I sometimes have thoughts about my mother dropping dead.
A massive heart attack. Maybe a brain aneurysm. Perhaps she's diagnosed with one of the particularly icky kinds of cancer. The types that kill you in no time flat. These are relatively ridiculous thoughts because she's a healthy 56-year-old woman. She exercises more than I do. She eats well and I have no reason to suspect imminent death. Still, on occasion, I will suddenly think about what it would be like to answer the ringing phone only to hear the words on the other end of the phone that she's gone.
I don't even think I would understand the concept of putting one foot in front of the other, let alone have the capability of accomplishing the simple task of walking. I think breathing would feel the way it does when I'm nearing the end of a run--my lungs burning as though they are being stabbed by a red-hot pitch fork that was previously dipped in acid. Beyond the initial shock and pain, past the ugly grieving, would be the hours turning into days and, eventually, years without being able to pick up the phone and call her.
Because some kid did something funny.
Because I want to make sure I've got the ingredients right on a recipe.
Because I'm bored.
Because my right ovary is more than twice the size of the left one and WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN I AM PROBABLY DYING RIGHT QUICK. RIGHT?
Because I'd need her to say, "No, you're probably not dying."
Because someone hurt my feelings in ministry and DOESN'T THAT PERSON KNOW I AM DOING MY VERY BEST?
Because I need her to say, "Don't worry about it. You're doing your best. You're being a wife and a mom to little kids and working part time and leading ministry and that person needs to stop putting one more expectation on you."
Because I'll still lose sleep over it but at least I'll know that my mama's in my corner.
Because I spend a lot of time worrying about how I'm not something more. But the truth is, it was my mom who taught me--is teaching me--that it's okay to want my life's work to be about my children. It's okay to say that my career (or lack thereof) is not my legacy. My popularity is not my legacy. My children (and, more specifically, raising my children into godly men) are my legacy.
I have no earthly idea what I'd do without my mom. I would learn to put one foot in front of the other. I would, once again, resume normal breathing without pain. But someone would always, always be missing.
Thank you, Mom. Thank you for molding me, teaching me, loving me, accepting me, and being there for me. I am who I am today because of you. And while, on the outside, what I am may not look like much, I hope you're proud of your legacy.
Happy Mother's Day. I feel sorry for all the other kids because, clearly, I got the best.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Remodel
Dear World,
I was badly in need of a makeover. It had been, well, a really long time. It was kind of like how you girls will go days, weeks, maybe even months without shaving your legs during the wintertime because it's too stinkin' cold outside to wear any kind of clothing that would cause people to notice. Or kind of like when you're a new mom and you just wear the baby barf clothes out in public because what's the point of changing just to have the kid puke all over you again. Even though both of those examples would have caused your younger self to, maybe, break out in hives. Sometimes you just need to shave your legs and change into clothes that don't smell like vomit. And that's what needed to happen to me.
I needed new pictures.
New captions.
Some BUTTONS to click on, even.
Lori is, like, the LEAST techy person you know who is actually under the age of 70. It's sad. So even though it's not like I look GREAT now, please acknowledge that a change has been made because she tried really hard and she did it ALL BY HERSELF.
Also, she broke up with Disqus because she couldn't figure out why none of you (or very few, anyway) could comment. Maybe you just stopped commenting because she stopped being funny, poignant, relevant or important. Maybe you stopped reading altogether and I'm just talking to the cyber abyss. But if, by chance, you are still reading and if, by chance, you were one of the ones having problems commenting, could you say, "Hi! It works!" or "Don't expect me to ever comment again because your writing is slop." Because, see, there were some people who could still comment and it seems that those comments are trapped somewhere inside of Disqus. Someone is almost always really immature when break ups happen. Take Lori, for example. She once broke up with a guy who then borderline stalked her and hovered in the doorway of her biology class for an inhuman amount of time, causing even the professor to become uncomfortable. (Just to play devil's advocate for the sake of keeping it real, the two were slated to get married so it wasn't your every day, run of the mill, break up but still. That dude behaved like Disqus...is what I'm saying.) Disqus stole ALL THE COMMENTS and WON'T GIVE THEM BACK.
So. Since she lost comments AND doesn't know that there is any way to recover them AND doesn't even really know if breaking up with Disqus was the answer, it would be super nice of you to let her know. You can always email her at familyfishbowl.hotmail.com if it still doesn't work. Or you can tell her on Facebook. Or in person. Or over texting. Just throw her a bone, m'kay?
Don't be like the dog on Pirates of the Caribbean who, for half a century now, has been taunting those poor pirates with that rusty old key.
Signed,
The Blog
I was badly in need of a makeover. It had been, well, a really long time. It was kind of like how you girls will go days, weeks, maybe even months without shaving your legs during the wintertime because it's too stinkin' cold outside to wear any kind of clothing that would cause people to notice. Or kind of like when you're a new mom and you just wear the baby barf clothes out in public because what's the point of changing just to have the kid puke all over you again. Even though both of those examples would have caused your younger self to, maybe, break out in hives. Sometimes you just need to shave your legs and change into clothes that don't smell like vomit. And that's what needed to happen to me.
I needed new pictures.
New captions.
Some BUTTONS to click on, even.
Lori is, like, the LEAST techy person you know who is actually under the age of 70. It's sad. So even though it's not like I look GREAT now, please acknowledge that a change has been made because she tried really hard and she did it ALL BY HERSELF.
Also, she broke up with Disqus because she couldn't figure out why none of you (or very few, anyway) could comment. Maybe you just stopped commenting because she stopped being funny, poignant, relevant or important. Maybe you stopped reading altogether and I'm just talking to the cyber abyss. But if, by chance, you are still reading and if, by chance, you were one of the ones having problems commenting, could you say, "Hi! It works!" or "Don't expect me to ever comment again because your writing is slop." Because, see, there were some people who could still comment and it seems that those comments are trapped somewhere inside of Disqus. Someone is almost always really immature when break ups happen. Take Lori, for example. She once broke up with a guy who then borderline stalked her and hovered in the doorway of her biology class for an inhuman amount of time, causing even the professor to become uncomfortable. (Just to play devil's advocate for the sake of keeping it real, the two were slated to get married so it wasn't your every day, run of the mill, break up but still. That dude behaved like Disqus...is what I'm saying.) Disqus stole ALL THE COMMENTS and WON'T GIVE THEM BACK.
So. Since she lost comments AND doesn't know that there is any way to recover them AND doesn't even really know if breaking up with Disqus was the answer, it would be super nice of you to let her know. You can always email her at familyfishbowl.hotmail.com if it still doesn't work. Or you can tell her on Facebook. Or in person. Or over texting. Just throw her a bone, m'kay?
Don't be like the dog on Pirates of the Caribbean who, for half a century now, has been taunting those poor pirates with that rusty old key.
Signed,
The Blog
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Just a Boy
There are milestones in a child's life--learning to crawl, putting one front in front of the other, kindergarten, prom--that we wait for with (sometimes) eager anticipation. And then there are things we just didn't see coming. The changes they make when we aren't watching.
You mothers will understand.
You have a baby. He's small and helpless and hungry and wide awake when you want to be sound asleep. She's everything you ever imagined motherhood to be. Then, quite suddenly, he's one month old. Then she has a first birthday, a second, and so on. Still, as difficult as it is for you to believe that your baby has learned how to walk and run and use the potty without your help, these are milestones you expected.
I remember when both of my boys were nearly four. One day it suddenly occurred to me that they weren't babies anymore. I hadn't been counting their age in months for a couple of years but there is something about that toddler stage that just gets lumped together in my mind as a time when my children were very, very small. Then they turned four. I stopped thinking of them as babies--or fragile, small beings--and started thinking of them as little boys. It was a nostalgic, almost depressing realization. As much as I was looking forward to the next stage in their lives, I had to take a minute, in the middle of an otherwise busy day of chasing them around, to mourn the loss of the tiniest stage of their existence.
A couple of years went by. The youngest was still living in that sweet spot of toddlerhood while we held on to the last warm days of summer before we sent our oldest to kindergarten. It was a milestone I'd thought about and known was coming since I held that teeny newborn, fresh from my womb, in the arms that had longed to snuggle him since before I could really even remember.
Kindergarten ended and first grade started without fanfare. Honestly, I never thought about the fact that one day my kids would start first grade. In my mind, there would be kindergarten and then a bunch of years full of a lot of science projects and spelling words.
Really, relatively speaking, first grade has been fairly uneventful. (The grade itself, that is. The year has been a little crazy.) But there has been one major event that I will forever associate with the first grade. I imagine that, for a lot of parents, it happens in second grade. You see, I stupidly assumed that there was the toddler stage, then the little boy stage, then a few preteen years and then a time when I would lock my child in his bedroom and let him out on his eighteenth birthday.
I was wrong.
