Certified Awesome

The Homeschool Thing...

2012-02-20T15:11:00.000-08:00

When we made the decision to homeschool Sissy, Luke wrote a great blog about it. When we pulled Bubba out of school after only two months of Kinder, I doubt anyone was surprised. Over the past few weeks, I have been inundated with reminders of why I have made this choice, but I admit, I am reticent to talk about it.

When you homeschool your kids, there are some pretty typical responses. First, everyone assumes you must be a religious nut. Well, I am. But I am a religious nut of the "Christian Left, I Have a Degree in Religion" variety. Not the, "Public Schools are Havens of the Godless" variety. I wear holey jeans and shirts that probably show too much cleavage, not ankle length denim skirts and Winnie the Pooh sweatshirts. I'm a little more black leather boots and a little less Keds, over here. So, if I am going to talk about homeschool, I first and foremost have to dispel any notions that the decision was of a religious nature.

Second, apparently deciding to homeschool my kids means I think everyone should. Understand, I don't really give a shit what you do with your kids. Unless you're starting up a new Jonestown and want your kids to drink the Koolaid, your choices for raising your kids are your own. Also, my husband is a public school teacher, so please, for the love of GOD, keep sending your kids to school. It pays my rent.

Finally, when I talk about why we chose to pull Sissy out of school, and it has to do with her intelligence, I am not implying, in any way, that your kids are dumb. I do not believe that the public schools are a place where stupid kids go to die a slow, educationless death. So, if I am talking to you about why public schools didn't work for us, please don't get defensive and start telling me that your kid is fine and they do quite well in this system...blah, blah, blah. Please see above. I don't really give a shit about your kid.

I say this in all love and respect, because, honestly, I don't have to raise your kids or live in your house, or make your choices. Your kid loves public school? Great. You think it's socially necessary for kids to be surrounded by their peers all day? Good. You think my kid will only ever learn to cope with her anxiety by putting her back into public schools? STFU. Because now you're talking about MY kid. See how that works?

Now, with all that out of the way... Let's talk about why I homeschool. This is Sissy.

She looks like Dakota Fanning.

She is also wicked, wicked smart. I don't mean that in a "I'm her mom and so I think she's special" kind of way. I mean she's smarter than me. She may not have my life experience, but I guarantee her IQ is higher than mine. She retains information in a way that is, frankly, freaky. She also learns like a sponge. Things just...make sense to her. If they don't, she asks pertinent questions and there's no looking back. She turned seven last September, and she's doing multi-digit multiplication, has read almost every book Roald Dahl ever wrote, can tell you about the root system of vascular plants, and spent an evening last week discussing with me why Muslim women wear the hijab. She finished that conversation by saying, "I don't think that women ought to be treated differently than men, but I know we need to respect everyone's religious choices and freedoms." For real. She said that. If she went to public school, she'd be in first grade.

We sent her to Kindergarten, with some reservations. I knew she was too smart for her own good, but I didn't know what was in store.

Sissy has a diagnosed anxiety disorder. Midway through Kindergarten at our local PS, I was getting calls from the school nurse weekly, sometimes daily, because Sis was vomiting and complaining of chest pains. She was also getting bullied. In PE and at recess, a group of boys would target her and throw dodge balls at her. And she was six and this was Kindergarten. Wasn't I anxious to see what fresh hell awaited us in, say, middle school? In a meeting with the principal and the school psychologist, the principal, in reference to the ring leader of the bully boys, said, "Oh, he doesn't mean any harm. He's just all boy." It wasn't cool.

Academically, her teacher was doing all she could. She was trying to differentiate Sis's curriculum, but I know her plate was full with the nineteen other kids who also needed and deserved her attention. The fact that my girl was ahead wasn't a priority. We were relieved and excited when the GT testing was finally administered. The test was a three part process. ITBS, CoGAT and a Creative Product Assessment. Sissy got a 99% on her ITBS (that's nigh on perfect, as that means she scored better than 99% of kids taking the test). The teacher who administered the test told me (although she wasn't supposed to), that Sis scored higher on the CoGAT and the creative portion than any child she had ever tested. And the reward? One hour of GT, once a week.

Really?! REALLY?!

And now I am going to say some things that will probably not sit well with everyone and cause controversy, and are the reason why I often don't talk about why my kids aren't in the public schools. Thanks to IDEA, if a child has serious emotional disturbance, learning disabilities, mental retardation, traumatic brain injury, autism, vision and hearing impairments, physical disabilities, or other health impairments schools are required to provide special education programming, make accommodations, etc. As the daughter of a Special Education teacher, I am glad these provisions are in place, and I actually think they need to be better enforced. However, as you can see, there are no special accommodations for children who are performing above average. Technically, the Gifted and Talented programs for most schools fall under special services/special education, but they are not privy to the same enforcement as traditional special education. Imagine, if you would that you have a child with disabilities (maybe you do, so imagination is not required), and your child was evaluated by his school and were decidedly "different" (in learning style, needs, etc.) from the average student. Now imagine that the school told you that for one hour, once a week, those needs would be accommodated, but the rest of the time, your child would be in the classroom with everyone else, and if the teacher "could," they would make some differentiated curriculum. Because that was my option. (I know that there is a lot of push for mainstreaming SpEd students, and I think that works well in some situations.) But imagine if your child was mainstreamed because there was NO OTHER real course of action. Sis would be mainstreamed because the schools do not recognize her as SpEd, despite her actual educational needs. Children (or adults) with incredibly high IQ's do not learn on the same level as we Average Joes. She is not a linear thinker. Where most/a lot of people must be encouraged to think "outside the box," Sissy has to be directed to the inside. GT IS SPECIAL EDUCATION! At least, it should be.

So let's say that we embraced GT as SpEd and created classrooms specifically for advanced learners. It wouldn't work. You know why? Because that would mean one thing: Some kids are better at the school thing than others. And we don't ever want to admit that not everyone is equally smart, equally talented, equally awesome in every single, everloving way. And that's some bullshit. Yes, some kids are smarter. That's all there is to it. And I am sorry if that gets everybody's molly-coddling panties in a wad, but I am one of those moms. I don't think everyone should get a trophy. I think it's okay to grade in red ink. I think it's okay to say, "That's not really your strength." instead of "Aren't you good at everything!" I correct my kids' grammar and vocabulary. And I am sorry about this, but for some of you reading this? My kid is smarter than your kid, and she deserves the chance to exercise that talent, just the same as your kid has the right to kick her ass at soccer (she's not so good at that). On the Progress Reports the school district sends home for Kinder students, there are only two categories: Needs Improvement and At or Above Average. See that? There is no actual category for Above Average. Like we can't say out loud that a child is actually excelling at something. Ummm...this makes me angry. Because anger is a natural response to that which we do not understand.

Which leads me back to the point...

On Sissy's mid-year Progress Report, she had two "Needs Improvements." One of the categories she needed to improve was something like "Recognizes the Properties of Water." First of all, what properties of water should a kindergartner know, aside from maybe "It's Wet."? And what about that was my kid not understanding. So, I asked her teacher about it... Maybe I needed to work harder to show Sissy that water is wet. And you know what I found out? In so many words, the teacher told me that they weren't encouraged to give perfect progress reports. "It's believed that there always need to be areas for improvement." Okay. I will give. I agree that there are always ways in which our kids need to be challenged and improving. But just saying, without exception, that a child can't be "At or Above Average" in all areas is stupid. If a child is average, then they can strive to be above average... oh wait, above average isn't an option.

Now, I have my own theories about why it isn't an option to be above average. And a lot of them have to do with improving grade level test scores, but they've led me to believe it is "in my child's best interest" that she not advance. At every turn while we were working with the counselors, psychologists, principals, etc. we were told that "socially" it is never a good idea to have a child skip a grade. Apparently, if your child gets too far ahead (and this includes differentiated classroom curriculum), it will cause social issues for them. This has a very "hide your smarts" sort of ring to it. People are uncomfortable with people who are smarter than them, and if your kid is too smart, and working ahead, it will make them "different" and it will be harder to socialize. Once again, I want to compare this to a SpEd student. Can you imagine if the school told you that if you acknowledge your child has Autism, it will cause problems, and they will be even more socially isolated. let's just continue to let them exist in this classroom, doing what everyone else is doing, and then kids will like them more. OR, since your Autistic child doesn't have the same social skills as other kids in fourth grade, we are going to put him back in Kindergarten until he learns basic social skills. Ummm, no. That would never work. Because primarily, our schools should be about academics, and not socialization. See, my kids are homeschooled...and right now? They are outside SOCIALIZING (quite well, I might add), with about a dozen other kids on our street. Because school is not etiquette class. Yes, we need to learn to share and wait our turn and play well with others, but when that starts trumping math and science and reading, there's a problem.

BUT, I would be willing to put H back in the PS if she could go into a grade level appropriate for her skill level (and if they would/could make accommodations for her unique learning style), but it's almost impossible to skip her ahead. In order to move ahead, we have the option to let Sis take Credit By Examination. These are tests created by UT and/or Texas Tech to determine if children have mastered the necessary material to move on. These tests are a crock of shit. Wanna know why? First, they must be passed with at least a 90%. Imagine, if your child could only move on, in any grade, if they had straight A's. because that's what this is. A 90% or better in every content area to skip a grade. So, if I wanted Sis to go to third grade next year, she would have to prove that she is already smarter than 90% of the other kids in that grade level. Awesome (and not helpful). Second reason these tests are shit? The "online study guide" is really just a rewriting of the Texas State Standards (which are generic nonsense...trust me...I had to try and write homsechool curriculum based on that nonsense). After the generic nonsense, they offer 3 or 4 sample questions. I would like to show you some examples of these sample questions:

Second Grade Social Science Question:

You just had an old tree die in your yard. Since trees are a renewable natural resource,
what should you do?
A Write a story about what happened
B Ask for a new pet to replace the tree
C Build a chair out of the tree’s wood
D Plant a new tree to replace the old on

Second Grade Math Question
What is the name of the shape below?

a. Cube
b. Cylinder
c. Sphere
d. Rectangular prism

Second Grade Language Arts Question:

What do you need to add to make the word church mean more than one?

A ing

B es

C s

D e

Okay...one at a time here. I could be totally wrong, but I am pretty sure if I walked into just about ANY second grade classroom in the state of Texas and asked them about "renewable resources", they would all stare at me in confusion. I am also pretty sure that if I took the picture of that geometric shape into most EIGHTH grade classrooms, they couldn't identify the RECTANGULAR PRISM (because that was the answer)! And finally, could they have found a more convoluted way to pose that final question? I had to read it twice. Why doesn't it say "What is the plural form of church?" or 'What would you add to the word church to make it plural?"
The test is designed for my kid to fail.
Awesome.
Assholes.
Lastly, despite this test being written and administered by major universities in Texas, our district requires it be administered here, by one of their test facilitators. And that feels shady to me. I would much rather have a neutral, third party facilitator give the test, rather than the district who stands to lose/gain based on my child's performance.

So to test my kid into a higher grade seems almost impossible, but even if she could pass that shady, effed up test, a "district official" must recommend her for advancement. And this district doesn't like kids to advance...because of "social" reasons (read, test scores).

So... My kiddo didn't return to the public schools, and probably won't. She came home to work with me. And we have great fun. Bubba started K this last fall, and we really thought maybe it would work for him. But too many days he came home stating he was bored and "didn't learn anything" today. He's reading chapter books, but his school work was matching a picture of a firetruck to a picture of a fireman. My two-year-old can do that. And I am not trying to be shitty, but that just wasn't good enough. So, he's home now, too.

We have a tremendous amount of fun. Honestly? Some days we do nothing at all. Because some times kids are cranky and out of sorts, and battling them to do math isn't worth it. So we watch Jeff Corwin. Some days we just paint. Last week, we dedicated two whole days to the study of nouns in all their forms. My six and seven year-olds can tell you about irregular pronouns. Today, we planted a kitchen garden with herbs and tomatoes and strawberries. We talked about leaves and stems and crap like that. We do what we want, on their level. One day at a time. And they play soccer and baseball and go to church (cough sometimes cough) and play outside, and all that "socialization" which prevented them from moving forward in public school just doesn't seem to be an issue.

And that's why I homeschool. And I just wanted to put that out there because people always seem to have a lot of questions. I stayed silent for a while because it's a touchy subject, and is a pretty heavy and personal decision. But, I thought I'd venture to share my side. Please, be kind.

Your Daily Affirmation

2012-02-11T20:32:00.000-08:00

It recently occurred to me that I needed a sensible set of daily affirmations, tailored to my life. But most daily affirmations are stupid. They're all about how to be successful and not giving up or other such nonsense. I needed something personal. Specifics. Mom affirmations. Wife affirmations. Woman affirmations.

So I have began compiling a list of things I think every woman needs to hear, from time to time, or every day. I imagine them being read with gentle authority. So, maybe you could hear them as read by Sam Waterston.

Sam says:

When you eat Nutella straight from the jar, with your finger, not even bothering with a spoon, that's sexy.

Perky breasts are intimidating, not attractive.

You are bringing the female mustache to the forefront of high fashion.

Bloated is the new black.

Yoga pants are sexier than skinny jeans, hands down. And paired with that old ratty t-shirt? Hell, yeah.

