Rapids

August 25, 2012 By

We are all just swimming upstream.  The moment the wind calms and the food is plentiful and the credit cards are paid off, gusts once again sweep you off your feet.  They swell and pull at you and whistle uncomfortably in your ears.  Kids grow louder.  Your temper grows quicker.  The laundry piles and bills and coping skills get all worn and tattered by all that beating.  Life passes by in a streak of runny watercolor because your vision is full of rushing tide and debris.  Some folks can keep up, with their heads to the sky and their heart full of prayer.  You roll your eyes at those people. It’s all you can do to just keep looking forward, wiping the water from your tired, red, tear-stained face.  Funny thing is, you didn’t even realize you were paddling so hard until you look down and see the white caps of the rapids. Oh, for a moment of peace.  For the winds to calm.  Just a tiny second for your arms to rest.

I think now I’m supposed to talk about trusting in God’s everlasting arms.  To let Him do the fighting and you just roll back in a starfish float like my daughter’s swim lesson and allow all your earthly burdens to melt away.   That’s about the time I stop reading, because I’ve got things piling up and I just can’t hear any more about letting go.  I’m not into vague fuzzy lessons on how we are all masters of nothing and should quit fighting.  If I let go, I’ll drown.  I don’t know about you people, but I just don’t have the luxury of letting go.

So I build up endurance and keep on swimming.  I’m getting pretty good at setting my sights on the distance and finding friends to help make the journey palatable.   I’m growing strong, and confident, and feel I have this life thing figured out.  I thank God for strong arms and a fighter’s spirit and think I’m doing my duty.

But then the storm comes.  Not the everyday storm that makes my lungs sting and my thighs ache from paddling so hard, but the black storm that hits me in the chest until I cry out of fear and pulls me into a hole and makes me think this is so unfair.  I’ve worked so hard. I’ve been fighting the current.  I thought I got this, but now I can’t see or breathe and I’m drowning.

It is then you begin the slow descent to the bottom.  It’s a moment when time stands still, and you have the most peaceful conversation with your creator.  You aren’t pushing.  You aren’t moving.  You aren’t wiping water from your eyes or trying to take in side breaths.  You are simply lying there on the bottom of the river, watching all that rushing water above.  The ironic thing is that fear is surprisingly absent and your heart is strangely full.  And it hits you.  God truly is more powerful than the river.  His hands calm the winds and open your eyes and move the boulders, but all this time you were resisting.  He puts you in a place to allow you to see this abounding truth, even when you were fighting with your fists and elbows and words against it.  I will show you my love even when you don’t want to see it.  Even if it takes you to the brink of death.

When you rise up again, gasping for air, you are astounded by the beauty you see.  Your tears are clear, for through them you can see brilliance.  The winds blow, but they don’t suck you down.  There is a purpose to this struggle.  And just like that, you find yourself letting go. You didn’t read it in some devotional or have it handed to you by a priest or hear it in some sappy Christian song.  You let go because you were there at the bottom of the water, and rose up again.  Because you felt such an overwhelming peace.

Let the gusts come.  No bother.  You can take it.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds,  because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.  Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”  

James 1:2-8

—

River Rapids

Filed Under: Inspirational, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , ,

If you give a mom a coffee

August 21, 2012 By

If you give a mom a coffee, she’ll want a donut to go with it.

So she’ll stop by this great bakery on the way to the kid’s school drop off, get the éclair instead, and eat it in four bites.  Stuffing her face with saturated fat and sugar will remind her that she’s fifteen pounds overweight. So she heads to the gym.

At the gym, she starts to run on the treadmill.  Running on the treadmill and staring at a wall covered in closed-captioned televisions annoys the fire out of her because she can’t hear a dang thing and has to keep up with all those words popping up after someone talks.  It’s distracting.

All that useless television that no one watches because people’s heads are buried in their iphones makes her think that her mind is just a collection of closed caption nonsense with words popping up after the thoughts have passed.  And when a mom starts to focus on distracting energy, she obviously thinks of her two-year-old son, who loves animals and trains and has an odd way of making her sit in a chair holding him for a solid hour just to hear him breathe and inhale the loveliness of his messy, sweaty toddler hair.

Sweat reminds her of the gym, where she is currently still residing, and she glances down and sees that she’s burned off only 92 calories.  Close enough.  She gets into her car that smells slightly of either vinegar or rotten milk and notices her kid’s spare clothes sitting on the front seat that were supposed to be sent to school for water day.  It’s a little red shirt from the Austin Zoo.  Which reminds her of the Austin Zoo.   It’s plainly written on the shirt, for heaven’s sake.  That’s just called reading.  But she’s famished and dehydrated and exhausted from trying to read all that closed captioning.  Cut her some slack.