There is a definite difference between a little boy and whatever my child has become. I suppose we just call it Boy. No longer particularly little, no where near a preteen. Garrett is older than most of his classmates and so, for us, it happened in the first grade.
Suddenly, he exchanges knowing looks with me when Matthew does something silly/annoying/babyish/obnoxious/all of the above. He laughs at things I think should still be sailing over his head.
"Hey, Mom!" he said and when I waited for him to continue he whispered, "I know the F word."
I swallowed hard. "What is it?"
He lowered his voice so far it was almost inaudible. "Fank," he replied. And while I am perfectly happy with him thinking that a made up word is the actual F word, I also know that his proximity to the real word means he's heard it a time or two and somehow, inherently, knows it's bad.
He has intellectual conversations with us.
He perceives things now that he never would have noticed before. He expresses thoughts and ideas and feelings differently now than he did just eight months ago. Somehow, quite when I wasn't paying attention, he grew up. Not all the way up, certainly, but enough for me to notice.
He's lanky and he has two big teeth jutting out from his upper jaw. He is becoming whoever it is that he'll be. And so, really, when I look back, it will be the first grade that I remember when I think of the time that my little boy pressed on and became just a boy.
You mothers will understand.
You have a baby. He's small and helpless and hungry and wide awake when you want to be sound asleep. She's everything you ever imagined motherhood to be. Then, quite suddenly, he's one month old. Then she has a first birthday, a second, and so on. Still, as difficult as it is for you to believe that your baby has learned how to walk and run and use the potty without your help, these are milestones you expected.
I remember when both of my boys were nearly four. One day it suddenly occurred to me that they weren't babies anymore. I hadn't been counting their age in months for a couple of years but there is something about that toddler stage that just gets lumped together in my mind as a time when my children were very, very small. Then they turned four. I stopped thinking of them as babies--or fragile, small beings--and started thinking of them as little boys. It was a nostalgic, almost depressing realization. As much as I was looking forward to the next stage in their lives, I had to take a minute, in the middle of an otherwise busy day of chasing them around, to mourn the loss of the tiniest stage of their existence.
A couple of years went by. The youngest was still living in that sweet spot of toddlerhood while we held on to the last warm days of summer before we sent our oldest to kindergarten. It was a milestone I'd thought about and known was coming since I held that teeny newborn, fresh from my womb, in the arms that had longed to snuggle him since before I could really even remember.
Kindergarten ended and first grade started without fanfare. Honestly, I never thought about the fact that one day my kids would start first grade. In my mind, there would be kindergarten and then a bunch of years full of a lot of science projects and spelling words.
Really, relatively speaking, first grade has been fairly uneventful. (The grade itself, that is. The year has been a little crazy.) But there has been one major event that I will forever associate with the first grade. I imagine that, for a lot of parents, it happens in second grade. You see, I stupidly assumed that there was the toddler stage, then the little boy stage, then a few preteen years and then a time when I would lock my child in his bedroom and let him out on his eighteenth birthday.
I was wrong.
There is a definite difference between a little boy and whatever my child has become. I suppose we just call it Boy. No longer particularly little, no where near a preteen. Garrett is older than most of his classmates and so, for us, it happened in the first grade.
Suddenly, he exchanges knowing looks with me when Matthew does something silly/annoying/babyish/obnoxious/all of the above. He laughs at things I think should still be sailing over his head.
"Hey, Mom!" he said and when I waited for him to continue he whispered, "I know the F word."
I swallowed hard. "What is it?"
He lowered his voice so far it was almost inaudible. "Fank," he replied. And while I am perfectly happy with him thinking that a made up word is the actual F word, I also know that his proximity to the real word means he's heard it a time or two and somehow, inherently, knows it's bad.
He has intellectual conversations with us.
He perceives things now that he never would have noticed before. He expresses thoughts and ideas and feelings differently now than he did just eight months ago. Somehow, quite when I wasn't paying attention, he grew up. Not all the way up, certainly, but enough for me to notice.
He's lanky and he has two big teeth jutting out from his upper jaw. He is becoming whoever it is that he'll be. And so, really, when I look back, it will be the first grade that I remember when I think of the time that my little boy pressed on and became just a boy.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Extreme Substituting
At 5:30, bleary eyed and still half dreaming, I accepted a job for half a day of kindergarten. Ninety minutes later, I climbed into brown dressy/churchy/worky pants, a pink and brown business looking shirt, and brown slip on, loafer-style shoes. Trust me, the importance of the attire will be explained later. At 7:50 I waved goodbye to the child who was racing me down the street. (I, in my car. He, in his Vans--surfer hair flying as he ran, waving.)
At 8:00 I checked in and was informed that the teacher I claimed to be subbing for only taught in the afternoon. I immediately pulled out my phone to show the secretary that I was right. I can do that now. The increase in my cell phone bill proves it. Before I could even turn it on though, she was on her phone.
"Hello?" came the voice clearly through the receiver.
"Who is this?" asked the secretary.
"Christy," the voice replied. That was the first name of the person I was supposed to sub for. What that meant was still a mystery to me.
"Oh. You're here. There's a sub here and I just now remembered that you're going on a field trip today. Do you need her?"
Wha?
"Yes. I can't go. I was vomiting my brains out all night long. Send her down."
No! I'm so sorry. While I don't know what it's like to vomit one's brains out all night long, I am intimately acquainted with throwing one's stomach contents, all the bile there ever was, and possibly a spleen out all night and into the live long day. But I do not want to be sent down to catch (and thus experience) it again for myself.
The secretary hung up the phone. "Did you know you're going to the zoo?"
Yes, as a matter of fact, I always wear slip on loafer shoes to the zoo. I always wear dress pants. I always carry a large purse. And I leave my lunch at home because I think I'm going to be finished with this job by noon.
"I did not," I replied.
"Oh. Well. You're going to the zoo!"
I walked down the hall. "Hi," I said to the teacher who was sitting at her desk looking peakish in a red hoodie, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail. "I'm sorry you were throwing up all night." Because, you know, I genuinely was.
"You heard that?" she sounded mortified. "It just came on so suddenly. There's no way I can go to the zoo today. Oh. So. You're going on a field trip."
This was no longer news to me but was not, in fact, a thrilling piece of information. Being in charge of almost two dozen kindergartners ON A FIELD TRIP is not my idea of a good time. Add to that the fact that I would be wrangling kids I'd never met before IN BROWN SLIP ON SHOES AT THE ZOO and we had a recipe for disaster.
"Come over here and I'll explain everything," she said.
No. No. No. I will stand over here, a good, safe distance from ALL THE PLAGUE-LIKE THINGS YOU HAVE GOING ON OVER THERE. Just shout the directions to me from your desk. I'm fine where I am.
I walked to her anyway. I'm obedient like that. I tried not to breathe because, seriously, I doubt that woman's "up all night vomiting out brain matter and whatnot" has anything on me. I'VE LAID ON THE FLOOR OF AN AIRPLANE LAVATORY AND THROWN UP OVER INTERNATIONAL WATERS!
"Another teacher will be here. She teaches in the morning. I do the afternoon. You'll all meet in here. These parents are going," she handed me plague infested index cards which she referred to as Post-It notes but I knew it was just the lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of water talking. "Mark whoever is absent on this and send it to the office. Make sure each parent has the lunches for the kids they are responsible for. You'll do great. Have fun. Goodbye." She said a few more words, obviously, but that was the gist.
There should be a game show called Extreme Substituting because I would win ALL THE POINTS. And the bonus round. I mean, last year a kid took his pants off and today I was thrown into a river of demented piranhas and told to swim upstream. A COUPLE DOZEN KINDERGARTNERS. THE ZOO. AND ABOUT A FIVE MINUTE WARNING.
I had a brief daymare involving children being maimed by lions thus resulting in my being asked never to return to another substitute position ever again for the rest of my life. The bell rang, shaking me out of my horror story. I opened the door and welcomed the children in.
Except, as I soon learned, they weren't mine. They were the morning class. My kids stood outside for another five minutes. Parents looked bewildered. I tried taking roll with the wrong class. The other teacher finally came in.
"Hi! So everyone needs one of these," she handed me a bag of badges that proudly displayed the name of the school." While she called her own student's names, I attempted to figure out which parents belonged to my class. Turns out two of the parents I was supposed to have decided not to show up. I quickly started shifting names around on the VERY IMPORTANT LOOKING DOCUMENT. I called parents the wrong names after they'd told me half a dozen times. I thought the girl named Elliot was a boy with long hair. I finally managed to figure out which kids were absent and which were present and hand them off to their (re)designated parent.
"Should we take this with us?"
"Does he need that?"
"When we get there you need to take our zoo passes and our IDs and take care of getting all of us in."
"Can we switch? I know she would be happier with me and he'd be happier with his buddy."