You make a minivan look hip.

Peeing with the door open is just a sign that you are secure with your own body.

Your stretch marks remind me of a topographical map. Have I mentioned how hot geography is?

The smell of poop and baby vomit can create a truly feral response in any man. That's pheromones, baby.

Seeing boxes of tampons in the bathroom just remind me that you're a woman. I like women.

Everyone appreciates you. And if they don't? I will cut them.

You didn't comb your hair today? I didn't notice.

You're much smarter than you were at eighteen, and just as hot. No. Hotter.

I love to eat macaroni and cheese with cut up hotdogs. If you made it, it's good.

If you need a nap today, you should take it. You work hard.

The skin on your arm where the triceps would normally be? I like it. Muscular women don't seem as luscious as you.

You look great in that tank top. No one is staring at your matronly arms.

When you wear shorts, no one notices your cellulite and spider veins because the beauty of your face, and your inner light, blinds them.

Don't tell anyone, but I think you're a better mom than all the others.

Body odor in normal. Yours smells like roses and rainbows.

I like my laundry a little wrinkled. It's bohemian chic.

The way you've pulled your toenail off instead of clipping it? And the six month old chipped polish on it? I like that. Who needs a high maintenance woman?

Those grey hairs make you look smart, and dignified, like a cougar with class.

When you lose your shit, and yell at the kids, and little bits of spittle come out of your mouth and your eyes get all crazy? It reminds me that I love a fiery woman.

If a supermodel hit on your husband, you could kick her ass. Because she'd be too hungry to fight back.

I intend to continue compiling this list. Updating weekly with new affirmations. Please, feel free to suggest your own. But for now, I think we can all say:

Thanks, Sam. Thanks a lot. I needed to hear that.

I Am Woman, I Am Gross

2012-02-02T17:31:00.000-08:00

The other day, I read the most delightful blog from The Bearded Iris about having appreciation for your period. That fantastic gem can be found here. It got me thinking. First, let me congratulate her for being witty and clever and all together funny when talking about something that most women hate. I, for example, may have sent my husband a text this morning which said, "I want to punch my uterus and ovaries." Which also got me thinking...

As a general rule, women will say almost anything to one another. We will talk at great length about periods, tampons, poop, vomit, secretions, sperm, odors, the wet spot, hair, boogers, men, children, other women, ourselves... I actually know very few women for whom there are truly taboo topics when it is just the girls. Now, with the wonderful invention of texting, Twitter and Facebook, we can say all these things without ever looking anyone in the eye! The level of gross discourse has now taken an even greater turn because there is no fear of immediate recrimination should I say something really, really inappropriate. If there's a raised eyebrow, I never have to see it! Maybe there's a delayed response, or no response at all, but I can always pretend you got really engrossed in watching your kid twirl around in circles and forgot to respond. So I took these two wonderful bits of gleaned info: Women talk about everything and Women talk even more in text, and started going through my phone and my Facebook. I won't use anyone's names here (because you know who you are), but after looking through this, I did decide I have the coolest friends. Here is a list of the most recent gems I've seen print:

"I'm starting to really feel my uterus revolt."
"The fun thing about nasty poopy mess with kids is that no matter how hard you try, it will get on you. Enjoy that!"
"I've eaten so many beets the past few days, my shit is bright red."
"Text me if you get diarrhea tomorrow!"
"Those babies ruined your vagina."
"Yeah, I don't let molestation take place on my watch.
"Today I actually said, "I'm gonna rip your head off," and scared the crap out of her b/c she thought I could actually rip her head off."
"His vasectomy incision got infected and one of his balls is HUGE."
"I have big tits!! Yay me!!"
"Well, it's less than a fuckton, but more than an assload." (this was in reference to buying fabric)
"You're a cruel and unusual mother. Hahahahaha!"
"I peed my pants every time I sneezed, so when I read about the procedure in the paper, I had it done."
"I think it looks like an infection."
""I need to get drunk because everyone here is vomiting."
"Nope. We haven't done it in over a month."

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. And by tip of the iceberg, I mean I got a new phone three weeks ago, and these were all on there...and that's just the friends who text or message me most often. And honestly, that's not all the raunchy things I have said back to them. And you know, I am going to be comfortable with and perhaps even embrace this openness. Blog about my period? Sure. Text my friend about my diarrhea? Yep. Share people's personal texts and messages in a blog? Done.

Thanks for keeping it classy, my friends.

Christ in Christmas

2011-12-02T14:07:00.000-08:00

So, this is an awesome hot topic right now. I've posted on the Facebook about it (twice), Facebook argued about it, discussed it in person with a handful of folks, read numerous blogs (including the Lovely Leia found here and THIS ONE) and finally decided I would just sit and write a spell about it.

So this all begins with an email I received not long ago stating that I should boycott businesses that didn't have a Merry Christmas sign, but opted for the "PC" Happy Holidays. Then I have just been inundated with Facebook statuses demanding that Christians take back THEIR HOLIDAY. Many of these posts use the holy name of Christ over and over, all the while giving off a rather angry and entitled vibe.

So let's talk about all this anger regarding taking Christ out of Christmas. The sentiment gives me pause to think...twice. First, Christ's last commandment was to go and make disciples. I really wonder how many disciples we are making, how many people's hearts and minds are changing, when Christians YELL about "THEIR" holiday and berate others for NOT believing like they do. I'm usually of the opinion that Christ's message should be like the man, loving and compassionate, and usually only called to indignation by the exploitation of others. Pretty sure saying Happy Holidays isn't exploiting anyone. So in the effort to keep Christ in Christmas, Christians are behaving in a way that is antithetical to the very faith they are proclaiming. As I said earlier, I have many friends who are not of the Christian persuasion, or even the religious persuasion in any way. I do not know a single one of them that feels insulted by a cheery "Merry Christmas!" However, I know that most all of them are offended by yelling, berating, insulting, entitled Christians acting as if they are somehow being robbed of the their right to believe in Jesus at Christmas time. So, I ask: If it is our goal as Christians to live faithfully by the commands of Christ, and it is important to "keep Christ in Christmas," then why are we behaving in ways that aren't Christlike?

Second, and more laughably, why the hell is everyone getting MAD about this? Are there a bunch of Christians out there somehow UNABLE to celebrate this holiday because someone, somewhere said Happy Holidays? Are they getting up Christmas morning, looking at their gifts and saying, "Ohhh...EFF this! I can't even celebrate now, knowing that the coffee shop down the street had a HAPPY HOLIDAYS sign out front. This day is RUINED!" I mean, if you work in an office, and there are lots of people of varying faiths there, and you put a picture of the Baby Jesus on your desk, and someone says, "Hey, take that down" is Christmas no longer about Jesus? Do you find yourself forgetting during the hustle bustle of these times that it is, indeed, the season of the Christ Mass because Season's Greetings is posted in Starbucks? Are we so poor in spirit that we have given the power to "remove" Christ from anything, anywhere? Because...well...that's kinda nuts.

Sometimes, I am concerned that messages such as this don't really have anything to do with Jesus at all. It's about our need to be RIGHT. My faith, my salvation, my savior, MY HOLIDAY. It's all about ME. ME. ME. I'm right. I celebrate Christmas, the season of perpetual hope, remembering the birth of the Prince of Peace, who came to bring good will to ALL MEN...AND IF YOU DON'T AGREE YOU CAN EFFING BITE ME, SUCKAHS!!!!!!!

Well, I don't think that message really SCREAMS Christ. I don't know if you can SCREAM Christ.

What it does scream is entitlement. Christians are having a hard time with this, it seems. We have a church culture that is teaching about YOUR walk with Jesus, YOUR sin, YOUR salvation, YOUR savior. Thus, when we talk about Christ, he is not THE Lord, he is MY Lord. He is not the savior of ALL men, he is MY savior. MINE!!! ALL MINE!!! This is foolishness. We cannot allow our faith be sold out to a culture of narcissists. Christ's birth, life and death were for all. Even for those who don't care to accept it, it is there, just the same. The role of the Christian is to be a living embodiment of the acceptance of that. We don't need Christ to be in Christmas because we don't need Christmas. I'm pretty sure you can celebrate the birth of Jesus just any old day of the week. You are not being robbed of anything, ever. Instead of thinking about MY HOLIDAY, this may actually be a great time of year to think about others. If we gave ourselves the grace to accept Grace, live in it, not be so concerned with the Almighty ME, and a little more concerned with the Almighty, we could positively BLEED that grace to others. We could be so filled with the love of God, that others would want to...hug us...stand uncomfortably close...smell our hair...whatever it would take to be a part of the JOY of this season. And then instead of demanding CHRIST be GIVEN to US at CHRISTMAS, we could BRING CHRIST to OTHERS ALL THE TIME.

Why I'm an Episcopalian (Almost)

2011-04-24T17:22:00.000-07:00

Today, I was reading a friend's blog, which can be found here:
http://yesliketheprincessinstarwars.blogspot.com/2011/04/its-in-bible-part-7.html

And I started to write a comment. That comment became lengthy, and I decided instead to write a blog. I have a blog, after all, and sometimes it might be nice to use it.

I am trying very hard, at this point in my life, to have grace and understanding for my upbringing, that denomination and those with whom I associate those things. So what I say about the "evangelical" church is not meant to sound contentious. Rather, I am processing through my own beliefs and how they figure against the backdrop of a conservative childhood church experience. Consider this a disclaimer, of sorts.

I was raised Southern Baptist. In my late teens/early twenties, I became almost entirely disaffected from the church (like so many before me...oh the angst of blaming church for stuff). In the last few years before I stopped attending church, I always felt out of step with my faith. There were practices, beliefs, theologies, dogmatic issues, etc. that just never sat well with me. I attempted to find some sense of understanding or latitude about how I was feeling, but it seemed I always met resistance. For many, in the more "fundamental" churches, if you don't do it "this way," you are wrong. Not just personally wrong, but wrong with God. You should probably reevaluate your "walk" and how you feel, or possibly even reevaluate your salvation. After a while, this sense of wrongness became all too much to take, and I ended up leaving church all together...for a while. After Luke and I had been married for about six years, and had two kids, we both felt an undeniable compulsion to find church again. It was one of those bizarre circumstances where we came to the decision almost simultaneously, and both felt embarrassed bringing it up. After all, cool kids don't go to church or like Jesus or have faith. Being disaffected was sooooo much hipper.

But we got over it. We went back to church. God landed us at a UCC church, which is a great place to start if you have been outside the realm of faith and want a comfy place to ease back in. The UCC loves everyone. Our pastor called us "Universalists Considering Christ." We loved him, loved the church, loved the practice. "The practice?" you say. Ahhh, yes. The practice. Our little UCC Church was the First Congregationalist Church, as well. Thus I was introduced to liturgy. Until we joined this church, I was unfamiliar with anything resembling liturgy. We took Communion, not the Lord's Supper...and we did it every week. We followed a calendar...a Liturgical Calendar! I didn't even know such a thing existed, and I'm a PK. And it was nice. Then we moved to Texas.

Texas is a Mecca for Baptists and other evangelicals. I live within minutes of Chuck Swindoll's Church, the ridiculousness that is Prestonwood, and many other mega-churches, pseudo-mega-churches, Bible Churches, Church of the Big Screen, Church of the Jugglers and Fire Breathers, Church of Smoke and Mirrors... you get my drift... But the closest UCC church was about a 45 minute drive on a Sunday morning, and that just didn't work for us. If you have small children, as I do, church must be convenient. Don't worry, Jesus totally understands this. Jesus knows and understands that if I want to, truly want to go to church, it needs to be conveniently located. I need to be able to get my kiddos home and fed after services. I can't afford to eat out every week! And I can't afford (mentally) for the kids to sleep for 15 minutes in the car on the way home, and consider themselves rested for the day. Five, ten minutes max is my allotted commute time for church. So we needed to find something closer. We looked around in Frisco, asked some learned friends and decided to go to our local Episcopal Church. Episcopalians... they seem relatively unoffensive, right?

I knew nothing of the Episcopal faith when we began attending St. Philip's. What I do know is that everything that had felt wrong ten years ago, suddenly felt right. It was as if it was just plain meant to be.

I wish, that back in the day, when I was feeling so lost at sea about my faith, someone had had the wherewithal to tell me to take my time, look around and find the church for me. However, as my very clever priest at St. Philip's told me... It takes a very magnanimous person to do such a thing. I have come to realize that not one of the people who made me feel discouraged did so because they wanted to cause me harm. They did so because they genuinely believed they were right. That's fine. That's their faith, their conviction. They don't have to answer to me for that...but they do gotta answer to Jesus. And as my very clever priest also said, "You talk a lot about "them"... Jesus died for "them," too, you know." Consider this another disclaimer.