So the next day mom hauls everyone to the small rescue zoo to see the prairie dogs and peacocks and ride the train.  As she’s passing by the grey wolves she thinks what a really strange zoo that has a hundred goats and a large potbelly pig with not one single zebra.  Of course zebras remind her of nothing, so she stares down at her bulging waistline and pats her children on the head.  She thinks she might hit the gym, but her son needs a nap so off they go for lunch and a big pile of laundry and she’s consumed with guilt over the fact that she paid a hundred bucks to the YMCA this month for a stupid 92 calories.

When she gets home, she notices that her husband hasn’t unloaded the dishwasher as promised.  She’s faced with a pile of dog vomit and her son has decided he’s rather not sleep but instead run around in concentric circles around the rug declaring to all who will listen that he’s batman.  She scratches her head at why all the magazines are not in their proper place but then realizes that the magazine rack has been converted to a trailer to be drug behind the rocking horse by one of her best winter scarves.  Her daughter is whining that she only likes mac-and-cheese and that she doesn’t like peanut butter and I could have sworn I told you that already, but the mom magically can’t hear any noise coming out of her daughter’s mouth and suddenly remembers there are dark chocolate oatmeal cookies in the pantry.  So she decides to let the house run amuck while she sits in the corner reading about Frank McCourt’s rotten life in Ireland.  And you know what happens when a momma starts eating cookies and reading a book.

She’ll most likely want a cup of coffee, a handful of Advil, and a babysitter to go along with it.

Filed Under: Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , , ,

Free as a bird

August 15, 2012 By

Last week, my daughter found a dove in the yard.  It had fallen out of its nest and sat there in the grass, looking confused and bewildered.  Of course it’s hard to read the emotions of birds.  It might have been trying to kill itself, inching and pushing and finally managing to throw his distorted body from the tree.  He might have been downright furious at the failed attempt.

Something was clearly wrong with the poor thing.  It was too large to be a baby.  Part of his feathers were grey and thick but his front half was a damp mass of skin and fuzz.  He could hardly open his little beak and looked a little bloated.  I placed him in a box lined with cloth and began to give him drops of warm water with a medicine dispenser.  I set the box in a high place and just hoped he lived. I just couldn’t see him lying there all night in the grass, devoured by dogs or hawks or other preying things.  Leave the guy alone.  Even birds need a place to rest.

I read online that you can mash up egg yolks and wet dog food and feed it to injured birds, so I rushed to the kitchen to make a life-saving paste.  There I was, trying to get the sick little thing to open its beak to take it in.  Once I squeezed too hard and too much came out, his poor eye covered in wet yolky-dog food.  I tried to wash it out but there he sat, wet and dirty, sick and sad.  It was hopeless.

I fretted all night about that bird.  I prayed that it would find a way to live.  That it would fly off and join the other doves, free and glorious and shining with silver radiance. But the next morning it had a fluid pocket jutting out below it’s beak.  I probably choked it to death with a tiny shred of dog food.  Great. My mother-in-law tossed it in the dumpster.  We’ll just tell the kids it flew away, she said. I wish she had at least broken its neck first and put it out of his misery. I hated that neighbors would toss garbage bags on top of him, just another piece of trash like used milk cartons or Frito bags. 

I wish we could all die elegant deaths – not in a movie theatre riddled with stray bullets or driving to Subway in our Subaru to get a ham sandwich.  We should all get to say our piece, kissing the heads of our little ones and quoting Thoreau.  We should all get to make amends and die in our sleep with our best dress on.   It fills me with rage that good people have to go so quickly.  That they are off to the market for strawberries one day and the next they are pinned under a car or lying in a hospital where all the zig-zag lines go flat.  I don’t like to think of living things contorted or bloated or twisted up in bullets. No one should die in the bottom of a dumpster.

But in the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter how we exit.  It’s a temporary holding place, this life, where we muddle through and say our prayers and eat our broccoli.  Someday, if I die a gruesome horrible death, falling out of my nest and landing in unfamiliar territory, no one needs to save me.  No one needs to worry about feeding me mashed up food or dropping water in my parched throat. For I’m off to fly – my elegant wings spread before me, soaring through the air and breathing in the fresh smell of freedom.  Like a bird.  Back home.

—

http://www.flickr.com/photos/charlestilford/732688216/

Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, Religion Tagged With: , , , ,

Failure is not an option

August 8, 2012 By

I knew a girl that trained for the Olympics.  She got permission to cut out early from school to spend eight hours in the gym.  Her parents were insanely rigid and no one really invited her to play dates or to have ice cream sundaes.  She couldn’t come anyway because she was training.  She was always training.  Her father died young. I always thought he bottled all the angst and misery and fear of watching his twelve-year old girl fail or turn or miss a handoff and one day he just couldn’t take it anymore.  He put a gun to his temples and blew it all away. Just tiny bits of stress scattered into the ether.