I don't care. I so do not care. I am sure the teacher put a great deal of time and effort into these groups but I have never met them before in my life and I just do not care.
"Sure," I said. "Just let me change it on here." It's a good thing I'm a very organized individual who prides herself on not losing kids at the zoo. A lesser sub would have crumbled under the pressure and been found sucking her thumb under the flu infested desk. I'm not entirely sure why no one has handed me a teaching license yet. One of these days I'm sure I'll find it in the mail.
Dear Mrs. Doozleberry,
Here is your license. We know you do not have the proper schooling but, well, a kid took his pants off and then you had approximately thirty seconds to get organized for a field trip you didn't know you were taking. Enjoy your credential and the upgrade in pay.
Yours Truly,
The Utah Educator's Association (or whoever it is that gives those things out)
Once on the bus, the other teacher told me I needed to count noses. I cry-whispered under my breath, "But I don't know which noses are mine." Eventually, we tag teamed it and I was able to make sure that all of my kids had their noses accounted for.
At the zoo, I managed to get all the appropriate parents and students inside by handing several IDs and passes over to the nice zoo worker man guy. I even got the IDs back to their rightful owners. After that, I had almost three peaceful hours, chatting with the other teachers, walking around the zoo (in inappropriate shoes), and taking pictures of elephants to show my first grader. (Look what I did today--AND I GOT PAID!)
We made it back on the bus--every last one of us. No one was attacked by a bear, even. The parents were all really great and helpful. The kids had fun. And no one took his pants off. In case you're wondering, I pretty much measure the success of all days by whether or not someone takes off his pants.
Now all I have to do is sit back and wait to catch the flu.
At 8:00 I checked in and was informed that the teacher I claimed to be subbing for only taught in the afternoon. I immediately pulled out my phone to show the secretary that I was right. I can do that now. The increase in my cell phone bill proves it. Before I could even turn it on though, she was on her phone.
"Hello?" came the voice clearly through the receiver.
"Who is this?" asked the secretary.
"Christy," the voice replied. That was the first name of the person I was supposed to sub for. What that meant was still a mystery to me.
"Oh. You're here. There's a sub here and I just now remembered that you're going on a field trip today. Do you need her?"
Wha?
"Yes. I can't go. I was vomiting my brains out all night long. Send her down."
No! I'm so sorry. While I don't know what it's like to vomit one's brains out all night long, I am intimately acquainted with throwing one's stomach contents, all the bile there ever was, and possibly a spleen out all night and into the live long day. But I do not want to be sent down to catch (and thus experience) it again for myself.
The secretary hung up the phone. "Did you know you're going to the zoo?"
Yes, as a matter of fact, I always wear slip on loafer shoes to the zoo. I always wear dress pants. I always carry a large purse. And I leave my lunch at home because I think I'm going to be finished with this job by noon.
"I did not," I replied.
"Oh. Well. You're going to the zoo!"
I walked down the hall. "Hi," I said to the teacher who was sitting at her desk looking peakish in a red hoodie, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail. "I'm sorry you were throwing up all night." Because, you know, I genuinely was.
"You heard that?" she sounded mortified. "It just came on so suddenly. There's no way I can go to the zoo today. Oh. So. You're going on a field trip."
This was no longer news to me but was not, in fact, a thrilling piece of information. Being in charge of almost two dozen kindergartners ON A FIELD TRIP is not my idea of a good time. Add to that the fact that I would be wrangling kids I'd never met before IN BROWN SLIP ON SHOES AT THE ZOO and we had a recipe for disaster.
"Come over here and I'll explain everything," she said.
No. No. No. I will stand over here, a good, safe distance from ALL THE PLAGUE-LIKE THINGS YOU HAVE GOING ON OVER THERE. Just shout the directions to me from your desk. I'm fine where I am.
I walked to her anyway. I'm obedient like that. I tried not to breathe because, seriously, I doubt that woman's "up all night vomiting out brain matter and whatnot" has anything on me. I'VE LAID ON THE FLOOR OF AN AIRPLANE LAVATORY AND THROWN UP OVER INTERNATIONAL WATERS!
"Another teacher will be here. She teaches in the morning. I do the afternoon. You'll all meet in here. These parents are going," she handed me plague infested index cards which she referred to as Post-It notes but I knew it was just the lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of water talking. "Mark whoever is absent on this and send it to the office. Make sure each parent has the lunches for the kids they are responsible for. You'll do great. Have fun. Goodbye." She said a few more words, obviously, but that was the gist.
There should be a game show called Extreme Substituting because I would win ALL THE POINTS. And the bonus round. I mean, last year a kid took his pants off and today I was thrown into a river of demented piranhas and told to swim upstream. A COUPLE DOZEN KINDERGARTNERS. THE ZOO. AND ABOUT A FIVE MINUTE WARNING.
I had a brief daymare involving children being maimed by lions thus resulting in my being asked never to return to another substitute position ever again for the rest of my life. The bell rang, shaking me out of my horror story. I opened the door and welcomed the children in.
Except, as I soon learned, they weren't mine. They were the morning class. My kids stood outside for another five minutes. Parents looked bewildered. I tried taking roll with the wrong class. The other teacher finally came in.
"Hi! So everyone needs one of these," she handed me a bag of badges that proudly displayed the name of the school." While she called her own student's names, I attempted to figure out which parents belonged to my class. Turns out two of the parents I was supposed to have decided not to show up. I quickly started shifting names around on the VERY IMPORTANT LOOKING DOCUMENT. I called parents the wrong names after they'd told me half a dozen times. I thought the girl named Elliot was a boy with long hair. I finally managed to figure out which kids were absent and which were present and hand them off to their (re)designated parent.
"Should we take this with us?"
"Does he need that?"
"When we get there you need to take our zoo passes and our IDs and take care of getting all of us in."
"Can we switch? I know she would be happier with me and he'd be happier with his buddy."
I don't care. I so do not care. I am sure the teacher put a great deal of time and effort into these groups but I have never met them before in my life and I just do not care.
"Sure," I said. "Just let me change it on here." It's a good thing I'm a very organized individual who prides herself on not losing kids at the zoo. A lesser sub would have crumbled under the pressure and been found sucking her thumb under the flu infested desk. I'm not entirely sure why no one has handed me a teaching license yet. One of these days I'm sure I'll find it in the mail.
Dear Mrs. Doozleberry,
Here is your license. We know you do not have the proper schooling but, well, a kid took his pants off and then you had approximately thirty seconds to get organized for a field trip you didn't know you were taking. Enjoy your credential and the upgrade in pay.
Yours Truly,
The Utah Educator's Association (or whoever it is that gives those things out)
Once on the bus, the other teacher told me I needed to count noses. I cry-whispered under my breath, "But I don't know which noses are mine." Eventually, we tag teamed it and I was able to make sure that all of my kids had their noses accounted for.
At the zoo, I managed to get all the appropriate parents and students inside by handing several IDs and passes over to the nice zoo worker man guy. I even got the IDs back to their rightful owners. After that, I had almost three peaceful hours, chatting with the other teachers, walking around the zoo (in inappropriate shoes), and taking pictures of elephants to show my first grader. (Look what I did today--AND I GOT PAID!)
We made it back on the bus--every last one of us. No one was attacked by a bear, even. The parents were all really great and helpful. The kids had fun. And no one took his pants off. In case you're wondering, I pretty much measure the success of all days by whether or not someone takes off his pants.
Now all I have to do is sit back and wait to catch the flu.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Morning Jog of Death
I have a Netfriend (meaning I've never actually met her but we converse through email and Facebook) and she's a straight up hysterical blogger. I promise you that virtually nothing can happen during her day and she can still spin a trip to Starbucks into the funniest tale you've ever read. (Hi Tammy! You slay me. In a good way. Not in an actual death sort of way. Although, I imagine that if we faced off we could borrow our sons' Nerf swords and have quite the dual.) Anyway. Lately, I've sat down to write and thought to myself, "Self, nothing funny, poignant, or noteworthy happened today. Still, you should try to write something. WWTS?" (That's code for What Would Tammy Say because, y'all, Tammy would turn that Not-Much-of-a-Day into one good read.)
Today, I sat looking at my white screen, wondering what, if anything I could write about and then suddenly I thought to myself, HOW COULD I EVER FORGET, EVEN FOR ONE SECOND, THE FACT THAT I TUMBLED HEAD OVER FEET AND SPRAWLED OUT ON THE SIDEWALK FOR EVERYONE TO SEE? So now I've decided that funny stuff is more than likely happening to me on an hourly basis and perhaps some sort of early onset dementia is preventing me from remembering it by the time evening comes. Or smelly boys. They might be more to blame for my living on my very last brain cell than actual dementia.