Anyway, we loved the Episcopal Church. We loooooooovvvve the tradition and the liturgy. This morning, I was standing in the hallway at church chatting with some ladies (who I also looooooovvve) about the "great cloud of witnesses." We were talking about being connected to other Christians who have come before, and to all those who will come after us. We are connected in our worship and in our prayer. This is not just Episcopalians, but all Christians. I said that this is what draws me to the Episcopal faith, though. On Maundy Thursday, all over the world, Episcopalians sat through a service almost identical to mine. We all watched in darkness as our altars were stripped bare, as the last candle was extinguished, as we prayed, just as Christ did in Gethsemane... There's something monstrously huge about knowing that not only were people all over the world doing that. very. thing., but people for centuries have been doing that. very. thing. to commemorate Maundy Thursday. That's beautiful. That's SOOOOOO much bigger than just me liking liturgy. My church makes me feel connected to the great cloud of witnesses. I am a part of the before and the after of this Christian Life I try to live. I see and know that the Body of Christ is larger than the Episcopal Church, it is the catholic (small C) church. The unified Church. We pray for, and profess to believe in, that "unified church" every week in our services. This Episcopal way of doing things, though, is how I find my best connection to that. And I just love it. We spend a WEEK celebrating Easter. I heard someone this week call it our Super Bowl of Jesus. I like that. I know that we can celebrate the resurrection any old day, and that we should. But I have found tremendous comfort and insight and peace and reverence and goodness in spending a whole week (not to mention the preceding Lenten season) just focusing on the last days of Christ's life, and his phenomenal resurrection. Hallelujah, He is Risen, indeed. My parents came and spent these last four days with us, their first Liturgical Easter experience. My dad said, "That's a LOT of Easter." and then he thanked me for having them come and do it. He loved it. I loved that he loved it. There's a lot to be said for tradition and liturgy and Lent and Holy Week and Easter.

The friend whose blog I read that prompted me to write this, said the following:

Some people are “traditionalists,” for example--and these are the people who really LOVE getting up and fighting with their kids about putting on fancy dresses and clip-on ties so they can sit in the pews of a pretty building and sing the songs of their childhood during a service that revolves around words like “Eucharist” and “liturgy.”

Okay... I'll take the hit. She also mentioned the irony of Easter ham,which I secretly hope she stole from my Facebook status about my Jesus Ham and how Christians eat ham to exercise our non-Jewishness, but she is clever and probably came to that on her own. This morning, my kids wore fancy dresses and clip-on ties. Actually, my son loves a clip-on tie lots of days. I don't fight with them about it. My H would wear a fancy dress to school every day, but we own a limited number of fancy dresses. Usually, we wear regular business casual to church...except me. I work with the kiddos teaching Sunday School, so I typically wear jeans and a t-shirt that was provided by the church, and my sneakers. We have pews, and I think our sanctuary is pretty in its own right, but we are far from ostentatious. I'm not certain we even have stained glass. What I do know, is that right above the altar is this HUGE window that opens to the sky behind it, and in the center of that window is a really simple cross. So at every service, we have the grandeur of God's creation showing through with a cross in the middle...and I think that symbolism is pretty perfect. Here is a nice pic of it that I stole from FB:

As far as singing the songs of my childhood? Well, I was raised on the traditional Baptist hymns, which very few churches sing at all anymore, having traded them for the chanted mantras that are praise and worship music. By the time I hit high school, almost all churches had thrown Fanny Crosby by the wayside and opted for Chris Tomlin. I appreciate some good old fashioned hymns, but we actually use a mix of both in my church. And as far as "Eucharist" goes? Well, Eucharist is also referred to as The Great Thanksgiving because it is from the Greek, eucharistia, which means thanksgiving...and well? Maybe we could all do with a little more of that in our services. We just use it to refer to the time when we take the sacrament of communion... For what could we as Christians be more thankful for than the body and blood of Jesus Christ? It is just a little time where we can give it back. Liturgy? It's a composite of some Greek words meaning public duty/service. And well...that's what it is. It is a public service. And I like the deeper idea of that, too. That church is a public service. I think Jesus would like that idea, as well.

All that to say, I think I have found that I am a traditionalist. God has moved us to a place where we fit. It is where I hear God the loudest. I like it. I found that in the Episcopal Church. But, I also love that the traditionalist nature of the Episcopal Church isn't exactly inflexible. We go to a church that's in the middle...we aren't "high church," as there is no incense burning, and the only hat I've seen was on the Bishop, and we aren't low church, as our priests do wear vestments. But my favorite thing about the Episcopal Church is found in small moments of openness and understanding. I never feel "wrong" there, because we seem to be okay with it if you don't agree. I happen to know of one issue in particular with which I am at pretty direct odds with my priest. He knows it, we've talked about it...and yet, I still feel welcome and not once did I think he questioned my salvation over it! Every week, we have a portion of our service known as Prayers of the People. In our little "follow along" bulletin, just above the Prayers, it says, "You may kneel, stand or sit for the Prayers of the People." Before we take communion, the presiding priest will say, "All baptized Christians are welcome... You can take the wafer...you can dip the wafer...you can guide the chalice to your lips...or if that doesn't describe where you are you can..." I heart this attitude of, "Please feel free to worship as you feel led." That's so nice and refreshing. We are traditionalists who don't mind if you need to buck tradition to get your needs met. We can roll with that.

So, that's why I'm an Episcopalian... Almost. In two weeks, I will have the honor of kneeling before our Bishop and becoming a fully confirmed Episcopalian. And with God's help, I will continue to worship and serve and love him. Every day, not just on Easter. Every week, not just during Holy Week. Every season, not just during Lent. All the time. But I will continue to love those special times during the calendar year when I am especially reminded to stop and remember that Jesus was wholly human, and wholly God and lived a life worthy of emulating, and died a death that was with purpose, and was resurrected so that we might be also.

The Doctrine of Separate Spheres

2011-03-10T14:14:00.000-08:00

Doctrine of separate spheres is an old common law principle that wives are limited to the personal or domestic sphere and that husbands had control of the public sphere. According to this early-19th-century doctrine, the woman’s place is in the home, and the man’s place is in the workforce earning money for the household and providing for his family.

I am two women. Lately, these women have been at direct odds with one another, and the ensuing battle is leaving me ragged and tired and a little broken. I think you would be very interested in reading about these two women (really, you are...it's okay to admit it), so I will tell you their life stories:

Woman One has four beautiful children. She stays home with them. She cooks their meals and does their laundry (Wait, did I say four children? She has five, if when referring to cooking and laundry, you include her husband). She is a member of the PTA. Her kids are involved in activities to which she drives them. She takes her children to church, and while there, teaches Sunday School to other people's children. Woman One is a Mom. A big, giant Mom. Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom. All day long. Mom.

Woman Two graduated Summa Cum Laude (that means 4.0, if you are keeping track) from a nice university with a major in Religious Studies, a minor in Social Science and an academic focus on Spiritual Development. She is funky and weird and has tattoos and spiky hair. She knows that God is calling her to some pretty cool stuff right now, and she is excited about doing it. She reads a lot, and considers herself to be fairly cerebral. As of now, Woman Two desperately misses school and the opportunity to be really immersed in higher level learning about that which she is passionate. Woman Two is ready to take on the next phase of life, ready and willing to do the things God is calling her to do... And she thinks she could be really good at them.

Now...

Put those two women in a boxing ring, and you have me. I am a woman with a degree in religion teaching Jesus to two-year-olds.

The issue at hand is stated above. I have instituted in my own life the Doctrine of Separate Spheres. At some point, I completely eradicated the hope that I could be both of these women. Instead, I swing, in giant pendulum style, between the two. The mom part of me is all mom, and she stays home and takes care of babies and is (really) quite precious. The other part of me is pretty hardcore and passionate about things, and frankly, a lot smarter than Mom Me. Let me give examples of my life right now:

Woman Two is reading a book on Old Testament Theology, she is interrupted by Woman One, who needs to read Mr. Brown Can Moo for the 700th time today to a screaming toddler.
Woman One is at church and Woman Two comes out and volunteers for something because she wants to be useful and engaged. People tell Woman One that she "already has her hands full" and thus Woman Two is disregarded.
Woman Two offers up some solid thoughts on something, and people raise an eyebrow because what does Woman One really know about things. This may, or may not, be accompanied by a smile of condescension.
Woman Two cannot attend anything of consequence, volunteer for anything of consequence or serve in any capacity unless Woman One can find a babysitter.
Woman Two is frequently judged by proxy as people somehow assume Woman One is a teenage mom because she looks like Woman Two.
People treat Woman One like some sort of invalid and/or martyr for choosing to to have a lot of kids which, in turn, makes both women feel marginalized.
Woman Two tries to Blog about religion and faith. Woman One tries to Blog about motherhood. Subsequently, blog's dashboard is filled with partially completed blogs about both...and neither.
Woman Two tries to explain the concept of the Trinity to Woman One's Children.
Woman Two argues with Woman One's six-year-old when she says David wrote all the Psalms.

Now, I would like to point out that I do not, in any way, resent motherhood. I chose motherhood, and I enthusiastically embrace my role in such. However, I am not only a mother, and at some point, I think I have become pigeonholed. I am as guilty of this as those around me. As I said, I created a Doctrine of Separate Spheres within myself. These two women live almost entirely independent of one another. One is the man of the Victorian Era principle, and the other the woman, and I really need them to get married. But I honestly don't know how. This has been my struggle of late. I'm engaged in an internal battle of epic proportions because I don't know how to make myself get married to myself. I need to smash my spheres together into one big crazy sphere, where I can be a Mom who is smart, who is serving her family, and serving God (and please don't give me the "serving your family is serving God" line, because I know that and it really isn't what I mean, and you know what I mean, and shut up.). I know my life is currently a gigantic lesson in patience and grace, but part of that grace is allowing myself the necessary room to be Woman Two as well as Woman One. Maybe it is pride, but I want to be known as "that lady that's really great to go to about spiritual stuff" as well as "that lady with all the kids."

So, I am now dedicating my energy to creating a Doctrine of Venn Diagram Spheres. See, if my life were a Venn Diagram, I have info for each sphere, but nothing for the overlapping portion in the middle. I propose to begin filling that space. I just don't really know how.

Oh, by the way... I don't think men have this problem, but I would welcome commiseration if you do.

Oh....Oh, no. Just...No.

2011-02-07T16:00:00.000-08:00

I consider myself to be a fairly self-actualized person. I try and live an examined life. Therefore, I am well aware of situations in which I behave in a manner that is petty or immature. This might be one of those times. You be the judge.

Facebook is a plague.

No really. It is an epic waste of time. It encourages some really unhealthy voyeuristic tendencies in people, myself included. And for some reason, it compels me to stay in touch with people with whom I have nothing in common and don't particularly like.

I would like to take a moment and point out something important I feel I have learned in the last year or so... There are some people in this world that I will not like. I don't have to like everyone. I feel that I need to be respectful of others, treat them with kindness, show love in what I do, etc. However, it is unrealistic for me to expect that I can like everyone. I just don't think it's possible (or necessary).

So, back to Facebook. I like that it is a nice way to keep in touch with friends and family. I like status updating. It is fun to try and record bits of my day into a two sentence soundbite that makes me sound engaging. BUT... it is also a terrible plague on humanity. It has the potential to ruin relationships (insert statistic about marriages being broken up over FB affairs here), and it is prime breeding ground for misunderstanding, misreading and misguiding a person's perception of others. I actually had a friend stop speaking to me for some time because i posted an update about my support of government health care. More than that, she actually REMOVED me from her FB friends list. Since turn-about is fair play, I also deleted a friend for a fairly significant period of time because he posted what I found to be incredibly offensive political cartoons. Have you ever been deleted? I mean...Wow. Burn. (Side note: We are friends again and cleared up this FB-related crisis in our friendship)

Since then, I have actually tried to tone down my political activism via Facebook. Frankly, I find it to be an exercise in futility. And it usually pisses me off. I think this is one of the best things I have ever seen about the FB political scene... And since trying to reduce my own spew of political rhetoric via the social network, I have also tried to stop being drawn in to other's political rhetoric. It isn't always easy. I should really stop reading posts and comments that I know will inevitably make my blood boil, but I'm like a moth to the flame over here. I can't resist a little adrenaline-pumping argument. But today...well... this just takes the cake. And I can't even BRING myself to comment on it!

A "friend of mine," who I assume does not read my blog (or if he does, I am sure will be deleting me ASAP) and whom I have considered deleting on many occasion, posted the following status update today:
If you were President of the USA, in your opinion, what is the greatest challenge facing Americans and what is your solution? I'd like to know!
Now there are the normal answers... education, the deficit, and one guy who just had to get a dig in at the "immorality" that plagues us and how we are a God-less nation (very 700 Club stuff)... But then I saw this response:
The deterioration of the family. And since money talks, let there be a financial reward - tax right-off or something along those lines - for attending church on Sundays - or Saturdays - or what fits the schedule - as a family. Once a person's butt is in the chair, it's then God's responsibility to touch their life!

OH. EMM. GEE.

I could start by pointing out some of the more obvious flaws with this, namely the spelling of "W-R-I-T-E" v. "R-I-G-H-T" but that's not really important, is it? Not nearly as important as the LUDICROUS NOTION that she has put forth. We should get a tax write-off for going to church as a family? Pay people to go to church and once their "butt is in the chair" leave God alone to fix the "deterioration of the family"? I am at a complete and TOTAL loss as to HOW IN THE WORLD it could ever improve the quality of "family" in this nation by providing a tax credit for attending church?! It seems like a quick way to further deteriorate the church. It is...a bastardization of...everything. I mean, this messes with everything I believe to be good. And at first, I thought it was funny in that, "Isn't she stupid?" kind of way. But it has been eating at me all day. This is WRONG. It is wrong that she thinks this, and wrong that there are probably a LOT of people who agree with her. I have a tendency to think in large spirals where I start at a single point, and don't stop until i don't even know who I am anymore, and this is a prime example of that. It started with someone saying something pretty dumb on Facebook, and has ended with me stewing angrily in front of my computer, thinking about how wounded the Body of Christ is becoming. It isn't even enough that ugliness and judgment and hatred run rampant in our churches, we should now pay people to participate in them? And then assume that this would, in some way, HELP matters?