In a tiny way, amidst the cheers and clapping and proud faces, I see the pain in the eyes of all those collective Olympians, their young hearts beating rapidly under their overbuilt bodies with sparkles on their eyelids.  After all – the brass ring of winning looms so high.  Some of these tiny girls – leaping and hopping and tumbling on a national stage before their sixteen birthday – don’t even have arms long enough to reach out and grab it. They haven’t built up the maturity to handle the fleeting moment when the edges of their fingers touch it, but it slips past their grasp.  It reminds me of Gollum in Lord of the Rings, wanting something so bad it becomes a longing that’s seared into you.  After a while it’s nothing but an empty, haunting noise in one’s twisted throat.

The announcer introduced a young Romanian.  Her eyes had that steely gaze of one who knows exactly what she wants.  She had won silver four years earlier, but not grabbing that ring had left a hole in her heart.  I wanted to clasp that poor girl into my arms.  I wanted to hand her journals of pink butterflies and banana splits and afternoons lounging around under oak trees reading mystery novels.  I wanted to give her back a childhood and tell her it’s just a silly piece of metal, coated with only shreds of worth.  But her stare was so unyielding.   It was a hopeless cause.

She mounted the balance beam so assuredly.  She had done this so many times, and in so many ways.  Through injuries and bad days and being yelled at.  When she was hungry and longed for a day off and when her legs were pinching and burning and red like fire.

And then she fell.

It was just a simple turn – the announcer said.  But there she went, cascading down in slow motion to the padded mat below, chalk puffing up around her tiny feet as she hit. She rose slowly, as if her life’s work had been for naught.  As if all she ever wanted had come crumbling down around her feet.  The grief was printed on her face.  Her arms rose to the beam again to climb back on, but it was a dead baby now.

Her eyes haunted my dreams that night.  I thought of how one might not ever recover such an epic failure.  These are champions.  They overcame great hurdles in their rise to glory.  And yet there is that looming dread of going home empty handed.  The oiled finger that couldn’t grasp the ring.  The missed opportunity that would never again present itself.

As I was telling my husband about it that night, he stopped reading and thought about it for a moment.  He said he felt failure was an overused word.  We might miss opportunities, or do things we regret, or take paths that might later need redirection.  “But failure is final,” he said.  “And it’s not over until the end of the game.”

I thought about our lives.  The raising of our children.  The tenuous bonds of marriage and friendship and being the one others count on.  Our eyes grow so focused on being good at it, and choosing the right paths, and winning.  Sometimes there is that moment you almost let it overtake you.  Like the father who put the gun to his head and gave in.

But God expects more than this.  We are all built to be champions.  And someday, there will be that second we step onto that balance beam and our feet fall flat underneath us.  It is that moment we must find the inner strength to rise again.  Through the grief.  Through the defeat.  Through the brokenness. We must stand proud and tall on that beam, and with all the energy left in our tired bodies we must clap those hands together, look high to the sky as our backs arch in beauty, and land squarely on two feet.  We will regroup.  We will not let this define us.  We will dismount after the fall.

If you look closely enough, you’ll see a shiny little ring dangling from your fingers.  Funny thing is, by then it doesn’t seem to matter.

—

http://www.flickr.com/photos/96434059@N00/with/1017675131/#photo_1017675131

Filed Under: Inspirational, Motherhood, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

The BFF Rules

August 4, 2012 By

Girlfriends are awesome.  You call them when you’re bored, when you get a new job, or when you want to get a play-by-play rundown of Top Chef because you forgot to Tivo it and you were stuck in a meeting.  And when you just can’t breastfeed one more day or you feel like bludgeoning your own husband with a meat cleaver, you pick up the phone and speed-dial your BFF. It’s not like you can only have one of them.  I have several – each a bestie in their own right.  Here are my top ten rules to abide by when cultivating these important relationships:

(1) Accept them like they are, but also laugh at them. When a friend tells you she has a bad habit of buying fancy water, or expensive chocolates, or pricy shoes, tell her that her vices could be much worse.  Think of something more expensive that she’s not buying by the truckload (champagne/new cars/trips to Vegas) and tell her that she could be buying that.  So in reality she’s very frugal, and you’re proud of her, and agree that overpriced organic baby soap from France does smell quite nice.  But for the kid’s birthday, be sure to buy some generic bath wash from Wal-mart that has some Disney character on it and smells like raspberry that may possibly be radioactive.  Because honestly, it cleans just as well.

(2) Offer small reminders of your love.  Like care packages.  They can be small, and contain thing from your pantry, but how fun is it to get a package in the mail full of power bars, gum, and a message scrawled on the back of an electric bill?  Mail is giddy and silly and fun.  Go on and add that postage expense into your monthly budget.   To my friends who haven’t received a package from me in a while – I’m sorry.  I’ll do better. I may be mailing you fruit snacks and goldfish.  Deal.  I’m also a huge fan of random texts and short phone calls when you only have three minutes.  Please don’t use that lame excuse of “I was waiting for when I had time to talk.” When exactly does one have that kind of uninterrupted time?  I say never.   Unless you’re on the toilet, and that’s just disgusting.

(3) Pray for them.  For when they are going through hard times, or when their life is upside down.  Pray for their very soul.  And mean it.