Last year, Garrett ran track (stay with me, this isn't me giving a demonstration on how I'm down to just one living brain cell). He did really great once he shaped up. The first few practices though, they were brutal. He was holding his chest and crying and telling me he was dying and for a few seconds there, I thought my six-year-old was experiencing actual cardiac arrest. Alas, he just wasn't really in great running shape. It took a few weeks. Track starts again in two weeks and I've decided to help him get ready ahead of time, so those first few practices don't attempt murder on his young life.
We've been running around the block. It's a distance of not quite a mile.
It was a party this morning. There was Garrett, off in the lead. I brought up the rear with Matthew--who squeals in delight about how fun running is as long as we're going downhill but who sobs in great hysterics if there is so much as a slight incline--and the old and chubby and lazy golden retriever. Garrett got quite a bit ahead because, at the start of our run, our altitude increases by roughly twelve inches and Matthew was having none of it. He cried and carried on while I stood, jogging in place, reminding him that HE CHOSE TO RUN AND NOT RIDE HIS BIKE AND THEREFORE HE NEEDED TO PICK UP THE PACE AND TURN OFF THE TEARS BEFORE HIS BROTHER GOT SO FAR AHEAD OF US THAT WE NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN! This all happened in front of a man who was doing yard work and watching the scene unfold as though I was the very worst mother in the history of mothers and, yes, that includes Joan Crawford.
The slight incline evened out. Matthew stopped crying. We kept running. Garrett was a small dot on the horizon that I occasionally hollered at. "Great job! Keep going!" We ran along the busy street. Eventually, we turned the corner onto a less busy street (read: HALLELUJAH!) and kept jogging. Matthew was just a few feet behind me. The dog was beside me. Said canine kept having difficulty making up his mind. Did he want to be on the sidewalk or did he want to be on the street? Really, I think he wanted to be home, resting peacefully on the floor, gnawing on rawhide. As we ran along, he switched back and forth. Down onto the street. Up onto the sidewalk. Down onto the street.
And then it happened.
He hopped back up onto the sidewalk and somehow fate and the stars aligned and my lovably moronic dog put his right paw directly in my path. I saw it all happening in slow motion. The paw in my way. My foot crashing into it. The ground getting closer. Closer now. Ever closer.
It's been a long time since I've just fallen to the ground. I remember being little and seeing it all happening so slowly. Trying to right the body. Waiting for gravity to work it's magic. Wondering how it would hurt. Lemme just tell you. NOTHING CHANGES. That's exactly how it all happened. The only difference is I'm 32 now. I don't bounce.
Up and over the dog I went. He stopped abruptly--his neck being tethered to the leash in my hand, after all. I threw my hands out in front of me, landed hard on my right knee and hip, and skidded to a stop. "MOM!" the five-year-old behind me screamed, "Are you okay?"
"Beck! YOU IDIOT!" I yelled at the poor dog who was already sitting beside me with a look of shame. I instantly felt bad because, well, he's a dog. It's not as though he planned to cut me off--box me out, body slam me--just to see what kind of reaction he could get. I popped up almost instantly because as far as I'm concerned, the faster someone gets up after a humiliating fall, the more face they save.
My knee was skinned and bleeding. My hands were scraped. My hip was sore and welted (although I didn't discover the welting until I got home on account of the fact that I didn't think it would be a good idea to pull my pants down right there on the sidewalk). But my forearm got the worst of it.
This picture was taken about 12 hours after it happened. The photo DOES NOT do it justice. It just looks like a smallish scrape. I assure you that it is really A HORRIBLE, PAINFUL, WAR WOUND OF DEATH.
We ran on.
When we got back to the house, Garrett was waiting. "What took you so long?" he asked. I held up my arm. At that point, blood was dripping toward my wrist. "OH MY GOSH! WHAT HAPPENED?"
"The dog--" I started to say. But then Matthew shoved past me.
"It was like this. I saw the whole thing. Becky--well, Becky--he came up and he stuck his paw out like this," he demonstrated. "And then mom's foot hit Beck's paw like this," more action moves. "An THEN mom went like this..." Apparently, I acrobatically cartwheeled through the air, landed, with a thud, on my side, and proceeded to skid several feet. At least, that's how Matthew remembers it.
I'll take it. It sounds a lot better than, "My 32-year-old mother couldn't keep herself from falling when the dog cut her off." Additionally, I'm pretending that the structure of my knee hasn't possibly been compromised and that it doesn't hurt every time I take a step.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
An Open Letter to My Alma Mater *****Edited
Dear Point Loma Nazarene University,
In the last few moments, your budget cuts, previously unknown to me, have been brought to my attention and now permeate my thoughts. A simple Facebook message read, "PLNU Theatre grads. It's official. They are phasing out our major. We will no longer exist."
A lot of life has happened in these many years since I sat, boiling in black cap and gown, waiting to receive my degree on an uncharacteristically hot day in May eleven years ago. I don't agree with all the choices you've made, but I will continue to validate my experience because I believe, down to my very core, that I am who I am today--in large part--because of the four years I spent on your campus.
In those incredibly formative years, I gained significant head knowledge but, more than that, I learned about life. Those seemingly never ending years are now a mere spot on the radar of my past but, in them, I learned who it was that I wanted to be. As a result, I find myself passionately defensive of my education. I learned. I learned that my professors were right. They were wrong. And sometimes they were neither right nor wrong because it was often a matter of opinion. I learned discernment, when to keep my mouth shut and when to speak up. I learned how to live and grow and educate myself without my incredible parents by my side day in and day out. I learned about God. I studied His word. I took significant steps toward being the believer that I wanted to be. I will be ever thankful for all that Point Loma Nazarene University is to me.
It is because of all that that I grieve the decision you have made to phase out my major. I am deeply saddened by the information reported on your website. The truth of the matter is, I'm not using my theatre degree in the way it was intended. I'm not employed as an actor, director, or stage manager. I don't even work in a box office. I don't regularly consider the Laban Theory of Movement or implement professional make-up techniques on a daily basis. So if you're basing your decision on how many graduates are using their degrees for employment, I urge you not to look in my direction.
But I am using my theatre degree. I use it every single day in a vast array of areas.
I graduated from PLNU in May of 2003 and married my husband three months later. He was and still is a pastor. Having spent the past ten years as a pastor's wife, I have had countless opportunities to be front and center, including the many times I have shared from God's word at conferences and retreats. This skill was fine tuned through the art of being in front of people on stage in productions as well as through classes such as Acting I and II and Movement I and II. I taught drama in the Ramona Unified School District. At that time, I was using my degree for employment (using the knowledge I gained from classes including, but not limited to, Directing, Theatre History, and Stagecraft Techniques). I also used my acting training to effectively and comfortably communicate in the classroom. I now work as a substitute teacher, using my degree in much the same way. With substitute teaching comes the addition of applying my improvisational skills to interact in a variety of different classroom situations and disciplines as well as with students from kindergarten through 12th grade.
While not lucrative, I use the knowledge I gained under Paul Bassett at Point Loma's Salomon Theatre to write and direct church plays and participate in Vacation Bible School ministries. We do not always use our degrees for monetary gain. Sometimes, the Lord calls us to an area of study so that it will later benefit us in volunteer ministry.
From 2001-2003, I served as Salomon Theatre's Production Manager. This, along with stage managing, equipped me for a variety of different opportunities. I now plan conferences and retreats for our church. The theatrical managing disciplines taught me how to take an idea and turn it into an event by being mindful of each and every detail.
Truly, I cannot begin to tell you how often I use the knowledge I gained through the Theatre Department at Point Loma.
For so many of us, theatre is not just a hobby or a way to pass the time. I am deeply saddened that future students will not be able to experience the same education I did. To attend PLNU, gain a Christian education, and study theatre, was a dream come true. By making the decision to cut the major, you are choosing to send young students to secular drama programs when they would have preferred to study at a school that might have helped to reinforce their beliefs and values.Your website is quick to state that a theatre minor will still be offered and that PLNU will continue to stage plays. I trust that you understand what a terrible consolation prize that is. In a world that is so quick to cut the arts, areas in which humanity communicates its God-given condition, I would have expected more from a Christian institution.
As a side note, I am deeply concerned about the university's choice to phase out the Philosophy/Theology department. As my heart is bound to the theatre department, I am much more personally invested in your decision to cut it, but it confuses me that a religious school would do away with its theology department.
My heart is forever tied to the incredible education and experience that I received at your institution. I learned volumes about life...and about theatre. I made deep and continuing friendships. I made memories that will last a lifetime. I love Point Loma Nazarene University.
I love the theatre department. I am devastated that you have chosen to eliminate it. Truly, I wish that another choice could have been made.
***Edited to Add
A PLNU professor brought the following to my attention: The Phil/Theo decision affects only one small major within the School of Theology. The courses will be reorganized into major programs more appropriate to current student interests.