I have to assume that I am completely over-reacting to the whole thing. But I am worried. I am worried about who we are becoming, as a church, as a society, as citizens of the world. I think this attitude in indicative of my why I worry. I mean...Oh...oh, no. Just...No. That's just wrong.

Oh S---! The Dreaded S- Word

2011-02-03T16:59:00.000-08:00

Warning: this post contains trace amounts of Jesus and Christianity. If you are someone who feels icky about such things, then you can feel free to move on. Or, you can continue reading because, let's face it, I can still be entertaining and funny when talking about Jesus.

That's right. I'm going to talk about the s-word. But probably not the one you are thinking about. THAT S-word doesn't particularly bother me. As a matter of fact, I probably use it more often than is strictly necessary. No. I need to talk about a different word. A word that I really kind of hate to use. A word that is overused, and, I believe, entirely misunderstood. Sin.

First, let me explain. I am on a journey, of sorts. Things are changing for me and I am feeling out some stuff. A major component of my Journey of Feeling Out is reviewing and establishing some fundamental beliefs about my faith. Over the years, I have grown increasingly uncomfortable talking openly about my beliefs, and even more uncomfortable using "Jesus Speak." You know the type I mean. So I decided to make a list of key words associated with my faith and then rank them according to how uncomfortable they make me.

Why do I always have to make lists? I'm so anal.

So the top of that list was this word. SIN. SIN, SIN, SIN.

There. Now I have said it. Four or five times. And it feels sticky in my mouth. Yuck.

I think that our first impulse when we hear the word sin is to clench our sphincters very, very tight. Because it is an uncomfortable word and, usually, it is followed by a very uncomfortable (and often asinine) message. I don't know about you, but the born and raised Baptist in me immediately hears: For the wages of...DEATH. And then maybe something about being gay or having an abortion...because those are the really BIG sins.

I am working on finding grace in my life...so please don't mind the really vitriolic reaction I still harbor toward the more "evangelical" church. I'm growing.

So...back to what I was saying... I needed to sort out, first and foremost, what (sigh) SIN really is. So I began by writing questions like: Can we really make a list of "sins" that have across the board application? Is sin still sin if we are without intention? If you are not "religious," and don't really recognize this ugly little word, how do you view or understand sin? And lots of other things that aren't very interesting (or are if you are into that sort of thing...) I was tempted to start pulling out books on the subject and seeing what all the other people (most of whom are much, much wiser than I) had to say about this, but then I was gently reminded by Jesus that this was about ME finding out what I believed, and that while I greatly enjoy the reading other people's opinions, some things I just have to find out for myself. So I looked at my Bible. It is just chalk full of interesting verses about sin.

I am going to skip over the more boring parts of this, which included my using a concordance, because a story about a concordance is never interesting. Instead, i am going to hop right into the part where my Dad happened to toss a verse out at me in the car that just changed everything.

Whoever knows what is right to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.
James 4:17

Now, I have read James before lots of times. I have done a whole study on James. I wrote a very convincing paper a few years ago on the authorship of James. But this verse had just slipped under the everloving radar. I think this is because what it says is 1)incredibly simple and 2)incredibly heavy. It is a message that is not just a "Jesus" message for Christians, but has a wonderfully applicable message for everyone. In itself, it answered most of my questions from above. Very simply put, it says, If you know you aren't right, you are wrong. SIN, then, is sort of hard-wired into us. We know what it is and we know how to NOT do it. We just choose to do it anyway. This is much easier to understand than, say, following the cleansing rituals outlined in Leviticus. But it is uber-hard to actually do. When faced with a choice, make the right one. If you don't...IT IS SIN.

I like writing SIN in big capital letters now because it gives it a jaunty, fun appeal. No. It doesn't. It makes it look like I'm writing a script for one of those Christian Halloween Judgment Houses that try to frighten you into accepting the only zombie that matters, Jesus. But go with me on this...jaunty and fun. Not scary.

The problem with SIN is that instead of bothering to determine what is the right choice for ourselves, we have made a habit in THE CHURCH (jaunty, not scary) of trying to make lists of sins, trying to tell other people what to do and what NOT to do. We now have a climate of legalism, and not a climate of choice. Now I'm a big proponent of Free Will (and all the Calvinists just hit the red X). IF you know what is right, and you don't do it, it is sin. If you aren't right, you are wrong. But, see, I am not in possession of any special Holy Spirit Glasses that actually let me see inside anyone's heart, and thus KNOW that they KNOW what is or is not "right." And frankly I don't want to. I can really go without having the same responsibility as, say, JESUS. And no, I don't think that there is a black and white, easy to read guide for what is and is not SIN. Not even...wait for it...the Bible. God inspired? Sure. Easy answers? Not a chance.

Let me give an example, just for funsies: We have ten pretty standard commandments, and breaking them is SIN. So... "Honor your father and mother" and "Thou shalt not steal" come up. But maybe your Mom is a crackhead. Maybe she tells you to rob a liquor store so she can buy more crack with the money you would steal (oh, crackheads, why you always gotta rob the liquor stores?). Now you are faced with the choice of SINNING either way. Honor your mom, and you steal. Don't steal, and you aren't honoring your mom... See? I think we all know that the right choice here is simply to take yourself to the nearest DFS headquarters and ask for a NEW mom, but I think you get my point.

Now, not being the child of a crackhead, I have never been faced with that particular scenario. But still, not all insight and foresight is given us at once. Sometimes we are probably acting in a way that seems quite sinful to others, but we have yet to feel compelled by the Holy Spirit to see it as such. See it now? James says Whoever KNOWS what is right, and does not do it. There IS intentionality here. And frankly, one doesn't even HAVE to be a Christian to get this. This is just common sense. Ummm, if it is wrong, don't do it. Make good choices. Make the right choice. If you are a Christian, then we have to have faith in the movement of the Holy Spirit to show what is "right." As HUMANS, we need to stop being so concerned with what the Holy Spirit is doing in for anyone else. Remember that one time when Jesus said to pull the LOG out of your own eye? Man...he was funny.

So, that's what I'm going with for right now. Not exactly masterful theology, but just the beginning of my coming to terms with my Jesus-Loving self.

Please, please feel free to toss your two cents out there. I'm formulating and entirely open to the possibility of being totally, and foolishly wrong. Wouldn't be the first time.

How Sarah Got Her Groove Back

2011-01-31T09:03:00.000-08:00

March 21, 2007.

That's the last time I posted on this blog. That's three years, some months, and a number of days ago. Almost four years.

I took the time to reread my previous posts before deciding to write again, and I really must say, I'm quite clever. Witty. Perhaps even winsome. I don't remember writing most of the previous posts, but I did, and they are gooooood. Now, normally, it would seem this should be a source of pride. However, being crazier than most, I didn't pat myself on the back and pick up writing where I left off. I chose, instead, to spend a few days feeling intimidated...by myself. I am intimidated by me. I don't believe this should be possible. In fact, if you look closely, that has the stench of schizophrenia about it. So I needed to take a few moments to center myself about why I felt intimidated by the other, more awesome, Sarah.

Here is a list of reasons why 2007 Sarah had an easier time at awesomeness:

1. 2007 Sarah had only two children.
2. 2007 Sarah lived in Wyoming and never had to wear tank tops that made her arms look fat. Instead she got to bundle up in bulky sweaters. This also led to 2007 Sarah never shaving, and no one knew (or cared).
3. 2007 Sarah didn't live in a ridiculously opulent community, thus she didn't feel as compelled to peek over the fence and check the color of the grass.
4. 2007 Sarah was a Vegan. Okay, this is a stretch for being really awesome, because true greatness involves cheese, but it SOUNDED so much cooler to be Vegan.
5. 2007 Sarah seemed to have a tremendous amount of energy and youth and vitality about her (See Item 1)
6. 2007 Sarah seemed to care less about how others perceived her or her life.
7. 2007 Sarah seemed far more comfortable with her faith.
8. 2007 Sarah had great cheekbones, six pack abs and had recently won both an Oscar and a Newberry Award for Children's Literature. (That's not true, but I want to make sure you're paying attention.)
9. 2007 Sarah spent more time just doing and being what she loved.

Once I made this list (I made it in my head, not on paper because I'm not THAT crazy), I thought that maybe making lists about why you aren't the same person you were four years ago isn't the best way to move forward, but then I thought that you can't move forward if you can't embrace your past, and then I thought about how easy it is to become weighed down by your past and then it anchors you there and you can't really move on and you need to become free of those sort of entanglements....And then my head exploded. Needless to say, I tend to over analyze. So I came to the wicked smart conclusion that there are things about my life in 2011 that I can change, and perhaps even be happier for, and there are things I cannot change and don't really want to. For example, I can just as easily be forthright about my desire to never shave my legs now as I was then. I cannot, however, go back to having two kids (well, I could, but I don't think infanticide is up for debate in my life). I can be comfortable with my faith and talk about it openly (because if you don't like it [pardon me], screw you), but cannot and will not ever stop eating cheese. And I can write about the life I have now, and all the things in it that make me happy and awesome now. Maybe it will not be as clever or witty or winsome as I might like, but, I can make my peace with that.

The Clock

2007-03-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

This is a story I had to write for a class. I thought I would put it up on here and get some feedback. Thanks for the idea, Trav.

When I was small, staying at my Grandma’s house was an adventure. Long before Grandma’s mind was taken by Alzheimer’s and dementia, she was crazy in lots of other ways. A survivor of the Great Depression in a Dust bowl state like Oklahoma, and having lived through the rationing of World War II, Grandma hoarded everything. It was neat. Her cupboards were full mismatched Tupperware, butter bowls and Cool Whip containers with the labels scrubbed cleanly off. Under the flaps of corduroy curtains that covered each shelf in her pantry was a world of food the likes of which most have never seen. Mysterious cans with their labels ripped off, spicy scented packets of homemade soup mix, rows upon rows of homemade jars of jam and jelly and currant with drips of paraffin wax seeping out of the lids were placed too high for me to reach without the aid of a step ladder. But down below, she had stocked the shelves with treats for me to find. I would raise the dusty curtain and my nose would itch with anticipation. There, I could find bags of marshmallows, hard from exposure, jars of Tang, and cut-rate peanut butter with a spoon lying neatly next to it, an invitation to take a bite. There were nuts and salty snacks, cupcakes and breads she had made all waiting for me. Finally, with my belly full and the smell of dinner already hanging in the moist kitchen air, I would wander back to the playroom, her studio.
The walls were covered with half-finished oil paintings. Farmhouses and barns, waterfalls and forests, snow-capped mountains with clumps of pine trees, each with some deliberate portion left unpainted. I knew that later, under her skilled tuition, she would help me to fill in the blanks on some of these dusty canvasses, the smell of turpentine and paint and her big knobby fingers guiding my hands to create art. All around the room, on
every conceivable surface sat the remnants of her hobby, and all around those sat my toys. Broken dolls she had picked up at rummage sales, dainty dresses and roughly hewn sweaters she had sewed and crocheted by hand, wigs she had bought from the beauty college where she had her hair set and curled all sat out in tubs, boxes and crates of various origins. The shelf in the corner was filled with shoeboxes. Each box contained treasures my Grandma collected just for me. Boxes filled with thimbles, and spools, old lotion bottles and empty lipstick tubes. Boxes of paper and magazine cutouts, the leftover deposit slips from the back of her checkbook. The boxes contained shaving cream cans and aftershave bottles that reminded me of my Grandpa’s smell, though he died before I could even remember him. She put back the little orange spreading sticks that came in HandiSnacks cheese and crackers. She saved rocks and pinecones, leaves and pits. Together, we would build cities of bottles and spools that stretched down the long hallway to her bedroom. She was such fun.
She had quite a garden. Well, it was more of a small farm. She had fruit trees and corn and green beans and potatoes and carrots and berries and squash and peppers and every other vegetable under the sun. Her yard was her own little Eden on Pierce Street in the middle of Enid, Oklahoma. She would gather the food in baskets and make breads and jams and other foods and hoard them away in her basement, apparently awaiting nuclear holocaust or drought. Most afternoons, even in the dead of summer, her small hunched frame could be seen toiling away under the shade of the trees, lovingly laboring to see each plant weeded, composted, groomed and finally picked. The food filled her house. Cubbies and cabinets far and near contained some preserved food. She had three deep freezes to keep up with it all. They were as much an adventure as the rest of her house. Carefully moving logs of freezer burned Ziplocs in order to find last year’s blackberries was always an exploration into the unknown. If the Abominable Snowman had once leapt out at me, I would not have feigned surprise.
Her house was never fancy. Most everything she owned was second-hand, salvaged, painted and put back together. She even had used carpet. The knick-knacks were picked up at garage sales or the Dollar General. Her rugs were homemade rag rugs she had tied herself. However, her pride and joy was the clock. It was an original New Haven Clock Company mantle clock, an ornate, heavy mahogany beauty. The original label that still sits slightly adhered to the little door in the back dates it in the 1930’s. She would have been my age when she got it. Maybe it was a wedding present. Regretfully, I never thought to ask. The clock chimed gloriously at every hour and half hour. It resonated throughout her house, and I could know how soon supper was while inside my spool city because of that clock. When we stayed the night at her house and I woke up afraid, not knowing where I was, the clock would chime and I would remember and roll over to snuggle up with Grandma, breathing in her scent of Avon lotion and old lady.
When she died last February, after a desperate battle for her very mind and soul, my family went to clean out the house. What was once a magical land of make-believe was now just boxes and boxes of trash. Well-saved and well-intended fruits and veggies were now laid to waste, for who really wants to eat peaches canned in 1972? Each of us wandered through the house touching and caressing memories of Grandma, opening cabinets and smelling towels, pulling long strings of shiny beads from jewelry boxes and wearing them for no good reason, picking out the things we wanted to take home. My brother took a music box that played Green Sleeves. My sister took the dinette set that had sat so many Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter dinners that you could almost see the reflections of our growing faces in its varnished top. My mother struggled and finally took everything and to this day just has it in storage. I, on the other hand, walked purposefully and dutifully to the clock. I took its little key and wound it tight. It chimed the hour, and I knew that my Grandma was there, teaching me to paint and setting aside new spools and walking with me collecting pinecones and persimmons. I knew that, although in the end, she could not look at my face with the slightest flicker of recognition, in that clock was time. Lost time, wasted time, good time and bad time and in between time all showed at some point on the honest face of that clock. It is my memento, my keepsake of a crazy woman who in the end gave me the best gift of all: time.