(4) Support Them at All Costs. Repost and like and comment away on her witty facebook posts because flattery will get you everywhere and us gals have to stick together.  Celebrate your BFF’s adventures and never allow guilt or jealousy enter the relationship.  Just because you work at the DMV and she got a job in New York as a fashion model doesn’t mean you can’t be happy for her good fortune. Hug her neck.  Buy her a drink. Then look for another job.  For goodness sakes –why do you want to work at the DMV?

(5) Listen when they vent about their husbands, but the next day forget the entire conversation.  If a girlfriend unloads on you about how her husband is lazy and never picks up his dirty laundry and doesn’t appreciate all she does around the house, your response should be something like, “What a jerk!”  Fast forward three days, when the same girlfriend received a dozen tulips from her formerly jerky husband.  She tells you he’s the most fabulous man ever.  Your response should be, “What a sweetheart!” See the difference?  It’s subtle, I realize.

(6) Be insanely loyal.  If you hear someone talking bad about a bestie (She’s a bit controlling if you ask me), redirect the conversation (she’s strong willed, but man that girl can run a meeting like you wouldn’t believe.  Makes the men shiver in their boots). Then meander from that to a conversation about boots in general, which leads you to that trendy little boot store on South Congress, which of course makes you focus on funky clothing, which you lack, and then you can begin a tirade on how your mother keeps buying you sweaters from JC Pennys.  See how this redirection thing works?

(7)  Don’t keep score.  If you watch their kids twice and they only watched yours once for half an hour, or if you always bring them Starbucks but they never return the favor, remember that a friendship isn’t always completely equal.  You have them in your life because they bring something wonderful and precious to yours.  It’s not a card game whereby they owe you when you do something for them.  You each have your strengths and weaknesses.  Give effortlessly without keeping a tally.  That’s exhausting.

(8)  Don’t let things fester.  The worst is when you allow some minor annoyance to get out of control and it drives a wedge into your long-standing relationship.  If they always text when you want to talk by phone, or if they smack their gum too loudly, or always wait for you to pick up the check, tell them.  It doesn’t have to be some insanely serious talk, where you hold their hand by the fire and say “it’s not you, it’s me,” but you can respectfully tell them that “hey – what’s up with me always paying for lunch?” or “it bothers me when you always email when I just want to visit.”  You have built up enough rapport to be honest.  If you can’t, or if you are afraid of splintering the friendship, how solid is that foundation?

(9) Keep it real.  The best thing about girlfriends is the ability to find common ground, and laugh about shared experiences.  Whether you are sitting around drinking wine or running together at 6 am or just texting in the carpool line, find a way to add humor to their day and remind them of how blessed they are.  So their kid broke their arm and they had to endure ten days in the Cayman’s with their overbearing mother-in-law and their husband is away on business for two weeks.  Your response shouldn’t be “you poor darling – that just sucks for you and I don’t know how you’ll possibly endure.”  They went to the Cayman’s, for crying out loud.  They drank fruity cocktails and now they get to wallow around in stretchy pants making microwave dinners.  Life really isn’t that rough.

(10)               And finally, be careful who you let in.  Don’t throw your heart into someone who doesn’t hold friendships in high esteem, or who won’t get your back, or acts one way around you and a different way around others.  If you work this hard to cultivate friendships (time and energy spent away from your own family), make sure you give your heart to someone who will cradle it, and respect it, and who deserves who you are.  Because you are fabulous.

Filed Under: Friendships, Humor, Inspirational, Love Tagged With: , ,

Olympic Fever

July 31, 2012 By

I love the Olympics.  They make you feel and do strange things, such as:

(1) Mutter to yourself, after a bottle of vegetable oil topples out of the top cabinet, “Oh man.  So close.  It sucks to fall.”

(2)  Hold your head up high and prance around on the pads of your feet as you walk across the kitchen floor towards the trash to dump used coffee grounds.  Because you normally walk that way and all.

(3) Comment on the form and mistakes of random gymnasts you’ve never heard of before last week who fall off the pommel horse.  After all those years of studying the pommel horse.  Finally, a chance to show off your knowledge.

(4) Look in the mirror and think, “I could so totally rock that.  I’m hitting the YMCA tomorrow.”

(5) Ponder nicer looking women’s swimsuits.  I mean really.

(6) Pray that someday, your daughter will never, ever win a gold metal in the Olympics.  Because if that happened, you’d be that mom who’s all weepy with mascara running down her face and her hair tied up in some strange pony tail with a USA flag sticking out of it.  The world would see you jumping and screaming “she’s miiiiiiiine!  That’s my baby girl!  Right there in the ugly women’s swimsuit that makes her look like a dude!”  Do you want to be that mom?  Do you?

(7) Wonder if anyone actually watches horse jumping.  The Queen might, but it’s England.  And her granddaughter is competing.

(8) Allow your 6-year-old daughter stay up until 10:30 pm so she can see synchronized men’s diving, answering fun questions like “why do they wear one half of a girl’s bikini?”  There are no good answers.  Mention something about aerodynamics and change the subject.