In the last few moments, your budget cuts, previously unknown to me, have been brought to my attention and now permeate my thoughts. A simple Facebook message read, "PLNU Theatre grads. It's official. They are phasing out our major. We will no longer exist."
A lot of life has happened in these many years since I sat, boiling in black cap and gown, waiting to receive my degree on an uncharacteristically hot day in May eleven years ago. I don't agree with all the choices you've made, but I will continue to validate my experience because I believe, down to my very core, that I am who I am today--in large part--because of the four years I spent on your campus.
In those incredibly formative years, I gained significant head knowledge but, more than that, I learned about life. Those seemingly never ending years are now a mere spot on the radar of my past but, in them, I learned who it was that I wanted to be. As a result, I find myself passionately defensive of my education. I learned. I learned that my professors were right. They were wrong. And sometimes they were neither right nor wrong because it was often a matter of opinion. I learned discernment, when to keep my mouth shut and when to speak up. I learned how to live and grow and educate myself without my incredible parents by my side day in and day out. I learned about God. I studied His word. I took significant steps toward being the believer that I wanted to be. I will be ever thankful for all that Point Loma Nazarene University is to me.
It is because of all that that I grieve the decision you have made to phase out my major. I am deeply saddened by the information reported on your website. The truth of the matter is, I'm not using my theatre degree in the way it was intended. I'm not employed as an actor, director, or stage manager. I don't even work in a box office. I don't regularly consider the Laban Theory of Movement or implement professional make-up techniques on a daily basis. So if you're basing your decision on how many graduates are using their degrees for employment, I urge you not to look in my direction.
But I am using my theatre degree. I use it every single day in a vast array of areas.
I graduated from PLNU in May of 2003 and married my husband three months later. He was and still is a pastor. Having spent the past ten years as a pastor's wife, I have had countless opportunities to be front and center, including the many times I have shared from God's word at conferences and retreats. This skill was fine tuned through the art of being in front of people on stage in productions as well as through classes such as Acting I and II and Movement I and II. I taught drama in the Ramona Unified School District. At that time, I was using my degree for employment (using the knowledge I gained from classes including, but not limited to, Directing, Theatre History, and Stagecraft Techniques). I also used my acting training to effectively and comfortably communicate in the classroom. I now work as a substitute teacher, using my degree in much the same way. With substitute teaching comes the addition of applying my improvisational skills to interact in a variety of different classroom situations and disciplines as well as with students from kindergarten through 12th grade.
While not lucrative, I use the knowledge I gained under Paul Bassett at Point Loma's Salomon Theatre to write and direct church plays and participate in Vacation Bible School ministries. We do not always use our degrees for monetary gain. Sometimes, the Lord calls us to an area of study so that it will later benefit us in volunteer ministry.
From 2001-2003, I served as Salomon Theatre's Production Manager. This, along with stage managing, equipped me for a variety of different opportunities. I now plan conferences and retreats for our church. The theatrical managing disciplines taught me how to take an idea and turn it into an event by being mindful of each and every detail.
Truly, I cannot begin to tell you how often I use the knowledge I gained through the Theatre Department at Point Loma.
For so many of us, theatre is not just a hobby or a way to pass the time. I am deeply saddened that future students will not be able to experience the same education I did. To attend PLNU, gain a Christian education, and study theatre, was a dream come true. By making the decision to cut the major, you are choosing to send young students to secular drama programs when they would have preferred to study at a school that might have helped to reinforce their beliefs and values.Your website is quick to state that a theatre minor will still be offered and that PLNU will continue to stage plays. I trust that you understand what a terrible consolation prize that is. In a world that is so quick to cut the arts, areas in which humanity communicates its God-given condition, I would have expected more from a Christian institution.
As a side note, I am deeply concerned about the university's choice to phase out the Philosophy/Theology department. As my heart is bound to the theatre department, I am much more personally invested in your decision to cut it, but it confuses me that a religious school would do away with its theology department.
My heart is forever tied to the incredible education and experience that I received at your institution. I learned volumes about life...and about theatre. I made deep and continuing friendships. I made memories that will last a lifetime. I love Point Loma Nazarene University.
I love the theatre department. I am devastated that you have chosen to eliminate it. Truly, I wish that another choice could have been made.
***Edited to Add
A PLNU professor brought the following to my attention: The Phil/Theo decision affects only one small major within the School of Theology. The courses will be reorganized into major programs more appropriate to current student interests.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Family
We lived in a small town when we first got married. It was the same town I'd grown up in, the same place my parents lived. His parents lived there too. His sister and her kids also called it home and, though my brother was attending school at UCSD, his permanent address was there, in that town. Every single one of my grandparents were within 40 minutes as well as all of my aunts, uncles, and six cousins.
My inlaws moved when Garrett was just a baby.
That started the ball rolling for us.
And when Garrett was sixteen months old, we packed up and moved to Utah. To this ministry. To this life.
It's been six and a half years.
Still, I fight the twinge of jealousy when I see extended families celebrating holidays together. Or hanging out after church on Sunday. Or moms and daughters getting coffee together.
I fight the twinge of jealousy when people--who have large amounts of family within ten minutes--say, "I don't have anyone to watch my kids." Because my parents and Troy's parents--and all our siblings, probably, would LEAP HIGH IN THE AIR WITH SHOUTS OF JUBILATION if they got the chance to watch my children.
We had Troy's parents here for a week. They left on Wednesday morning and my parents got here on Thursday. They stayed until today. Some people seemed to think it was crazy that we were going to have house guests for so long.
No. Not crazy.
Perfect.
We got to have our families here for TWO WEEKS. (My parents are coming back for two days after visiting Idaho for a bit so the fun isn't even over yet.) We GOT to have our families visiting us.
I always thought I'd be away from my family and, over time, the new normal would take over and I maybe wouldn't really miss them. That isn't true. My home is here. My life is here. My church family is here and my friends are here. Here is where we are.
But part of my heart will always and forever be there.
My inlaws moved when Garrett was just a baby.
That started the ball rolling for us.
And when Garrett was sixteen months old, we packed up and moved to Utah. To this ministry. To this life.
It's been six and a half years.
Still, I fight the twinge of jealousy when I see extended families celebrating holidays together. Or hanging out after church on Sunday. Or moms and daughters getting coffee together.
I fight the twinge of jealousy when people--who have large amounts of family within ten minutes--say, "I don't have anyone to watch my kids." Because my parents and Troy's parents--and all our siblings, probably, would LEAP HIGH IN THE AIR WITH SHOUTS OF JUBILATION if they got the chance to watch my children.
We had Troy's parents here for a week. They left on Wednesday morning and my parents got here on Thursday. They stayed until today. Some people seemed to think it was crazy that we were going to have house guests for so long.
No. Not crazy.
Perfect.
We got to have our families here for TWO WEEKS. (My parents are coming back for two days after visiting Idaho for a bit so the fun isn't even over yet.) We GOT to have our families visiting us.
I always thought I'd be away from my family and, over time, the new normal would take over and I maybe wouldn't really miss them. That isn't true. My home is here. My life is here. My church family is here and my friends are here. Here is where we are.
But part of my heart will always and forever be there.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
MRI
We got up really early on Wednesday and headed up to Primary Children's Hospital so that Garrett could have an MRI. He was AN AMAZING ANGEL CHILD the entire time. The nurses kept asking him if he wanted to stay to show the other kids how it's done.
First, he got the IV put into his hand like a CHAMPION. He never even flinched.
Then he got all snuggled down onto the bed, under warm covers.
They started the IV sedation and he just closed his eyes and went right to sleep.
He sniffed and wiggled a bit in his sleep when the nurse put the oxygen tube into his nose.
This looks so very much worse than it is. What it was was a very sleepy child getting an MRI. What it looks like is a very sick child being put into a space ship to be abducted by aliens.
When it was over, he popped right up, thrilled that one of his choices for fluids was root beer. Garrett's only allowed to have soda on VERY special occasions. Yes, sure son, sedated MRIs can fall into the category of special occasions.
Monday, April 21, 2014
God & Grey's
I have a confession to make.
I'm a long time Grey's Anatomy fan.
That is certainly not to say that I condone some of the things that happen on that show. It's not to say that I agree with all the choices that the characters make any more than I agree with all the choices my friends make or all the decisions I've made in my own life, for that matter.
I've been incredibly interested in how the show deals with Kepner's character, given that she professes to be a Christian. As the years passed and Sarah Drew (April Kepner) gained more screen time, I started wondering if Sarah is a Christian, in her real life. I came to the conclusion that one of three things had to be happening.
1. Sarah Drew is a Christian.
2. Sarah Drew is an incredible actress.
3. Someone on the writing team is either a Christian or just does a phenomenal job portraying the Christian experience.
It turns out that Sarah Drew is the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. She identifies herself as an evangelical Christian. (I also happen to think she's a pretty darn good actress.)