On No You Di'n't!

2007-03-10T17:24:00.000-08:00

I just heard the most appalling thing I have ever had the misfortune of entering my head...

I was listening to NPR during dinner, and when I got up to clear the dishes, Philip changed the radio station. The next station over is CSN, a Christian radio station. Just as I was trying to figure out why the NPR commentator's voice had suddenly taken on such an appalling bravado, I heard this "Public Service Announcement."

Pardon while I paraphrase. I did not commit the entirety of this stupidity to memory.

"There has been a lot of talk in the news lately about global warming, and how the earth is being destroyed. Now, I don't know anything about global warming, whether its heating up or cooling down. And I don't know what good it will do me to recycle or ride my bike to work, but I do know THIS. Everyone needs the loving salvation of God. What good will it do to save the planet if we don't save ourselves?"

Are you freaking kidding me? What good will it do to save the creation that Gods has so kindly LENT us to live on? Why should we bother taking care of something that God created, just as he created us? I don't care how you feel about global warming, but if you aren't doing everything you can to take care of this earth that God himself made, then you are being blatantly disrespectful to the Good Lord. He didn't just "GIVE" this world to us to piss away and do with what we will, He has the expectation that we would preserve it for future generations, and care for something that he created. And folks, Global Warming is a reality.

So I ask, what good does it do to disregard God's creation and unmercifully let people die and waste away as we plummet toward self-destruction? Is that a very Christian mind-set? "It's not my problem," was never a very Jesus-like response. Neither was "I don't care." It was also not his way to say incredibly stupid things, masquerading as social commentary, in the name of God. Blehch!

Oh, and check out the website. They have a fantastic section on how to be "Rapture Ready" and a "Prophesy Update" about the end of times. Neat!!

An Organized Sort of Fun

2007-03-08T19:14:00.000-08:00

To my credit, there have been many changes in my behavior since I had children. I am decidedly tidier, sometimes to the point of obsessiveness, but I have let go of a lot of control issues. You have no real control over children. It is all an illusion.

I am a laid back, hippie mom who eats an almost strictly Vegan diet and does Yoga with her kids. We are learning about recycling and go on nature walks when it is warm enough. We spend a lot of time acting out wildly creative and elaborate stories while playing dress-up. We finger paint on old sheets. We build forts with blankets and the furniture. We dance...a lot. I make up songs. I only own one pair of jeans that doesn't have holes in the knees because I spend so much time on the floor with my kids. We have no TV channels. Yep, no cable and we live too far out in the middle of nothing to pick up antenna. We read a lot of books. I am so proud of the mom I have come to be. And yet...

I am compulsively neat. We do each of the above-mentioned activities one at a time. We put everything away exactly where it goes when we are done. And since OCD runs in my family, "exactly where it goes" is pretty severe. I have certain angles I like to prop the toys on the shelves. They are separated by age appropriateness, genre and sometimes, by color. This little bit of OCD has never really bothered me. I actually have found it helpful for keeping a clean house. My own little bit of personal crazy.

Today, however, we were playing on the big dinosaur mat we have with lots of little dinosaurs and a couple of My Little Ponies, Jesus and Noah. I was holding two toys, Jesus and a dinosaur, when Helen says, "No, Mama. One at a time." Apparently I couldn't hold two toys at once. It is against the rules. Then I look over at what she has done... All the dinosaurs and ponies were lined up in a straight horizontal line, in ascending size. One at a time, Helen was picking them up, letting them eat from the pretend tree and then carefully placing them back in line. When Philip came over and promptly destroyed the line (as boys will do), it made Helen cry.

Initially, I thought, my daughter is SO SMART! She lined all those up by size. But then I saw what she had done for what it really was, a mimic of Mommy's crazy. It was in fact, a very organized sort of fun. Not laid back at all, but very structured and rigid. And I felt that for all my hopes and dreams of becoming a big, nasty hippie, I can't let go of my control. For those who know me well, you know that perhaps lines of neatly organized toys is a far better exertion of this need than my many previous habits, but it's still not much better. I have a long, long way to go. But, hey, I haven't shaved in like 8 months, and that's gotta count for something, right?

Worst Day Ever

2007-01-31T08:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the worst day I have had in quite sometime. Philip woke up early, just before 7, and cried a little. I laid in bed thinking shhhhh, go back to sleep, and he did. I got up about 7:20, and did my normal morning mommy chores, awaiting my children's rise at 8AM. Usually, you can set your watch by Philip. He rises promptly at 8. Helen, on the other hand, would sleep later, but for her brother's incessant noise making when he gets up. And so I waited, sitting on my bed, reading. Very peaceful.

But peaceful soon turned to too quiet. It was 8:15, no sound from the kids. 8:20, 8:30...At 8:35 Helen stirred. I was glad! I went in and found her sitting on her bed looking curiously at Philip's crib. I slowly walked over to find Philip awake, yet completely unresponsive, just lying on his back. I reached out for him, but he just looked at me. Now, understand that generally, when I walk into that room at 8:03, Philip is standing at the end of his crib, jumping. I usually stand in front of him and jump, too. Then he reaches out and says, "Down, Mama!" Thus begins our morning, or has for the past two months. Until yesterday. Yesterday, he just laid there. I left him, hoping he was just sleepy, while I went to the closet and retrieved our "today clothes", dressed Helen and sent her to use the bathroom. Then I went over to pick up my son.

It was like picking up a ragdoll. His limbs were flacid. He was semi-catatonic, eyes glazed and only at about half mast. When I laid him down to change his diaper, he fell asleep. I dressed his limp little body and carried him in to my bed. I tried to hold him, but I had to lay him down. It was too weird. Like holding a body, not a child. And while I realize how that sounds, one cannot possibly understand the quiet whirlwind of emotions I was enduring. You see, I KNEW he was in the postictal period, the period following a seizure when the body sort of shuts down. But it has been nine months...NINE MONTHS since he has had a seizure. I was in a sort of state of shock, but more than that, I was in a state of oppressive guilt. He had cried just before 7!! That is when it had happened. And all I wished was that he would go back to sleep. Well, I got my wish. I didn't go to him. His little body had been through something awful, and I didn't go to him. What if he was scared, or what if it hurt? And I just wanted an extra fifteen minutes of sleep. Awful, awful guilt. I called his pediatrician, I called Luke, I called my mom. Luke came home, and we took him to the ER.

He is fine now. His bloodwork came back normal, but for low CO2 levels, consistent with a seizure. They ran a battery of tests and sent them to his neurologist in Salt Lake. Oddly enough, we already have an appointment in Salt Lake on Monday. I guess the timing couldn't have been better. But overall, I cannot explain what this is like. No one can tell me why this happens. No one can say why yesterday, after nine months of nothing, he had the biggest one yet. No one can tell me why his medication suddenly seemed to stop working. They can run every C-Scan, MRI, EEG and other test in the book, and they cannot tell me why my NORMAL, functional, well-developed, even SMART little boy sometimes gives in to this...this sickness. And no one can tell me how to help. Did you know if a child has a seizure, you are to clear the area around them, roll them on their side and then just leave them alone to let it run its course!! Just stand aside and watch it happen. It is awful. But, he is better. He is fine. This morning we stood face to face and jumped when I went in to get him at 8AM on he money. It was a good feeling.

Oh, and last night after we got home from the hospital, I naturally did not feel like cooking, so I went out to grab some dinner...and got a ticket. It was a nice ending to a really nice day.

Truth

2007-01-19T08:38:00.000-08:00

So, last semester I took a class called Jesus of Nazareth, A Study of the Historical Jesus. And it was fantastic. After a while, as a person who has a fiath in the the Christ, you really begin to lose sight of Jesus as a man. And according to MY faith, anyway, you have to be able to embrace both the Christ and the Man in Jesus i order to really understand him. However, it also brought to light a great number of things that would cause even the most devout of people to give pause. And I try to consider myself a lot more moderate than devout. I am willing to make concessions about what I believe, because I know that what I believe will never be definitive. I understand that I will NEVER understand all there is to know about Jesus. So, I think some gray area is a necessary thing for me to continue to grow. However, this study of Jesus left me with a lot of gray area and a lot less black and white than I had when I started. And honestly, this was a little blurrier than I was comfortable with.

Authors like Robert Funk and The Jesus Seminar, Marcus Borg, Robert Crossan.... These stupid men!! They sure did leave a big gaping hole where a lot of certainty used to be. They also, made me take a far closer look at the Gospels. I began to notice the real differences between John and the Synoptics. I borrowed books from my pastor and another "scholar" from my church and began reading ALL the Gospels. The Gospel of Peter, the Gospel of Thomas, Sayings Gospel Q, etc. These books that may have been the literary basis for our cannonized Gospels, even if they didn't make the cut themselves. I really started looking into the Council of Nicea, the divinity of Christ, the stories about him that did and did not make the cut. It was not a very pleasent time for me. While it was all very interesting, it was also making me very uncomfortable with the things I had always assumed to be true. There were the miracles, the resurrections, the actual WORDS of Christ...all that red letter business. The Book of John in particular. And then this wonderful thing happened beyond that.

We began an in-depth study of the book of Mark at church. There were only like eight of us. My pastor, Luke and I, another couple, and two or three other women. My mentor at church is the wife of the other couple in this group. She was raised Southern Baptist. My pastor went to Southwester Baptist Theological Seminary the same years as my Dad. Then he went to the UU church and then came back to the UCC. I thought that sounded a little like my own journey. These people knew what I was going through!! And they sid it was okay to have these burning questions clouding my perception of Jesus. As it turns out, my pastor is a Borg scholar. My mentor's husband has studied the Jesus Seminar in depth and even subscribes to their quarterly! All these questions, and I finally had people who could start shedding some light on their answers. I have a box of books next to the computer all about the study of Jesus. I was not run out of the church for my mischevious thoughts on Christ, I was embraced for them!

And then, it happened. The most definitive moment of my spiritual life thus far. Someone said something so profound, yet so simple, that I reeled from it for weeks. In the midst of a conversation about Jesus, the man, the Christ, the spirit...someone said, "It doesn't have to be true to be truth." It was wonderful. We get so very cought up on proving the authenticity of everything the bible says Jesus said or did, that we forget all the truth BEHIND those things. So what if some of the stories came out of metaphor, exageration or speculation. That in no way disproves who Jesus is, the message He was sending or the work we are to do because we believe. Fantastic.

For instance, in our own study, Luke and I were looking at the Feeding of the Five Thousand. This story is told a couple of different ways, and there is even an account of the Feeding of the Four Thousand, which may be a retelling, or a seperate event. Now, here is how I look at it. Did Jesus multiply the bread and fish to make enough for everyone plus some? Maybe. Sure. I believe he COULD have. OR...OR... Could it have been that when one small boy came forward with his meager lunch, other people in the crowd happened to have food they were hoarding back. And MAYBE they were looking for a free lunch, but when that little boy stood up, their hearts opened up. Maybe the miracle was NOT that Jesus multiplied the bread, but maybe the miracle is what He did to those people's hearts. Maybe Jesus, being the Christ, created in that "congregation" the same sense of generosity that sometimes still sweeps us today. Maybe there were baskets left over because people just brought that much food, and through the Spirit, they were compelled to give it. The miracle doesn't HAVE to be a supernatural PHYSICAL event. In all liklihood, it could have been a completely natural earthly occurance coming from a supernatural change in people's hearts. Not the "true" story as you read it in the Gospels, but very full of truth, no?