(9) See quite a lot of Ryan Lochte’s shaved chest, and finally,

(10)               Max out your tivo with events you don’t care about, just so you can fast forward through them and feel you are watching.  Because men’s team volleyball needs love too.

It’s the Olympics. The one time you will watch insane amounts of sports on television, feel proud to be an American, and cry at Proctor & Gamble commercials. Give these hard-working athletes their moment of fame, until one comes in 7th place.  Then you can critique their form before forgetting all about them because they won’t have endorsement deals and their face will fade from your memory.  Good effort, folks who spent ten years of their life pursuing one solitary goal only to have their dreams dashed on time-delayed television.

Toodles, ya’ll.  I have fencing to watch.  Go U.S.A!

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: , , , ,

Let’s find a way to coexist

July 27, 2012 By

In an abstract world, controversy is fun.  Everyone picks a side and argues their points, shooting down the other side with logic and theory.  It’s high school debate meets law school meets logic games, stirred together with a nerdy competitive streak and a sense of humor.  Someday soon, I’m going to host a dinner party where people are forced to pick a position out of a hat.  They will be forced to argue that particular side over a chocolate flourless torte and coffee and hear the other side’s arguments.  Maybe it will encourage people to think that every coin has two sides.  That we are all made with different thoughts rattling around inside our brains.  And that’s a good thing.

But then there’s real life.  Whether you’re getting donuts or pumping gas or eating waffle fries – you are constantly being judged.  Judged for your appearance, or haircut, or bumper sticker.  Judged for what you appear to believe.  Judged for what you say to your children or what organization you donate to.  You are tarred, and feathered, and left to die.

In real life, you have to pick a side.  There’s no room to scratch your head and see that two differing opinions have their own independent merit.  There is no ability anymore, with the advent of cable news and talk shows and celebrity obsession and facebook, to think someone who has a strict religious code who can’t wear pants or must never cut their hair has the right to think that way.  They are crazy, or need to keep to themselves, and they are wrong on every social issue that varies from yours.  Don’t give those people money.  Pray they don’t vote.   Make sure they keep to themselves – oppressed and put in the corner where they belong.

Aside from being a carnivore or vegetarian, if someone believes differently than you do on an issue such as same-sex marriage or abortion or any issue touching upon race or worship, that person is deemed to be wrong.  They are so wrong that they are borderline evil.  You don’t want your children playing with their children.  You don’t want to live around them.  You don’t really want them to maintain a successful business or have a long, healthy future or even make it through a string of green lights.  They contribute to hate.  They fuel all that is wrong with the world. You want them to fail.

When did we grow so angry?  When did we stop seeing the value of differences, and embrace our ability to come to our own rational decision?  Come on.  Let’s all put our big girl pants on. Maybe we don’t see eye to eye, but let’s find some common ground.  Let’s search for a middle area where we can all walk around without spitting or seething or giving each other dirty looks.  So I believe in God and you don’t.  So I think one way and you another.  That’s okay.  I still like that purple shirt you’re wearing and I think you deserve to a good night’s sleep.

There is evil in the world that must be stopped.  Hitler murdered Jews.  It was not only acceptable, but mandatory, to do whatever it took to stop him.  The same goes with leaders in today’s world that commit genocide or murder children or encourage rape or sexual trafficking.  If one person says, “let’s all hate Hispanics and do them harm,” obviously our overarching moral compass will react with “hell no.  That’s wrong and I’m not going along with it.”

But for goodness sakes.  The fact that one person believes one way and other differently makes this entire world a more interesting place.  If someone supports Cause A that differs from your personal belief system, donate to Cause B that is in line with what you believe.  Take care of your own family, and your own life. Then go about your business.

If only our world was a fairy tale, we could all eat torte and debate about controversial issues and go home happy and fulfilled at the end of the night.  We would embrace the unique talents and styles and thoughts of those around us without being so hateful.  We could simply agree to disagree.  We would find a way to coexist.

You know that funny little plastic bracelet that kids used to wear?  They handed them out at church camp and Sunday school.  It said “what would Jesus do?”  It’s been overused and vilified, but it’s a legitimate question.  How would Jesus handle all these differences?  How would he deal with all these competing moral dilemmas?

I’ll bet he would love, and forgive, and love some more.  Jesus certainly didn’t apologize for his beliefs, but I’ll venture to guess he didn’t walk around tripping those who thought differently. He might have known in his heart they were wrong.  But I’ll be he didn’t stare them down with hate like they had a disease or paper their houses.  I’ll bet he didn’t call them ugly names or start a Disciple-wide boycott.  He did his best to spread his own message of salvation, love, and forgiveness to the poor, distraught, and sick. If others didn’t like it, that was fine.  Let the chips fall where they may.

Let our lives be more like that of Jesus – filled with peace, and logic, and patience.  Let us not fear that which is different.  Let us coexist, for goodness sakes, so we don’t live like a bunch of savages.