I was finally catching up on last week's Grey's Anatomy episode this afternoon. For those of you that don't watch the show, Kepner and Jackson Avery recently got married. The trouble is that Avery doesn't believe in God. The fact that he's smokin' hot doesn't change the fact that they're unequally yoked. It's causing problems, y'all.
In Thursday's episode, Kepner and Avery were both involved with a pediatric deaf patient whose parents didn't want her to receive cochlear implants. Avery was angry that the parents didn't choose to give their deaf child a chance to hear. Kepner argued that because the parents had decided against the implants, it didn't disqualify them as parents, or make them bad ones. One thing led to another in their argument and suddenly their faith (and lack of) became the center of the heated debate. The following incredible scene occurred. WATCH IT.
I love that scene. I love the way that Jesse Williams portrays Avery's feelings--he loves her but just can't understand how she could place her faith in a God that he's certain doesn't exist. I love how Sarah taps into the devastation that believers feel when we want nothing more than for our friends, family members, spouses and children to find the joy, acceptance, and eternal security that we have in the Lord Jesus Christ.
Ultimately, a light bulb exploded in my mind when I saw this scene. I'd never thought of this spiritual tug of war as a game of ridiculous versus pity with eternal implications. But, suddenly, there it was. I think the non-believers--the atheists and even the agnostics--look upon evangelical Christians with sadness over how ridiculous we are. Anyone who could be so silly as to believe such an absurd fairy tale is clearly nuts. Guess what? I get it. It sounds nuts. It's so much easier to believe in science and medicine. And I'm not saying that from a place of sarcasm. If you've never seen the glory of Christ, a gaseous explosion is certainly more believable.
But, then there are those of us who have been led to faith. We know true peace, indescribable joy, and everlasting love. I think, deep down, we feel sorry for the ones who haven't met our God. We ache and yearn for them to meet Him. We know that in seeing a sunset, the freckled nose of a child, or a flower on the verge of blooming, we have seen the glory of Christ. I know that I shy away from really sharing what I believe because I want so badly to love on people and not to frighten them away with all the JESUS FREAK and the THUMPITY THUMP OF MY BIBLE. I want them to see Christ in me and I want them to want what I have. Because what I have is glorious and it's absolutely free for the taking.
So what I don't say to everyone I meet, but what I know, is exactly what Sarah got to say on Primetime television. "This is who I am at my core. This defines me." This is what I happen to hold above everything else. This is my hope. Because without it, there is no moral absolute. Without it, I have a few fleeting moments of breath and then I just cease to exist. Without it, I have nothing. With it, I have everything.
Without it, my eyes are veiled.
With it, I see the image of God.
2 Corinthians 4:3-4 "And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel that displays the glory of Christ, who is the image of God."
I'm a long time Grey's Anatomy fan.
That is certainly not to say that I condone some of the things that happen on that show. It's not to say that I agree with all the choices that the characters make any more than I agree with all the choices my friends make or all the decisions I've made in my own life, for that matter.
I've been incredibly interested in how the show deals with Kepner's character, given that she professes to be a Christian. As the years passed and Sarah Drew (April Kepner) gained more screen time, I started wondering if Sarah is a Christian, in her real life. I came to the conclusion that one of three things had to be happening.
1. Sarah Drew is a Christian.
2. Sarah Drew is an incredible actress.
3. Someone on the writing team is either a Christian or just does a phenomenal job portraying the Christian experience.
It turns out that Sarah Drew is the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. She identifies herself as an evangelical Christian. (I also happen to think she's a pretty darn good actress.)
I was finally catching up on last week's Grey's Anatomy episode this afternoon. For those of you that don't watch the show, Kepner and Jackson Avery recently got married. The trouble is that Avery doesn't believe in God. The fact that he's smokin' hot doesn't change the fact that they're unequally yoked. It's causing problems, y'all.
In Thursday's episode, Kepner and Avery were both involved with a pediatric deaf patient whose parents didn't want her to receive cochlear implants. Avery was angry that the parents didn't choose to give their deaf child a chance to hear. Kepner argued that because the parents had decided against the implants, it didn't disqualify them as parents, or make them bad ones. One thing led to another in their argument and suddenly their faith (and lack of) became the center of the heated debate. The following incredible scene occurred. WATCH IT.
I love that scene. I love the way that Jesse Williams portrays Avery's feelings--he loves her but just can't understand how she could place her faith in a God that he's certain doesn't exist. I love how Sarah taps into the devastation that believers feel when we want nothing more than for our friends, family members, spouses and children to find the joy, acceptance, and eternal security that we have in the Lord Jesus Christ.
Ultimately, a light bulb exploded in my mind when I saw this scene. I'd never thought of this spiritual tug of war as a game of ridiculous versus pity with eternal implications. But, suddenly, there it was. I think the non-believers--the atheists and even the agnostics--look upon evangelical Christians with sadness over how ridiculous we are. Anyone who could be so silly as to believe such an absurd fairy tale is clearly nuts. Guess what? I get it. It sounds nuts. It's so much easier to believe in science and medicine. And I'm not saying that from a place of sarcasm. If you've never seen the glory of Christ, a gaseous explosion is certainly more believable.
But, then there are those of us who have been led to faith. We know true peace, indescribable joy, and everlasting love. I think, deep down, we feel sorry for the ones who haven't met our God. We ache and yearn for them to meet Him. We know that in seeing a sunset, the freckled nose of a child, or a flower on the verge of blooming, we have seen the glory of Christ. I know that I shy away from really sharing what I believe because I want so badly to love on people and not to frighten them away with all the JESUS FREAK and the THUMPITY THUMP OF MY BIBLE. I want them to see Christ in me and I want them to want what I have. Because what I have is glorious and it's absolutely free for the taking.
So what I don't say to everyone I meet, but what I know, is exactly what Sarah got to say on Primetime television. "This is who I am at my core. This defines me." This is what I happen to hold above everything else. This is my hope. Because without it, there is no moral absolute. Without it, I have a few fleeting moments of breath and then I just cease to exist. Without it, I have nothing. With it, I have everything.
Without it, my eyes are veiled.
With it, I see the image of God.
2 Corinthians 4:3-4 "And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel that displays the glory of Christ, who is the image of God."
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Jackpot
This guest post is brought to you by my husband, the love of my life, the man who puts up with all of my shenanigans. And lemme just say something right here and now. I tease this man mercilessly. I am sometimes driven straight up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the opposite wall by him. I promise he'd lose his very own head if it wasn't strapped down to the rest of his body by a conveniently placed spine and some ligaments in his neck. But if someone else says something about him, that individual had better retreat and do so quickly. Because he's my man and I love him something fierce.
*****************************************************
I was reading the boys their nightly Bible story. Tonight we read about how Solomon stopped worshiping only God and began to worship idols. When the story was over, I explained to Garrett and Matthew that the reason Solomon had stopped loving God was because he married many wives--most of whom did not love God.
I told them that someday, when they got older, they might want to get married and the most important thing was that the girl they wanted to marry loved Jesus. I began to list the characteristics that were less important than having a heart that loves God.
"You might like a girl who is very pretty, but loving God is more important than being pretty.
It is more important to marry a girl who loves God than to marry someone who is smart.
It is more important than if she is kind.
Loving God is more important than if she's funny.
Loving God is the most important thing of all."
The boys nodded as if understanding. "But Dad," Garrett suddenly interjected. "Mom is all those things."
"I know, Buddy," I answered. "Daddy hit the jackpot."
********************************************************
I don't know a whole lot. What I do know is relatively useless information involving stage directions, the Laban theory of movement, and Uta Hagen. But man. I know I love them.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Rabbits
While having a discussion this afternoon, I discovered that my oldest child had watched a video in class of the Velveteen Rabbit. This then prompted a conversation in which I sadly discovered that my youngest had never heard the story. I own the book but it stays in my own bookcase for safekeeping--instead of the case that the boys have constant access to.
Obviously, I had to remedy that problem.
During the part of the story where the rabbit gets taken out with the picture books to be burned, Matthew became outraged. "HE DOESN'T LOVE HIS RABBIT ANYMORE!" I was quick to defend the boy, making sure that my own son understood that it wasn't the boy's fault.
And, of course, when I read the very last line of the story, I had to project the words up and over the lump in my throat. It doesn't matter how many times I read that book, the last line gets me every time.
"Why, he looks just like my old Bunny that was lost when I had scarlet fever!"
But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real.
Obviously, I had to remedy that problem.
During the part of the story where the rabbit gets taken out with the picture books to be burned, Matthew became outraged. "HE DOESN'T LOVE HIS RABBIT ANYMORE!" I was quick to defend the boy, making sure that my own son understood that it wasn't the boy's fault.