So, this is where I have come in looking at Historical Jesus versus the Christ... Who cares? The message is the same. MY work is the same. My beliefs are intrinsically the same, just my perception that is different. Maybe if we all stopped harping on the little points, and just looked toward the broader message, all this "Is the bible infallible?" poo could go by the wayside. Who cares if it is true? What we are searching for is truth, and there is plenty of that to go around.

Housekeeping

2006-12-28T22:43:00.000-08:00

As I infrequently do (all my blogging is infrequent, now isn't it), I will now write a list of things to catch everyone up with what's happening here at headquarters. And while I think you may find some of this interesting, some of it may also be considered very, very boring. Read on to find out!

* Alas, we did not make it to Dallas for Christmas. Buying plane tickets for Luke, Foster Kiddo, Helen and myself would have run about $3000, so we were supposed to drive. Even so, by the week prior to Christmas, there were NO highways open into or out of Wyoming. Denver Int'l was closed, and Salt Lake was only flying select flights. So driving and flying were out. And now we are thankful because a full-blown blizzard is blowing in and we are expected to have 20 inches of snow by Saturday. So, had we even made it to Texas, we probably would not have been able to get home. We celebrated a nice quiet Christmas here with my mom and dad and Foster Kiddo and the like. It was nice.

* I hope that none of you readers are unlucky enough to remember the state of Luke and I's house when we first got married. Unfortunately, I know some of you do. It was a time when throwing garbage in a garbage can just seemed like a waste of time. And taking the garbage out? NO! Well now, I have become rigidly, some may even say obsessively, the opposite. On Thanksgiving I began sweeping and swiffering the dining room floor while people were still eating at the table. Foster Kiddo pointed out that this was "manic and crazy" and everyone agreed, so I sat down. Now all this to say new Nazi Cleaning Sarah does not allow people to wear shoes in the house. I have wood floors and white carpet and it snows six months out of the year here. I think this is good sense. HOWEVER, there are a few people who just WON'T take their friggin' shoes off when they come over. And the general excuse? "I will only be here for a minute." But a minute's worth of walking around in muddy shoes is 15 minutes worth of cleaning for me. Now, Luke calls me a "Cleaning Dictator" but I think I am not being unreasonable. So, despite the "Please Remove Your Shoes"signs already ON the doors, how do I make people take their shoes off? I have considered tackling them and removing the shoes myself, but we all know how much I hate feet.

* Have I mentioned lately that fat kids make me irrationally angry? Don't get me wrong, it is not the children themselves, it is their parents. I just want to shake them and yell, "TURN OFF YOUR TV!!! PLAY WITH YOUR KIDS! COOK A MEAL AT HOME FOR ONCE!!!" Because I just don't believe that they all have a thyroid condition. I believe they all have a lazy condition brought on by their parents using video games as a baby sitter. Or because their own parents don't care enough about their own diets to pass on healthy habits to their children. Or because actually interacting with their kids in order to produce happy children who don't turn to food for affection is just too much work. It's true, I'm mad at fat kids' parents. I just can't imagine not taking care of your kids in a way that costs nothing and only sacrifices yourself. But then again, I don't really see a lot of self-sacrifice going on around me on anyone's part.

* We have officially stopped eating meat, only to be invited to a dinner party where they served big platters of chicken on the bone. Now, I have enough trouble with this new hormone injected, hybrid meat we call chicken anyway, but when it is still on the bone with those little grissly pieces holding on for dear life (well, not really life, as this bird is dead) making it impossible to even cut the meat off the bone... well, it kicks my gag reflex into gear as only meat-on-the-bone and our President can. But I am polite. I don't eat meat for taste and health reasons, not for moral ones (I say kill all the animals, whatever), and I refuse to be that person who goes to someone else's home and says "Ummm, I don't eat that." So I ate my chicken. Oh, and it made me violently sick. As only meat and our President can.

* Luke got me a big book called The Onion Ad Nauseum for Christmas and it is the funniest thing to have ever entered this house. I thank him for it and recommend it to all of you who can't pick up a copy of The Onion on a regular basis. Well, I guess anyone can read it, its online. But Marty can actually get a hard copy, and that's more what I was getting at. Okay, I understand that that is more explanation than was necessary and I apologize. Just pick up a copy of the book, okay?

* Because I am an adult who can actually get credit now, I took out a line of credit and bought Luke a ring for Christmas. And it was nice. The ring. And also the ability to buy nice things and not worry about going to debtor's prison for it. Being blessed is an important thing to remember. We often forget how much excess we have. I'm not patting myself on the back, but when we really looked at ourselves and saw how much we had, we opened our home to foster care. I suggest everyone take a nice look at what God has given them and really see what they could give away. And that's not only a financial gig, you have time and talents, too. Give 'em away people. It IS actually what we are supposed to do, and frankly, the world would be better if you did. Oh, and why am I preaching? Because I bitch about money a lot, but bought Luke an expensive ring for Christmas. I may be a hypocrite, but I am trying to be a humble one.

* I quit my job. It wasn't much of a job. I worked like two days a week. But I told them my head just wasn't in it. I wanted to be at home. Last week Philip got the flu and had to go to the ER for fluids. He's such a problem child. Really, that kid has been to the doctor more in the last year... Anyway, I just didn't want to go anymore. I wanted to be home taking care of my son. And I told them that. I said, "I'm really not doing any justice to you all either. As long as I wish I were at home, I'm going to do a half job anyway." SO they let me go without notice, and asked me to come back and work next holiday. I smiled because by next holiday I will be getting ready to do my student teaching and probably won't want to work at the mall. But thanks anyway!

Okay, that's it. Hope you all had a joyous holiday. Peace and Grace.

Edible Christmas

2006-12-03T21:13:00.000-08:00

Christmas is a difficult time with toddlers. Conceptually, it is a difficult time for the best of adults. But trying to tie Santa Claus, a pine tree, snowmen, presents, candy and cakes and the Jesus story into one tidy little story is nearly impossible. We have told Helen that Christmas is Jesus' birthday. She gets birthdays. She wants to make Jesus a cake. And she gets presents. She is perfectly happy to get some more. Why SHE gets presents on JESUS' birthday? Well, we will cross that bridge when we get there.

In the meantime, we are doing the advent calendar. Helen calls it the Jesus Book. Actually, every night before bed, she asks to "eat the Jesus book." And last night while reviewing the information we have learned about the story of baby Jesus, Luke asked Helen, "And what was Jesus' mommy's name?" And after thinking very hard about this, Helen answers, "Chocolate." So I can't say we are making very much progress.

Helen is also scared of Santa right now. A big thanks to the people at our mall for hiring a really creepy looking guy to be Santa. So there was a lot of crying and screaming and "NO, NO, NO!!!" going. When we got home and tried to talk about it, she told us that there would be "No cookies for Santa, I don't like him." And Santa could not come down our chimney because he is "scaaaarrrry." I am over-compensating now by letting her watch the Polar Express about 3 times a day. It is changing her mind about Santa. Animated Santa with his kind, Tom Hanks voice is not nearly so bad as creepy mall Santa.

Philip on the other hand is just content right now to pull ornaments off the tree and hurl them at the cats. He also likes to take bows off the Christmas presents, stick them on his head and say "Hat!" Then he laughs a lot. He has an appreciation for the simpler things in life. But he has learned to say Jesus and when we look at the Advent calendar before bed, he shrieks "JEEEEZ!!" and claps his hands. Then he opens his mouth like a baby bird and waits for me to stick chocolate in there.

At any rate, my kids sure do like Jesus. He is about chocolate and presents and singing and joy. And that is mostly correct, even if the three wise men forgot to include chocolate for the baby Jesus. The joy and singing and a really great present part they are getting right. I'll just wait a couple of years before really telling them that the greatest present ever doesn't have a picture of Dora on it.

Five Years

2006-11-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

November 16, 2001

Today is my fifth anniversary. Five years is not a very long time. It is also a very long time. On average, Luke and I's marriage has lasted a lot longer than most people who get married after only nine months of dating. Especially if you factor in our exceptional youth at the time we decided to tie the knot. Good for us. We make it work.

Take a moment, if you will, to look at these strangers. This morning I sent Luke a card. I said he was sexier than the day I married him. being a good husband, a good father and a good man really suits him. Better than a head full of hair. And I'll give myself credit. Those same attributes (substitute wife, mother, woman) really seem to suit me. I may not have that wedding day glow, but I am a whole lot happier than I was then, and it makes all the difference in the world.

Thanks, babe, for five great years. Thanks for making me always feel appreciated, feel beautiful and most importantly loved. Thanks for always taking the time to communicate with me instead of running from our problems. Thanks for sometimes sacrificing your wife to let her be your children's mother. Thanks kids for always letting mommy be a wife. Thanks, Luke, for knowing when to truly be a man and shoulder responsibility for your family, even when it meant personal sacrifice. Thanks for never being afraid to tell me to take that same responsibility. Thank you for being the defining factor that makes me the woman I am today. I love you!!! Happy anniversary.

Never Turn Your Back

2006-11-06T09:27:00.000-08:00

This morning I went to the bathroom. I was gone two minutes, tops. I had the children nicely seated at the table eating their breakfast. And when I returned...

All of the canned goods had been removed from the lazy susan cabinet.

A bag of apples had been removed from the fridge and each one had a bite mark in it.

A cup of soy milk lay overturned on the table creating a lovely, sticky, white waterfall flowing off the edge of the table into the floor.

Philip had at least four grapes smashed on his head.

Helen was eating some sliced turkey.

The dishwasher was open.

There were three pans and two large spoons in the floor.

So, here is my theory. I do not believe that the two of them could have accomplished this is such a short time. I believe they have an army of baby fiends lurking in corners, in cabinets and under furniture. Whenever I leave the room, all the babies emerge to wreck havoc upon the house. When they hear me coming, they flee. Certainly, these are magical babies. But I cannot imagine how my own two children could inflict this much damage in the amount of time it takes me use the restroom.

Good Things To Know

2006-10-26T21:18:00.000-07:00

Here is a list of things I have noticed since becoming a parent:

* I own and wear half as many clothes, but do twice as much laundry.

* I may be the same size I was at eighteen, but nothing looks the same.

* Drinking a beer has once again become a sneaky privilege.

* Going to the gynecologist has now become relaxing alone time.

* Breasts are merely functional, the equivalent of human udders.

* Driving a mini-van just makes good sense.

* Finding anything inside something else is never a surprise. A spoon in the VCR, Care Bears in the fridge, anything in the toilet... Just take it out and put it away. No questions asked.

* Poop, pee, vomit, boogers and sweat are no longer disgusting. Well, as long as these things belong to a member of my family. I'm not exactly inviting strangers in to share these things with me.

* Anything is edible under a thin layer of applesauce or cheese.

* Going to the store with my husband sans kids now sounds like a date.

* 7:30 PM is sometimes a reasonable bedtime.

* 5:30 AM is still never a reasonable hour at which to rise.

* Other people's children are still unbearable, undisciplined and loathsome in public, even if my kid is the one throwing chicken in the floor.

* Sometimes you just can't shower every day...or every week.

* Cleaning up a mess just means someone is making a different mess in another location.

* Sometimes you just have to suck it up and do it yourself, even if it is someone else's job.

Things I Have Learned Having a Teenager

* What I wear IS important.

* MySpace time is quiet time.

* Three boyfriends is not an entirely unacceptable number.

* I don't own enough belts.

* I should spike my hair.

* Using the call-waiting is optional unless explicitly told to "click over."

* Most people in authority really ARE out to get you.

* Most of the food I cook doesn't smell good, taste good or "look right."

* Teenagers do not take kindly to organic produce, tofu and turkey burgers and a house without mashed potatoes and gravy.

* There can never be enough hair in the bathtub, on the counter or in my hairbrush.

* Being a mom is great, but man, I'm tired.

My Sadness

2006-10-15T22:49:00.000-07:00

We have a new addition to our family. I call her McFosterBaby, even to her face, although she is seventeen. She is sweet and bright and beautiful. She is also breaking my heart. I cannot wrap my head around her life. I cannot understand why the people in her life who she should have been able to love and trust could have heaped so much hurt upon her. I cannot comprehend how she has remained so resilient, so functional and so well-adjusted regardless of these things.

But she is with us now. In definitely. At least until she finishes school and we ship her off to college. And already, my heart is heavy for it. She is already a part of this family. She is adjusted. She changed Helen's poopy diaper today. I told her it was initiation. Right now, she sits at the kitchen table with Luke telling what can only be the LONGEST story I have ever heard. She talks in a non-stop barrage of bubbly teenager. She ties up my phone line talking to boys. She has already done serious damage to our bank account, as I took her shopping for clothes. She wants a fish for her room. She is frightened and angry and sometimes consumed by it. But she got up and talked at church this morning, her first morning there. She is brave and strong and greatly in need of God's love. I am so glad to know that she can get it here.

