hay bale or two on the front porch with some cute scarecrows smiling out at the world, happy to be enjoying the crisp fall weather and the smell of burning leaves in the air. Instead, there are inflatable spiders the size of my car sitting in the yard across the street.
My children love Halloween. God has a sense of humor like that, doesn’t he? My kids will pore over the catalogs that start arriving in the mail the day after school starts, searching for the perfect costumes and the best decorations for our house. Their top pick in the decorations department this year? A bag of rats. Not one rat people. An entire bag. Of rats. They actually asked me to shell out good money to purchase this particular decoration. It’s the middle of October and I’m still holding out for the bag of rats “to go on sale.” Because then I’m going to buy them. Wink, wink.
Last year, we hosted a Halloween party I had absolutely no intention of hosting. My kids began talking about the party we were going to have the moment October rolled around. I kept listening and nodding my head, telling them what great ideas they had and then quickly changing the subject. When October 20th arrived and my children had made a guest list, created handmade invitations, and planned both the party menu and entertainment, I figured there was no way out of it. I played along with their fun and we hosted a gaggle of kids in costumes for a fabulous little soirée in our backyard. There was pizza and candy and even a haunted trail. There were no inflatable spiders.
This year, my eight-year-old son decided to break tradition when it came to his Halloween costume. In the past, he has allowed me to persuade him to wear what I wanted him to wear, usually something that turned him and his little sister into a matching pair. They have been Minnie and Mickey Mouse, a cowboy and cowgirl. You get the drift. This year, my son was determined to have a scary costume. And by scary, he meant completely and totally inappropriate for a child.
I asked around for advice on the costume dilemma and my friends had some stellar ideas.
“Show your son three costumes you approve of and let him choose the one he likes best.”
“Explain to your son that you don’t want his costume to be so scary he frightens his little sister and any other small children he might run into while trick-or-treating.”
“Tell your son you tried to order the scary costume he wanted but, what a bummer, it was sold out.”
That last one was my personal favorite. It was a win, win – he didn’t get the scary costume and it wasn’t my fault.
I think my real problem with Halloween is that it exposes my children to the fact that there is a dark side to this world we live in. It might not come in the form of ghosts and goblins, but evil does exist. I realize scary costumes don’t automatically inform children about crime and rape and murder, but costumes that include fake blood and sharp accessories, and which have names like grim reaper, evil phantom, gothic vampire, crypt master, psycho clown, and wicked werewolf bring up terms I’m not ready to discuss with my eight year old. And how do you explain the fact that we teach our kids not to eat any candy they get while trick-or-treating until after we have inspected every piece to make sure it’s “safe.” One of my strongest memories of Halloween involves my parents teaching me this same rule. It was how I learned there were people in the world who might intentionally want to hurt children. That’s a big lesson in the life of a child. A necessary lesson, no doubt, but one that is life-changing.
Our family will celebrate Halloween on October 31st along with everyone else. We have made our annual trek to the local pumpkin patch in search of the perfect pumpkins, one for each child, and there was a great deal of photography involved in the outing. We will carve our pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns on Halloween Eve while the seeds roast in the oven. Orange and black decorations sit out around our house and the kids’ costumes are hanging in their closets ready for a big night of trick-or-treating. I was able to talk my son out of his first choice costume with honesty. I told him I didn’t think it was appropriate for an eight year old and he had to choose something else. He was mad at first. I even got the ol’ “I’m not going to dress up as anything” line for a few days, complete with a very smug look. Eventually, my son came around. It might have had something to do with the fact that I told him children without costumes wouldn’t be trick-or-treating on my watch, but either way, we went online and found a costume my son loved. He’s going to be a warlock. I have absolutely no idea what a warlock is and, frankly, I don’t think my son does either. Basically, the costume looks like a wizard from Harry Potter, which is okay with me. There is no blood, no suggestion of death. I suppose a warlock is some sort of human like creature who performs magic spells.
You know . . . I wouldn’t mind being a warlock myself. I could perform all kinds of amazing magic spells. I could make the scary costumes and decorations disappear. I could turn the lollipops and gumballs into Butterfingers and Milky Ways. I could make the blow up spiders vanish into thin air.
Most importantly, I could make my son’s innocence last just a little bit longer.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!
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