And, of course, when I read the very last line of the story, I had to project the words up and over the lump in my throat. It doesn't matter how many times I read that book, the last line gets me every time.
"Why, he looks just like my old Bunny that was lost when I had scarlet fever!"
But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real.
Monday, April 14, 2014
It Changes the Meaning, Is All
My youngest son is voraciously devouring his Bob books. I mean, not at all literally. That would be a digestive nightmare. But he's reading them quickly and with wild abandon. Typically, he reads through one with little to no problems. But, alas, yesterday he came face to face with a book called Bow-Wow.
Bow-Wow is about two pet owners and their two dogs. One of the dogs bow-wows a lot and the other dog yip-yaps too often. The pet owners, Tim and Jan, tell their dogs to, "Shhhh! Sit!"
I feel like you already know where this is headed.
I explained the sound that comes when one reads the letters Shhhhh. He already knows his "th", "ch" and "sh" sounds so the lesson wasn't exactly a giant leap for mankind. He picked it right up. The problem was that his brain could simply not sound out the very easy, three letter word that followed. He had that shhhh stuck in his head already. So, at first, he read it, "Shhhh. Suh-ih-t," but then failed to repeat it as "Shhhh. Sit!" and instead said (you guessed it), "Sh-ih-t." But, seriously, it was totally and adorably phonetic like that.
As the book went on, he simply started recognizing the, "Shhhh! Sit!" as the word sh*t.
And. Listen. I tried to make it stop. I mean, I was laughing uncontrollably listening to him phonetically (and so innocently) continue to say sh*t. Finally, I said, "See, buddy, that word you keep saying, it's a naughty one." For some odd reason, my second born child is incredibly uptight about naughty words. In our house we don't even say pee, butt or fart because, apparently, we are Quakers. Or Puritans. Or nuns. But really because I just don't like the way they sound coming out of little people. I know, full well, that my high schoolers (heck, probably my third graders) are not going to walk around saying potty, bum and toot but it's been a good ride. Matthew always tells me when his friends say naughty words. And by that, he means that they said butt. So, when I told him that sh*t wasn't a nice word, he burst into tears.
"You're not in trouble," I explained. "You didn't know. It's just not a word we say." Then I explained to him how to read it correctly. We started over. When we got to the page where the first owner tells his dog to be quiet, Matthew boldly read.
"Sh*t, Tip."
"Sh*t, Jip."
Bow-Wow is about two pet owners and their two dogs. One of the dogs bow-wows a lot and the other dog yip-yaps too often. The pet owners, Tim and Jan, tell their dogs to, "Shhhh! Sit!"
I feel like you already know where this is headed.
I explained the sound that comes when one reads the letters Shhhhh. He already knows his "th", "ch" and "sh" sounds so the lesson wasn't exactly a giant leap for mankind. He picked it right up. The problem was that his brain could simply not sound out the very easy, three letter word that followed. He had that shhhh stuck in his head already. So, at first, he read it, "Shhhh. Suh-ih-t," but then failed to repeat it as "Shhhh. Sit!" and instead said (you guessed it), "Sh-ih-t." But, seriously, it was totally and adorably phonetic like that.
As the book went on, he simply started recognizing the, "Shhhh! Sit!" as the word sh*t.
And. Listen. I tried to make it stop. I mean, I was laughing uncontrollably listening to him phonetically (and so innocently) continue to say sh*t. Finally, I said, "See, buddy, that word you keep saying, it's a naughty one." For some odd reason, my second born child is incredibly uptight about naughty words. In our house we don't even say pee, butt or fart because, apparently, we are Quakers. Or Puritans. Or nuns. But really because I just don't like the way they sound coming out of little people. I know, full well, that my high schoolers (heck, probably my third graders) are not going to walk around saying potty, bum and toot but it's been a good ride. Matthew always tells me when his friends say naughty words. And by that, he means that they said butt. So, when I told him that sh*t wasn't a nice word, he burst into tears.
"You're not in trouble," I explained. "You didn't know. It's just not a word we say." Then I explained to him how to read it correctly. We started over. When we got to the page where the first owner tells his dog to be quiet, Matthew boldly read.
"Sh*t, Tip."
"Sh*t, Jip."
Friday, April 11, 2014
Collared Boy
I don't even quite know where to start.
If I started at the beginning, I'd probably have to say that back at the very end of December, Garrett had a substantial sledding accident. It involved him flying down a hill, gliding quickly on icy snow farther than he ever had, hitting the edge of a metal grate with his sled, spinning up into the air, and landing on the metal grate using only his head in an effort to slow down. He cried a lot. He had a goose egg. It went away.
If I started in the middle I'd say something about how he went to Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm and rode all manner of roller coasters. I'd also tell of how he wrestled for five weeks this past winter and won every single match. I'd explain that during these things, he complained that his neck hurt. He turned it and popped it and cracked it. We told him to stop doing those terrible sounding things. Some days he didn't complain at all. Some days he whined a lot. It was never more dramatic than when he was doing homework and wanted, instead, to be outside playing. Eventually, I took him to the doctor. Mostly to get him to stop complaining about what I assumed was just attributed to the way he was sleeping.
If I started at the end, the story would be long. I would tell of the pediatrician who examined him, declared him just fine, told him to stop popping his neck, and sent us for a handful of x-rays just to cover all of his bases. I'd tell of the technicians circling a spot on Garrett's scan and talking in hushed voices. I'd explain that, as I left, I felt a little anxious. And I'd tell you that on Tuesday night, exactly an hour and a half past the time we left the hospital, I missed a call from the pediatrician.
The x-rays revealed a skull fracture. The pediatrician was sending them to a neurosurgeon for consultation. I'd hear back from him by noon on Wednesday.
Except I didn't.
I called three times on Wednesday trying to get answers. He didn't have any. He hadn't heard from neuro.
I called on Thursday.
I got angrier and angrier that skull and fracture were being used in a sentence with my son's name but no one could get back to me. I annoyed the good people that work at our doctor's office. Finally, I left to pick Garrett--who hadn't been able to go to recess since I'd first heard the news--up from school. While I was gone, the doctor called. He reached my husband and told him that we needed to take Garrett to the ER for further testing. And so I did.
And we stayed there for five hours. To have two x-rays and an examination. He did his homework. He watched episodes of The Brady Bunch.
Then this happened.
He has a fracture on his skull but there is nothing they need to do about it. Apparently these things heal themselves over time. He also may have something wrong with a ligament in his neck. He has to wear the collar until he can have an MRI and be seen by a neurosurgeon. Only he was so embarrassed, traumatized and upset by the prospect of wearing the collar that he hid under the gurney for a full fifteen minutes. I eventually coaxed him out before they got there to fit him for it. When they walked in, he hid in the corner, kicking and screaming and refusing to come out. For those of you that know us in real life, let me explain to you that THIS IS GARRETT WE'RE TALKING ABOUT. Hiding in corners, kicking and screaming is pretty much par for the course in our every day lives with Matthew. (I'm exaggerating. A little.) But Garrett respects authority. He listens. He almost NEVER acts out in front of people. Which is why it took me by surprise that after the nurse and I wrangled him onto the bed, he then picked up the hard, plastic collar and chucked it right into the nurse's face.
He was mad as a cornered badger, that one. Of course, he got a swift and stern lecture from me. (And, eventually, he apologized to the nurse and she got him a popsicle.) Not that I'm in to making excuses for my kid but he was terrified and starving. It had been ten hours since he'd eaten anything.
Finally, around 9:30, we were discharged. Our first stop was McDonald's for a very late dinner which we scarfed in the car on our way home.
"Please don't make me go to school!" he sobbed.
A few minutes later he blurted out, "WAIT! TOMORROW IS SPORTS DAY!" Oh the power of spirit week. He desperately wanted to wear a hat to school.
"Well, it's up to you," I said because I wanted him to have some feeling of being in control of something.
"I just cannot decide. It's a hard choice."
We decided not to wake him this morning and just see what he thought he wanted to do when he woke up. At 7:15, he bolted upright (he was sleeping on our floor because sorry but you put your kid in that terrible brace and then see if they don't become the most pathetic, heart string pulling, get anything they want, kid you've ever seen). He immediately grabbed his clothes.
And off to school we went. No one made fun of him. Everyone wanted to know what happened. I stayed for twenty minutes to make sure he was okay. I told his teacher he could come home if he so much as mentioned it. He never did.
He has to wait until the 23 of April to have the MRI and see the neurosurgeon, but THANKFULLY my husband was persistent and contacted a nurse in pediatric neurosurgery who contacted a neurosurgeon who said he doesn't have to have it on ALL THE TIME. Only some of the time. Hallelujah!