—

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/auntiep/407993029/”>Auntie P</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photo pin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a>

Filed Under: Love, My life, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

my colorful life

July 25, 2012 By

Today, I thought I’d paint a picture of what my life is like.   

The big news of the week was that our six-year-old girl lost her front tooth.  I videoed her trying to say “silly sally went to town, walking backwards, upside down” so I could hear the funny whistling lisp she developed.  It was all so crazy pink with the swollen gums and her tongue sticking out.

That night, my daughter recounted the story of not beating all the other girls in art class because they put their peacock feathers on the canvas already and she was slower to cut them out.  I told her art was not a competition.  She’s so red that girl, flaming with desire to be the best, and fastest, and quickest at everything.   Sometimes you just need to slow down and take your time.  Or try new things even when they don’t come out perfectly the first time around.  She’s not daring for fear she might not come out on top.  We are working on experimentation.

I had a crazy burst of energy the other day, in part due to the explosion of vegetables from our garden.  I peeled and cut up four large butternut squash, their bright, orange flesh so clean and cheerful.  I sautéed asparagus and made a salad with cucumbers and tomatoes with an aged balsamic dressing.  I stole a friend’s recipe for pasta with capers and cream sauce and the plate was bursting with color.  My kids picked out all the bowtie pasta and left all the rest, but I threatened them with something that I now can’t remember and they ended up eating all the spinach.  Funny how all that spinach wilts down to nothing when you cook it.  A tiny little mass of vitamins that can be gulped down in two bites.

Then a few nights later, I was frustrated that a new bottle of organic tearless wash was bobbling around in the bath, filling with water and making it run out when I tried to use it.  That was the millionth time I’d warned my daughter about letting soap ruin in the tub.  I was so upset I yelled for both children to immediately exit the bathroom and transport themselves immediately into pajamas.  I muttered something about how much money was wasted and having to always repeat myself. All that yellow Burt’s Bees soap diluted and ruined. It was all his fault, my daughter said.  She likes to stand around and watch him do things and then blame him for it later.  You’re older and wiser.  I expect you to set an example.  It’s a broken record, that conversation.

Almost every night this week, my son has decided that the only possible way he can sleep, now that he’s graduated from the crib to a normal bed, is to be velcroed to his mother at all times.  The moment I inch away, he is awoken from a deep slumber and begins to cry out my name.  He is buried in a blue patchwork quilt and is wedged between a pillow I got at pottery barn that says “Discover” but all that blue matches his longing mood. It’s been a long week of hauling a two-year-old back to bed, telling him that he is loved but mommy has her own sleeping place, requesting that he instead cuddle with his bear or stuffed horse, and if all else fails to go sleep in his sister’s room.  I try and break up the blackness of night with a nightlight and warm kisses, but all that crying makes me sad. I want to curl up next to him and feel his soft breathing until the end of time.

My husband is out of town for a funeral, which means he left work undone at the office and must catch up upon his return.  I have a girl’s dinner and got a babysitter, which means that I’ll have to fork over so much green for one night just to not hear “mama hold me” or “can I watch just one more show” or “I don’t like spinach” or “I didn’t do it.”  It’s worth it.  It’s always worth it to catch my breath and laugh over swollen glasses of wine and good company.

I am reading Angela’s Ashes, which is so sad and it fills me with an ache that children have to grow up around all that brown drabness, with diapers that are never changed and dirt that is never washed away.  I worry about the negative overtones of Disney movies and the stereotypes of Barbie dolls and stress about not having enough Vitamin D in my kids’ diet and then I read that Frank McCourt stole bananas just to stop his twin brothers’ hunger pains.  I am filled with a sense of loss for his childhood.

I had a crazy work situation happen Monday afternoon.  The entire day was relatively quiet and I could have dealt with that particular crisis better at any other time of day, but of course it happens at 4:30 pm, which is the witching hour at my house when all hell breaks loose and my children act like wild animals.  I was trying to convince an attorney to withdraw a subpoena when my daughter comes running in screaming about her brother drinking something he shouldn’t.  I see him sucking from a juice box that was somewhere in my daughter’s room.  Where did that come from?  How long has it been there?  Is it molded?  Oh for goodness sakes. I rush over in between saying “uh huh” and “why exactly do you need our particular witness for this case” to run over and grab the juice from my son.  At the moment I grabbed it, he threw it on the ground and it just so happened my foot came down on top of it, and in that perfect storm, purple juice went spraying all over the wood floor.  I wanted to scream, but I ran to the front porch and politely asked counsel to repeat that last part.  The one about the Family Code.

All in all, my life is very colorful.  It starts out such a blank white canvas when my two feet get out of bed and I pad over toward the coffee machine, like the computer screen that is blank until my fingers find a way to fill the page.   I love the richness and hues and the depth of all these stories.  The fire and melancholy and stillness all run together like watercolors.  My life is full of light from any angle.  You could let it dry and hang it on a mantle, scratching your head and saying,

My, my. What a beautiful piece. 