The first night I picked her up, I took her to eat. She was SO hungry! And as we were driving home, she asked why we were doing this for her. For those that know me well, you know evangelism is not my forte. But I told her as simply as I could, that I do this because I was commanded to. Jesus left us very little wiggle room when it comes to feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, helping those orphans and widows. I told her that we were blessed by the abundance of God's love and through that we had an abundance to give away. And she was satisfied. It was nice. But it was hard. This gift I feel I am giving her. It comes at a sacrifice. I have schedules and regiments around my house. She sure is kinking those. And I am so tired. Not just physically, but so very emotionally drained. This past week... I sometimes fear I do not have the strength to stand up under it. But then I think of the overflowing abundance of the Lord's cup, and I know I will sustain, if only minute by minute.

But my heart...I feel it is forever changed by this. There is a sadness lurking in me. A sadness born of the human condition. The way people live, the way they treat each other...I thought I understood the magnitude of how far away from goodness we have come. But I had no idea. And the system is set up to protect no one. We cannot help. And most don't even want to help. And I do not know how to fight it.

Please pray for my sadness. And please pray for McFosterbaby. And pray for our safety right now. It is of the highest concern for the next few weeks.

Kids Say Mean Stuff

2006-10-02T14:00:00.000-07:00

Helen got up very early on Saturday morning...like before 6. So I took her downstairs to the family room determined to tire her out and fall back asleep on the sofa. It worked.

She ran around some, and then came over and crawled up next to me and started to fall asleep. I hugged her and kissed her forehead and said, "Sweetie, you shouldn't get up so early. I love you, now go back to sleep."

She opened her beautiful, big blue eyes and looked up at me and said, "Mommy, your breath is stinky." And then she fell asleep.

What a freakin' angel.

Everything Has Egg In It

2006-09-28T21:58:00.000-07:00

In his quest to be the most difficult baby alive, Philip has developed an allergy to egg.

Oh, and also tomato.

So, this is a fun new discovery. Philip is also eating table food. He is also in that place in life where he MUST eat what everyone else is eating. His own food is not good enough anymore. He must have mom and dad's food. Excellent.

In case any of you have forgotten, I live in a small town in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming. We have a Wal-Mart, an Albertson's and a Smith's (Kroger). Well, what we don't have is a health food store. And you know where you can buy food that is free of Allergens, such as egg? Not at Wal-Mart. So now I have to plan a once a month trip to SLC, three hours away in order to buy pastas, breads, egg replacer, chips, cookies, various other snacks, frozen waffles, soups and many other items that are egg and tomato free.

Now in case this is lost on any of you, I want you to realize what this means. This means birthday cake made with a can of soda. This means no pizza, no spaghetti, no white bread, no mac and cheese, no pie, no poptarts, no ranch flavored anything (check it out, it has tomato powder in it), no hot dogs, no sausage and no to a lot of other things as well. The list of "egg" derivatives is about a mile long. Instead of memorizing it, I am just carrying a notebook around writing down things that make my son's face swell up and writing them off as "Never Again." The list is long.

See, if life allowed it, I would be a Vegan (except for cheese, man I love cheese) because I am not all that attatched to meat and dairy anyway. And now that eggs are no longer allowed in my house, it would be an easy transition. IF we lived close enough to a store like Wild Oats in order to supplement our diet. As it stands, Wal-Mart is not Vegan friendly. However, we are considering just throwing all the meat out. I hardly use it anyway. Right now I have about six pounds of frozen meat (and by meat I mean turkey products because beef makes me poop) in my freezer and some of it has been there for a questionably long time. I like beans and tofu and spinach (good spinach, not this new e coli sporting stuff). And I can get iron and protein in those forms. But then factor in these stupid kids, and I suddenly feel obligated to let them eat what they want. Mommy can be a vegetarian, but if Helen wants some turkey for lunch, I don't know how to all of a sudden say, "No, we don't eat turkey anymore."

Fortunately in all of this, god has been especially kind. Our church has a large number of hippies in it. They are part of a co-op. They order organic everything and have invited us to tag along in this venture. Two of them have kids with allergies to egg. Well, their kids are also allergic to wheat, gluten and a number of other things that make me look at Philip and smile. So, they have started bombarding the house with egg-free pretzels (yep, pretzels are all shiny because of egg), recipes for egg replacement and catalogs for ordering nice healthy food that is friendly to my whole family. Go figure, join a church, join a commune. It's kinda nice.

Huh Uh

2006-09-14T08:56:00.000-07:00

Helen and I take a Mom and Tot swim class every Tuesday and Thursday. There is a woman in our class with two children, and every time she wears a very small bikini. Worse yet, she looks good in it. I do not think this should be allowed.

That Girl

2006-08-26T22:43:00.000-07:00

A collage of photographs hangs on a wall in my dining room. An arrangement of black and whites set against various magazine clippings, cut to perfection. It really is quite a work of art. And tonight, as I walked through the room, I stopped and stared. It was as if I had seen these photos for the first time, one in particular.

A round faced girl sits squinting into the sunlight, staring at something unknown. She is thinking. And behind her sits a young man, squinting into the sunlight, staring at the girl. They are sitting on the railroad tracks that run behind the old Depot in Shawnee. They are so young. My engagement photos, taken five years ago this very month. And while I remember the day well, riding in my broken-up Chevy Cavalier with the windows down, Toni and Kara in the backseat and Luke driving about to the various desireable locations Toni had scouted for these pictures, I realized that I do not remember this girl. And as I sat in a bath tonight, I tried to think of who she was, and who she has become.

In the picture, I marvel at the svelte contours of a body that has not known childbirth, and I see the puffs of baby fat in her cheeks that have since been outgrown. Her eyes are steely and determined, and her posture is aloof, even unto the man she will soon marry. I see she is defensive. But what about the things I cannot see?

I remember that she still thought she would be a defense attourney and hated the very idea of having children. She cared more about being a size six than about being healthy. She had a propensity toward unkindness, but was feircely loyal. She loved clothes. She hated to be shushed. And she smoked too much. She held fast to radical political beleifs. She argued with everyone. Devil's Advocate was not just a game. She claimed to be Agnostic.

Her foresight was limited. She did not expect to spend years fighting for the acceptance of her in-laws. She did not know she would drop out of school before her wedding even came. She did not know that in a few short months, she would be effectively fired from a job she loved. She did not know she would spend months working eighty hours a week for peanuts and then shuffle off to Chicago only to fail at big-city life. She would not know about moving to Dallas, Norman, Wyoming. She would not know then that life is never measured by what you do, but rather by who you are.

She knew nothing of love. She knew nothing of loss. She would not have expected anguish over two lost embryos, or have expected such great joy over the two that succeeded. She would never have been a stay-at-home-mom. She would never have so vehemently protected her privacy and relationship with that man by whom she sat. She would not have expected to so easily follow him to the ends of the earth on a whim, despite those ever-nearing vows. I know she did not know what life would bring her, or she would probably have fought harder against the tide. She did not know her life would be wonderful. I know she still wondered where she would be if she had taken pre-acceptance to Harvard. Well, she still wonders that. But she looked down her nose at those she found did not meet her standards intellectually, economically and socially. She had no sense of community. She had no sense of self.

But as I looked at her, I felt awed. I realized that though I do not remember her well, I do KNOW her. Little pieces of her still lurk about in corners of my head. On those days when you wish yourself out of your life, you look back at those photographs in your head and walk yourself down another path. Because life is always bittersweet with wondering. She reminds me to keep wishing and wanting more. But now, I wish for more and want more, not just for myself. I prefer it that way.

And so I will leave her just where she is, hanging on the wall, squinting out at something unknown. Thinking. And I will hope that when I pass that picture, that will be the message to which I cling. Look outward, cling to the unkown, think. Because who knows where you will be five years from now.

My Bed, My Cat, Some Urine...

2006-08-23T20:17:00.000-07:00

So my folks moved to town, and they brought my cats with them. Up to this point (the point at which we bought a home), we were not allowed pets, so my parents had been keeping them. Three weeks ago, I had no pets. Now I have five.

We bought the puppy. My parents brought my two kitties. My parents have an enormous black lab that we are now keeping for them in our backyard. My mom has a kitten. The kitten smells very, very bad. Way worse than a normal kitten. I don't know why this is...

So, back to my cats. One of them, Small and Grey (yes, that's her name), has adjusted to new house and life in it (including the dog) just fine. But the other cat, Miss Kitty Fantastico (yes that's her name) is TERRIFIED of the puppy. To really understand the magnitude of this, you have to understand Miss K (for short).

Miss K was born with distemper, and the first year of her life wanted to claw the face off of everyone and everything. Then she got better and settled down...some. But she is still terribly mean and hisses and claws and basically is a menace. Oh, and she is very, very fat. I mean, WAY too big for a cat.

Now in my head, I know that if you pitted Miss K and Willard against one another in a cage fight of some sort, she would KILL him in one fell swoop. She, however, does not know this. And so it came to pass that she spent the first two solid days in my bedroom. I was becoming increasingly concerned that she wasn't eating or drinking. But more than that I was concerned about how she had not visited the litter box. The way our house is set up, the only GOOD place for the litter box is in the bathroom off our laundry room. And in the laundry room is the Cage of Willard. So, she won't even go PAST there.

So, at 7:15 Tuesday morning, Miss K hops up on my bed mewing and nudging me, and I sleepily reach out to pet her, and she hops down onto my legs and snuggles in, AND PISSES ALL OVER ME!!!!!! AND ALL OVER THE BED!!! INCLUDING THE MATTRESS!!! Thank God I don't have my down comforter out for winter yet. WHY?! Why would she do this!!?? What possessed her? Had she just been holding it for that long?

It was a VERY bad way to wake up.

So, Willard's cage is very big, and we have it divided so it is just big enough for his little puppy body. The solution to this "no litter box, peeing in my bed" situation? We have started locking Miss K in the back half of the cage with the dog. She's got to get used to him sooner or later.

Things That Are Happening...

2006-08-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

We are settling nicely into this house. The basement will be finished tomorrow, and our family room will be complete with plenty of room for guests. So, any time anyone wants a breath of fresh air, you are welcome to come and shack up with Luke and I...and by shack up, I mean you must come up here and get married to us. We do live in Mormon country.

So, here are some new developments in our lives...

* Philip said his first real words (aside from your basic Mama, Dada, Bye Bye) and they were "Thank you." Man, I am an AWESOME Mom.

* Helen no longer asks to "Go Home." She says "New House." Even when we are in the backyard and she wants to go inside, she says, "Inside new house."

* We have done enough work on this house that every time I get in the car with the kids Helen shouts, "YEA!!! Home Depot!!"

* Philip is going to walk any day now and then I will have two completely mobile children. I expect shortly after that, I will explode.

* Helen shows great signs toward wanting to potty train again. All of her stuffed animals go "pee pee" in the potty everyday.

* We got a dog. He is a mutt. His name is Willard. Two days after we got him, he actually exploded with diarrhea and spent three days at the vet with "Corona Virus." I made the woman at the shelter where we bought him pay for that brief hospitalization.

* Whenever the dog goes out to go to the bathroom, Helen says that Willard has pee peed in the potty. I think this as accurate as I can get from her right now.

* Yesterday, while getting in trouble, Helen looked me right in the eye and began singing, "Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me..." at the top of her voice. I think this was intentional.

* Philip can eat three Vienna Sausages in a single sitting and I don't necessarily believe this is a good thing.

* Philip and Helen wear the same size diaper, the same size shoe and are within four pounds and four inches of one another. In the past week a half a dozen people have asked me if they are twins. And while they are roughly the same size, Philip is clearly not as cognitively functional as Helen, so I always wonder if people who DON'T ask feel sad that I have a retarded baby.

* Luke's grandfather came for a visit and it went very well.

* My parents will be here on Friday...for good. Hooray!

Well, that is enough for now. I just wanted to catch you all up on my life, you know, aside from the feeling sorry for myself. That has, fortunately passed.

I Hope It's Not Contagious

2006-08-13T23:25:00.000-07:00

I am suffering, you see, from a very nasty case of foot-in-mouth syndrome. As a matter of fact, I seem to have a chronic case.

I do apologize ahead of time for what seems to be a lengthening list of very angsty, sort-of teenage blogs about my own troubles. I am falling farther and farther away from my original intent, to write about the antics of my kids. However, to be a good parent, to understand your children, you must first understand yourself. I am on the long journey toward that destination. As it would seem, it is not surprising that I am writing these teenage blogs, for everyday, I come closer and closer to the realization that I am still that sixteen-year-old girl, trapped in this body of an adult. I have an over-riding need for acceptance, and a nasty inclination toward gossip and vengeful spite. I take out my own insecurities on others. I fault others for finding me disagreeable when I, intentionally, make myself so. It is a very nasty spiral of events, don't you think?

More to the point, though, is the e-mail. It is an e-mail I sent to a friend with no particular intentions, just a friendly sort of ditty. Or so I believed. After rereading it, I see that perhaps it seemed otherwise. You see, I stupidly mentioned one or two or four mutual "friends" and made some vague statements about their effect on my life. Now my fear, and I believe this fear to be real, is that this was a very, very bad idea.