We'll know more about how to proceed on the 23rd. Until then, we keep him down as much as possible. Which should be fun.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Bathrooms
My oldest has always been a little, shall we say, anxious about the night. He's the reason there's a nightlight in our hall. He's the one who has ended up in our room approximately 11,000,002 times in his life while his little brother has appeared on a total of four occasions. We worked through this in the preschool years by rewarding him for staying in his bed all night.
ALL NIGHT? HOORAY! YOU GET A DIME! NINE MORE OF THOSE BABIES AND YOU CAN PICK SOMETHING OUT AT THE DOLLAR STORE! Mama will even spring for the tax!
At one point he went a full two months and earned himself a betta fish. That was two and a half years ago and that betta is still going strong. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson back in college when my own, aptly named, betta, Moby Dick, lived FOREVER.
Garrett was doing just great with sleeping in his own bedroom all night long but then extended family trauma happened and it sent my kid into an anxiety filled downward spiral. You make a decision as a parent, after careful prayer, thought and discussion, what, exactly, to tell your kids. For Matthew, the answer was NOTHING. Too little.Too oblivious. For Garrett, the answer was HE KNOWS SOMETHING IS UP AND SOME INFORMATION WILL DO. Except. Just. No.
Because now my otherwise calm, cool and collected child screams, "Bye! Mom! BYE! I LOVE YOU!" no less than five times between his spot on the blacktop and the door to the school. Which is roughly 25 feet. He looks longingly at me. He runs back, sometimes, to throw his arms around me. His eyes well up. There was, at one point, a scene involving me attempting to pry his bony little fingers from the inside of the van, an angry dash into oncoming traffic and, eventually, him sprinting down the hall at school shrieking my name. (This is all getting better, mind you, and I've consulted a pediatrician and a child psychologist who both think that he's trending in the right direction and he'll escape all of this relatively unscathed. NOTHING happened to him so he just needs to process what everything means for all the people he cares about.)
In light of all this, however, he's taken a leap backward in his ability to stay in his own room all night. Most nights he's fine. But once or twice a week, he wakes up about the time I'm getting into bed and claims that he hasn't slept at all, he's so tired, and he must sleep in our room. Sometimes he crawls into bed with me and Troy carries him back to his own a half hour later.
Last night, he woke up. "I can't sleep!" he lamented despite the fact that he'd been asleep for hours. I scratched his back and told him he needed to stay in his own bed. That did it. He hysterically wailed and sobbed, moaned and howled until his brother woke up. I ushered the wailer into my room and, thankfully, I was able to quickly get Matthew back to sleep. Troy came in and we tried to get him to articulate his feelings. We've been doing a lot of that lately because communication and expressing how you feel about something is the only way that I know--aside from prayer and reading the word, of course--to properly heal.
"I'm just so tired!" he sobbed.
"Okay. How come you can sleep better in our room?" I asked him. I will not put words into his mouth or thoughts into his head but I was looking for because I'm afraid and I want you to reassure me that everything is going to be okay and I feel safer when I'm with you. Not that any seven-year-old, even one being raised in our incredibly-open-let's-talk-about-everything family, would be able to articulate his feelings that well.
"Because it's not as hot as my room!"
"Alright," I told him, still wishing he'd speak his true feelings, "you can stay in here and daddy and I will go sleep in the basement." He would NEVER, in his right mind, come find us in the blackened basement because he's terrified of the dark.
"Fine," he said. So Troy and I walked down the stairs and sat in our living room, staring up the stairs. Five minutes passed and that kid sprinted from our room back into his own, meow-crying like a lost kitten. We immediately went up.
Troy asked him, "Why did you get out of our bed? That's where you wanted to be."
"Because I'm scared of two things. The attic door..." he supplied. (There is an entry into the crawl space located in the boys room. The child is somehow convinced that something is going to come out of that space and get him in the night.) "And BATHROOMS!"
He couldn't possibly stay in our big bed all by himself. Not with that bathroom lurking so close by. It had nothing to do with the fact that we were no longer there to reassure him and keep him safe. No. Not at all. Troy stayed with him for a few minutes and then he was able to make it through the rest of the night in his own bed.
He used to be afraid of chickens. Now I guess we can add bathrooms to the list.
ALL NIGHT? HOORAY! YOU GET A DIME! NINE MORE OF THOSE BABIES AND YOU CAN PICK SOMETHING OUT AT THE DOLLAR STORE! Mama will even spring for the tax!
At one point he went a full two months and earned himself a betta fish. That was two and a half years ago and that betta is still going strong. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson back in college when my own, aptly named, betta, Moby Dick, lived FOREVER.
Garrett was doing just great with sleeping in his own bedroom all night long but then extended family trauma happened and it sent my kid into an anxiety filled downward spiral. You make a decision as a parent, after careful prayer, thought and discussion, what, exactly, to tell your kids. For Matthew, the answer was NOTHING. Too little.Too oblivious. For Garrett, the answer was HE KNOWS SOMETHING IS UP AND SOME INFORMATION WILL DO. Except. Just. No.
Because now my otherwise calm, cool and collected child screams, "Bye! Mom! BYE! I LOVE YOU!" no less than five times between his spot on the blacktop and the door to the school. Which is roughly 25 feet. He looks longingly at me. He runs back, sometimes, to throw his arms around me. His eyes well up. There was, at one point, a scene involving me attempting to pry his bony little fingers from the inside of the van, an angry dash into oncoming traffic and, eventually, him sprinting down the hall at school shrieking my name. (This is all getting better, mind you, and I've consulted a pediatrician and a child psychologist who both think that he's trending in the right direction and he'll escape all of this relatively unscathed. NOTHING happened to him so he just needs to process what everything means for all the people he cares about.)
In light of all this, however, he's taken a leap backward in his ability to stay in his own room all night. Most nights he's fine. But once or twice a week, he wakes up about the time I'm getting into bed and claims that he hasn't slept at all, he's so tired, and he must sleep in our room. Sometimes he crawls into bed with me and Troy carries him back to his own a half hour later.
Last night, he woke up. "I can't sleep!" he lamented despite the fact that he'd been asleep for hours. I scratched his back and told him he needed to stay in his own bed. That did it. He hysterically wailed and sobbed, moaned and howled until his brother woke up. I ushered the wailer into my room and, thankfully, I was able to quickly get Matthew back to sleep. Troy came in and we tried to get him to articulate his feelings. We've been doing a lot of that lately because communication and expressing how you feel about something is the only way that I know--aside from prayer and reading the word, of course--to properly heal.
"I'm just so tired!" he sobbed.
"Okay. How come you can sleep better in our room?" I asked him. I will not put words into his mouth or thoughts into his head but I was looking for because I'm afraid and I want you to reassure me that everything is going to be okay and I feel safer when I'm with you. Not that any seven-year-old, even one being raised in our incredibly-open-let's-talk-about-everything family, would be able to articulate his feelings that well.
"Because it's not as hot as my room!"
"Alright," I told him, still wishing he'd speak his true feelings, "you can stay in here and daddy and I will go sleep in the basement." He would NEVER, in his right mind, come find us in the blackened basement because he's terrified of the dark.
"Fine," he said. So Troy and I walked down the stairs and sat in our living room, staring up the stairs. Five minutes passed and that kid sprinted from our room back into his own, meow-crying like a lost kitten. We immediately went up.
Troy asked him, "Why did you get out of our bed? That's where you wanted to be."
"Because I'm scared of two things. The attic door..." he supplied. (There is an entry into the crawl space located in the boys room. The child is somehow convinced that something is going to come out of that space and get him in the night.) "And BATHROOMS!"
He couldn't possibly stay in our big bed all by himself. Not with that bathroom lurking so close by. It had nothing to do with the fact that we were no longer there to reassure him and keep him safe. No. Not at all. Troy stayed with him for a few minutes and then he was able to make it through the rest of the night in his own bed.
He used to be afraid of chickens. Now I guess we can add bathrooms to the list.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Hick
Not long ago, we were out to lunch. Garrett asked me if he could have Hick to drink.
"I'm sorry, what?" I asked him.
"Can I have hick?" he repeated.
"HICK?" I questioned, looking at Troy. He shook his head slowly and raised his shoulders slightly, as if to say, Your guess is as good as mine.
"HICK. Yes!" Garrett said again.
"Oh," Troy said. "He means Hi C."
Reminds me of the time, as a child, when I didn't know that lbs was an abbreviation for pounds and pronounced it lilbles. Why I didn't just say libs, I'll never know.
"I'm sorry, what?" I asked him.
"Can I have hick?" he repeated.
"HICK?" I questioned, looking at Troy. He shook his head slowly and raised his shoulders slightly, as if to say, Your guess is as good as mine.
"HICK. Yes!" Garrett said again.
"Oh," Troy said. "He means Hi C."
Reminds me of the time, as a child, when I didn't know that lbs was an abbreviation for pounds and pronounced it lilbles. Why I didn't just say libs, I'll never know.
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