Filed Under: Inspirational, Motherhood, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

Why Does God Demand Praise?

July 18, 2012 By

Lately, something has been tugging at my heart.  It’s the simple question of why God seeks out his own praise. The very idea that the ultimate creator, healer, and master of our souls has a need for his own people to fall down on their feet for His glory seems a bit preposterous.  Why the demand for it?  I understand that we should desire to worship God, but shouldn’t it just naturally flow from our hearts, like giving Christmas gifts or thrusting a dollar bill out our window to the homeless guy?

This singular thought, along with the absurdity that donuts come with sprinkles (they add no flavor/they are a distraction/what’s the point) have been taking over my brain.  Actually, the donut deal just entered into my head once, while praising God is a constant, in case you think I give God and donuts the same amount of mental energy.

But I needed to dive deeper into the issue of forced praise.  I wanted to bounce the logic around in my brain and get my fingers around the words.  Words that could be strung together into thoughts I could relate to and believe in. I don’t want to just pick the answer that sounds most logical.  I desire to seek truth.  So I went to Google, which is my go-to when trying to determine if a battery is still good or how to get my son to take a nap.

As it turns out, CS Lewis already addressed this issue.  But of course.  He creates magical worlds in closets where children eat Turkish delight and get conned by ice queens.  It’s only natural that he would have tackled this perplexity as well, and better than I could ever do.  But back to my own mental brainstorming, because we are on the topic of arrogance and all.

I devised the following possible reasons for why God demands praise.  They are:

(1)  He’s God, so let’s just not question things.  Wear your best bonnet to church and eat the fried chicken, for heaven’s sake.  K?  We’re good?

(2)  It’s like gravity – we can’t help but be drawn to worship (But why is God asking for it?)

(3)  Praise is pleasing to a parent’s ear (“I love you mommy!”  “This is the greatest beach vacation ever!”) because it shows that the child is living in joy, so God demands praise because He has a desire for us to live in joy (very close)

(4)  We need to submit our own ego and by praising God it’s the ultimate expression of humility. God knows this and thus demands praise for our own good.  (This just sounds patronizing)

(5)   “Demand” is a bit old fashioned.  It’s more like “God desires it.”  (Now I just feel like I’m making things up)

God doesn’t need to prove to anyone else his own self-worth.  Who would he need to prove it to?  There are no other gods, or deities, or higher powers greater than God himself.   But God is completely God-centered.  First he says you shall have no other gods before Him (Exodus).  Then Jesus walks in and says “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John).  Dude.  Every time you turn around you’re reading about how God wants to be recognized, respected, worshiped, honored, and revered.  Doesn’t he get enough praise?  I would like for my children to tell me I make the best meatloaf, but sometimes you just love them anyway without such high expectations.

We tend to align praise with compliments, such as “you sure are beautiful,” or “I really think you are a wonderful housekeeper,” or “I sure wish I could be more like you.”  These are praising statements, and no one should really ask for them because that’s just plain rude.  But if you tell me these things, I won’t exactly throw you out on the street.  I might just pour you more coffee and invite you over more often.

Think about the things you really love.  Praise comes escaping from your lips before you can even think about it.  As Lewis puts it, “the world rings with praise.”  Think about a book you recently read you just loved.  The words fell off the page like brilliant jewels, and the story captured you from the first page to the last.  You can’t wait to sing its praises.  You can barely stand not to talk about it, and refer your friends to it. “I think we delight to praise what we enjoy,” Lewis continues, “because the praise not merely expresses but completes the enjoyment; it is its appointed consummation. It is not out of compliment that lovers keep on telling one another how beautiful they are; the delight is incomplete till it is expressed. It is frustrating to have discovered a new author and not to be able to tell anyone how good he is; to come . . .upon some mountain valley of unexpected grandeur and then to have to keep silent . . . to hear a good joke and find no one to share it with. . .”

God is self-centered.  He has nothing to hide.  He has no errors to overcome or blemishes to patch.  He truly the center of the universe.  And God knows that not only do we come into communion with him through worship, but that the consummation of our relationship with Christ requires such praise.  Not if we want to.  Not if we have time, but all the time, every day, when the sun rises and the oak tree branches sway.  This is something God expects because he loves us so extremely, and so passionately, that he will seek us out through the cold depths of unbelief and sin.

Only by diving in full throttle, with our souls open, can we begin to comprehend such a love.  Such a bitter ache.  Such a bleed that did not come rushing out, but dripped out one drop at a time while salt was thrown on the wound.  Because through the sting, we begin to see what’s coming.  We feel the salve of his glory.  He is inviting us into his kingdom, and that is the very opposite of selfish.

I’m not sure why donuts have sprinkles, or why my children don’t stay in their own beds at night.  I don’t know what God’s ultimate plan is for my life or why I stay up until the wee morning hours pondering such things.  I only know that God is so glorious that it makes my heart want to rip apart in little shreds. I want for people to know of Him, and sing to the rafters, and dance with joy. I feel complete and full and happy. I suppose this is me, praising Him.

That God.  He’s a sneaky one.

Filed Under: Inspirational, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

Why well-check appointments make me feel like a bad mother

July 16, 2012 By

I dread well-check appointments.  It’s not that anything is wrong with my kids, but those darn visits make me feel like an inadequate mother.  But this year, I was prepared.

The American Academy of Pediatrics has a list of questions that my doctor uses to judge the overall health and well-being of a child.  They are good questions.  Based on solid evidence of what’s harmful to kids.  I’m all over it. No, I don’t keep a loaded gun around.  No, I don’t feed my kids fast-food burgers three times a week.  No, my kids don’t watch hours of television.  I’m really quite an all-star.  Did you see that one answer I jotted down about the excellent reading skills and vocabulary? I hand the form over to the bubbly little nurse.  Here ya go!  Here’s to high percentiles and healthy habits!

I’m not sure why I worry.  It’s not like they take your motherhood pin away if your kid eats nothing but noodles with butter. But still. 

This year, I prepped my daughter in advance.  In the car ride over, I subtly reminded her that she does eat carrots, corn, and roasted broccoli.   And if anyone asks, just say yes to bike helmets.  Just random conversation on a Monday morning.  Nothing to worry about.  She just looked at me like I had marker on my face.

Our pediatrician, who is warm and lovely and not at all judgmental, walked into the room and happily started up a conversation about life.  My daughter started off by explaining that Kindergarten was hard.  She talked too much and didn’t feel like following the rules all the time.  Typical stuff.  Her tone was so matter-of-fact.  Then she smiled and wiggled her front tooth.  I wanted to crawl under the table at the honesty.  Kids are like that.  We should take more lessons from them.

After lifting up my daughter’s arms and legs and peering inside her nose, the doctor started squeezing in the tricky questions.

“Does an adult watch you at all times by the pool?” the doctor asks.

“Well there was this one party where mom was just hanging out inside with a friend and I pretended to be a mermaid.”

That is totally not true!  I watch her like a crazy vulture!  As a matter of fact, I was apologizing to another mom because I couldn’t keep my eyes away from my six-year-old, who was only in the shallow end, with one other girl, twirling her hair around and sitting on an underwater bench laughing while I sat ten feet away inside the glass-covered patio.  I mumbled something to the doctor about that being a bit of an exaggeration, and that I’m always looking, and by that point she had just moved on.

“Do you drink lots of water and milk?” the doctor asks.

“Not much,” she says.  “Hardly ever, really.  I do drink chocolate milk.” I felt like kicking her under the table, but there wasn’t an under because she was sitting on top of it.   The doctor then gave my six-year-old a very nice lecture about how it’s really hot, and how important it is in the Texas heat to be well hydrated, and to drink cold water whenever she can.  This is crazy.  Can’t I just answer these questions, for crying out loud?

Finally, the doctor asked about my daughter’s diet.  It’s decent, with the exception of our one splurge – a Wendy’s baked potato.  When this little jewel is revealed, my doctor suggests I put steamed broccoli on top.  So helpful.  In between my two-year-old having a meltdown and trying to assuage my pounding headache, I’ll steam some.  Just so it will be pushed aside because it’s not roasted until it’s dark and crispy with sea salt and parmesan.  Because that’s the way I make it where it tastes good.  I’ve ruined her for life.

I’m left with the lingering feeling that I’m a horrible mother, that my child needs to take more vitamins and eat more green things, and she must triple her fluid intake or she’s going to shrivel up like a raisin.

Afterward, we head to lunch.  My daughter wanted a lemonade (no), a smoothie (again, no), and a ham sandwich with absolutely nothing on it but ham and cheese.   She refused to eat the sandwich because she wasn’t hungry and only drank water when I allowed her to put three lemons in it.

Later, when she’s starving to death (her words), I point to a shriveled up sandwich.  She frowned and said it was stepped on in the car by her brother.  I finally gave in and let her eat a baked potato for supper, covered with spoonfuls of tomato basil soup.  She sighs, sips on soup, nibbles at the potato, and tells me that she wants to go back to the way it used to be, when she can have a potato with sour cream and a side of apple juice.   I told her to drink more water.

My daughter is a very smart girl.  Eventually, she’ll figure out that the better she answers the questions at the doctor’s office, the better I will feel as a parent, and when we get home, I’m likely to make everyone chocolate-banana smoothies.

My daughter wears her bike helmet. She loves carrots, roasted broccoli, and corn.  She runs to grab a paper towel when someone makes a mess and cuddles up next to her baby brother to help him sleep.  Despite the water, or the lack thereof, we’re all good.  We are getting what we need.  In spite of my insane need to look like the perfect mother at the doctor’s office, I realize that I’m not that horrible after all.

Here’s a chocolate milk, kiddo.  Drink up. 

Filed Under: Embarrassing Moments, Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , ,

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