In the past year or so, I have had to face some demons from my past. Although I have never been deliberately hurtful or mean-spirited, I did spend a great deal of my later-adolescent (cough, ealry adult, cough) years just not caring about other people. I never went out of my way to make people cry, but if they cried over something I said, it was certainly no skin off my teeth. My bravado was embarrassing, only made worse by my overt attempts to MAKE people not like me, if I, in fact, did not like them. Or, if inside, I really thought they didn't like me anyway. I acted out a lot. I am sure now they have some form of Ridilin for this. I am looking into it. But now...Now I look back in shame. But now, I am also 1,000 miles away from my past. Literally. And those images do not easily fade from people's minds. And saying, "I've changed" really has very little effect on people you have hurt or wronged, especially if they do not get the pleasure of experiencing this change first-hand. And so...

Whenever I talk about anyone, even in passing, even with nostalgia and regret, even with love and remorse, my past attitudes creep sneakily up from my behind, and bite me firmly on the ass. And so I find myself, constantly, with one hand wrapped around my ankle FIERCELY pulling my foot out of the back of my throat. And sometimes it is entangled back there with my uvula and tonsils and all that seedy hatred that I used to spread so easily. And all along, I feel like I have this one sided game of Tug Of War going on, fighting with myself. I am apologizing ahead of time, for things I may not have even said, just in case their meaning should become misconstrued later on, in the hands of someone else. This is certainly problematic in today's cyber/e-mail-y world, where you can't see my face, or hear my tone of voice and instead all you get are these WORDS. And words are oh, so powerful. More so when taken out of context or misunderstood. Because you can never take back your words, you can just back-pedal. And then, it just looks like you are covering. And so instead I just keep talking. And in the back of my head there is this voice shouting, "Shut the F&*% UP!" That voice may be Lucas's. He tries so hard to keep me out of trouble.

And so this may explain my ghosts, my phantom friends. I am worried that I wronged them, and then perhaps wronged them again in an e-mail I meant to be almost jovial in spirit. Alas, in spirit does not translate well on my computer. Perhaps I should start using those emoti-cons more often. I will follow every sentence with little smiling winking faces. Foolish, that is. I just get so frustrated at myself. I try so hard to use the grown-up's potty, but to be honest, I am still walking around in emotional training pants. And isn't that sad. I have a terrific marriage. Enviable, some might say. But MAN if I just can't make it work anywhere else. Sometimes I think I will just give up socialization all together. I will become a hermit lady in my own home. Raising my kids and hanging out with Luke and never again facing the outside world. But then I would have to home-school...and I am already looking forward to having them out of the house... Poo. I'll find my way. Worry not, I will be back on the horse in no time. Perhaps I can find a funny story about Helen and Philip to tell tomorrow and we can put all this messy business behind us.

A Question For Which I Need Answers...

2006-08-09T21:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends,

There are a number of people in my life, from days gone long by, with whom I am in complete disconnect. There are various reasons for this. There are people I've alienated or insulted, people with whom I just no longer have anything in common, people whose life-styles I find so abhorrent and ridiculous, that I have made my own personal cut-off, and those who have just slipped through my fingers with the passing of time.

I look at my life and, such as is it, it seems so whole and complete. I have the things that I need. I have the people that I need. I have a life separate from any of these people. These are not folks that would make or break my day. They are not even, some of them, people that I particularly like. They are not people that I need in order to raise my children, be a good wife to Luke or grow in my spiritual life. They are just ghosts.

And ghosts they are. They haunt me. These are people that I do not go to sleep at night without thinking of. They mingle in my necessary thought-process throughout the day. Their faces enter in my dreams in bizarre scenarios. And for the last week or two, my thoughts of them are all-encompassing. I actually have trouble focusing on my ever-so whole and complete life because there seem to be these missing links to these people with whom I have lost touch. And I cannot for the life of me figure out why they are so important.

I have moments where I think, "God is telling you something. You need to re-build bridges you've burned and make some wrongs, right." But those thoughts are quickly followed by the, "You are lonely and immature and you just only worry that people don't like you, and you want reassurance and validation that you are, in fact, likeable, and THAT sounds like High School Sarah to me." And then there are the more agonizing moments when I just want to poke something long into my ear and scrape it around in my brain shouting, "GET OUT PHANTOM FRIENDS!" But I worry Luke will have me committed. Because I just don't know why it bothers me.

Who Am I?

2006-08-03T23:11:00.000-07:00

I am having an identity crisis. Here are the reasons:

Identity Crisis 1
We are starting at an early age telling our kids about Jesus. We sing songs, read age-appropriate stories and try to fit him into conversation whenever possible. It is surprisingly easy to fit Him into conversation (and by Him, I mean the whole Trinity shebang, not just Jesus himself) because Helen's limited world-view holds the capacity of trees, flowers, mommy, daddy, brother and love, all of which/whom Jesus made. And the songs are just fun. Even if I find some of them reprehensible as they flow from my mouth on their catchy little tunes. The second verse of Jesus Loves Me... "Jesus loves me when I'm bad, though it makes him very sad"... this is hard for me to sing. And "Oh Be Careful" will never be sung in this house.

So, today, Helen and I were sitting at the table enjoying some mandarin oranges and chocolate milk, and singing "Zaccheus Was A Wee, Little Man." After the final line "For I am going to your house today," Helen shouts, "HELEN GOES TO HOUSE! HELEN GOES TO ZACCHEUS HOUSE!" Okay, she can't actually pronounce Zaccheus, but that's just semantics. So I tell her, "Sure, you go to Zaccheus's house. You and Jesus both go to the house." Because humoring your kids is how you make it through the day. And then Helen says the weirdest, creepiest thing ever...

She says, "Mama is Jesus."

And Luke's laughter chorused out of the other room. And I stumble about saying, "No, no. Mama is NOT Jesus." Because I now, somehow feel blasphemous. Why does Helen think I am Jesus? I have to assume it is because she thinks that I made everything. I made brother. Why not flowers and mountains and rivers? So our next bible lesson around the house is "Why Mommy is NOT Jesus." Does anyone have scripture to back that up?

Identity Crisis 2
Today Luke and I had a brief, yet very real conversation of the subtleties of the vocal quality of the lead singer of Journey. I find him to be very talented. Luke finds his voice strange.

When did I start knowing enough about Journey to have this conversation? Why wasn't I wearing a jeans jacket and leaning on my Camaro and brushing my mullet while we had this talk? Why was I listening to Journey on a CD? Why do I OWN a Journey CD? Why wasn't I listening to it on cassette while holding the boom box on my shoulder?

Seriously, a conversation about Steve Perry. I like COUNTING CROWS. That's who I am.

Identity Crisis 3
While unpacking in our new house, I found I own a number of romance novels. I do not know where they came from. Perhaps I went out and bought them subconsciously after I started staying at home with the kids. Perhaps I also watch soaps during the day and think Capri pants equal dress-up clothes.

This could be chalked up to my sister leaving one on a visit, or I got them mixed up in my books back when I lived with other girls, but no, there are like 15 of them. I really have no idea how this occurred. Some of them are by Danielle Steele. Now this is against my religion. No really, Jesus does not like Danielle Steele. It's in the bible. He smites people for reading that kind of literary garbage, mass-manufactured by Silhouette and Harlequin. I really just don't know how this came to be...

Identity Crisis 4
I ordered chicken-fried steak at a restaurant yesterday. I don't eat beef. And because I don't eat beef, when I DO eat it, it has a...very bad effect on me. Maybe once every 6 weeks or so, I have Luke take me out for a really nice steak, and I will always regret it. So, why, yesterday, was I possessed to order chicken-fried cube steak at a place that makes the Rainbow Inn (you know what it is) look like Steak and Ale (or someplace actually fancy). Anyway, I ordered it, and the waitress walked away and I looked at Luke kind of shocked-and-awed and said, "That's going to make me sick." Why did I do that? What is wrong with me lately. Have any of you seen the real Sarah? And could you send her back my way? I miss her.

Moving

2006-07-27T21:29:00.000-07:00

Well, we close on our new house on Monday. I wish I had more than just the books packed. I am lacking in the motivation department. Plus, we are moving about six blocks so I can't seem to justify "packing" everything. Why wrap all my dishes in newspaper and then have to wash them all just to take them on a 5 minute car ride? So I think I will wait until Sunday to really start getting things together. We weren't planning on getting a truck. We were just going to take the seats out of the van. It is big enough for everything but the couch, and we had big plans for that including bungee cord, rope, one of those orange flags and back streets. But it seems all our well-tuned plans are coming to an end...

Ninety-nine percent of the time I don't mind that Luke and I don't have a lot of friends. I have a lot of philosophy surrounding married-life and social-life that are neither here nor there, but we certainly make do without a bustling social scene. Enter Moving Day.

We have no one to help us move. It is just Luke and I hauling and carrying all our furniture, all by ourselves. No family, no friends, no neighbors. Just us. When Luke interviewed for this teaching position, they told him a lot about the "community of teachers." They told him lovely stories about how they all pitched in to help each other out. A whole crew of teachers showed up to move the Junior High principal to her new house. They take care of each other here. Well, here we are one year later, and I have met just one, single solitary colleague of Luke's. She is fantastic. Unfortunately, she and her family are out of town. I once met Luke's principal at the High School...We ran into them at K-Mart. It was all very "Oh, you must be..." And "How nice to..." And then a lot of awkward standing and then a lot of walking away quickly. We have met no friends through church. I have made a whopping total of three women friends who have kids. None of their husbands seem keen on social interaction with us as a couple, and not a one of them volunteered to help carry the damned sofa. I also have no one to watch the kids during this process. I thought I did. It didn't work out. And then we asked one of Luke's students who happened to be working at a store the other day, and she happens to be off this week and she said that she "dug our kids" and would watch them. Later when I talked to her about it, she said it sounded okay, but if she couldn't her friend's sister liked kids and could probably watch them. And as much as I like the idea of relying on this girl's friend's sister whom I have never met to take care of my two children under the age of two, I have much doubt that any of it will work out...

Remember when I said I was not a freak? Maybe I am. I really don't seem to be able to find friends. I really don't seem to be able to keep them. A lot of people I know seem unreliable and, frankly, kind of jumpy by the very idea of a good solid friendship with me. I feel used a lot. And occasionally ,I feel really, really lonely. Like the kind of lonely that makes you want to shed a single tear...An Indian crying about litter kind of cry. But really, when the times in your life come up that you really need someone, and there is no one to be found...that's depressing. My closest friends live in Michigan, Texas, Oklahoma. I do sometimes wonder when I became incapable of making good friends where I am. I am in this sickly time-warp where all the great friends I have, I made a seven years ago. What's a gal to do?

So, none-the-less, we will be rolling up our sleeves starting Monday and we will make it work somehow. It might take us two weeks to move, but we'll make it happen. I thought buying this house was going to be this awesome thing that made me feel all grown-up and successful. But really, the last week has been bittersweet, at the very, very best.

A Statement on Getting Older

2006-07-22T23:28:00.000-07:00

Oh! It is SO embarrassing!

I seriously can't believe I just posted this on the internet! Where people with eyes can see it. This is actually how she fixed it in the salon. It is most certainly NOT what I asked for. With big ol' round face, bangs are not a friend. Not a friend at all. But I have found a way to fix it that is a little less...Man-ish and a little less mom-ish and a little more me. But it is still really, really bad.

I have a good friend named Nicole (Hello Nicole!). I like her because she is a lot like me. She came over yesterday and instead of saying, "Oh, it's not so bad! It's really cute!" she said "Wow, it really is short." My favorite part about that is I had previously told Luke that that was exactly what she would say. My main point being, no one need spare their criticism here. As Jill pointed out, I may HAVE a bad haircut, but at least I didn't WANT the bad haircut.

Which brings me to my statement on getting older: I am getting older.

I actually don't care so much about my hair anymore. I am actually glad it is so easy to fix. Only having an inch of it all over makes this an understandable fact. But I see it in so many other aspects of my life, and I feel...Well, old. It doesn't;t help that I spent the last year surrounded by high school students. They frequently reference bands I have never heard of, make jokes from movies I never saw and have the overall annoying habit of making me feel tired and worn-out in their presence. All those little girls with their stupid perky boobs and tummy shirts with streaky hair and fresh faces. I would leave the house feeling okay about myself, go to the school to help with a show and suddenly feel...Well, old. I take pride in leaving the house in a shirt that has not been thrown up on, and they take pride in EVERYTHING. That'll do something to your psyche.

But I wouldn't trade this for that for all the money in Solomon's kingdom. I know they are just a mess of nerves and sweat and smells and self-loathing. And I know all that time they pour into their appearances is never for their own benefit, but to produce an effect on someone else. That effect generally being a mask of self-confidence sprayed on with hair spray and a bottle of Cover Girl base. Thank God for adulthood.

After I had my two babies in a row, I laid in bed one night tracing my fingers over my road map of stretch marks that range from my ribs to my...Well all the way down. And I cried. And my wonderful, wide husband came over and told me a wonderful magical story. He said "Your body is the story of your life. Everyone of these marks shows that you made life. Every scar you hold is interesting. It means you have lived. If your body was the ideal of perfection, you wouldn't have much life in you. These things are beautiful." And while I think he's full of crap, it was a really nice sentiment. And it did make me feel better in general. But I am still unforgiving of my kids for ruining mommy's body. But as with all wounds, time has healed those, too. I feel fine about not wearing a two piece swim suit ever again. Frankly, without the stretch marks that would be a mistake. But I am not a child, not a teenager, not really even a "young adult" anymore. I am a woman. And with age, I have gained some wisdom and perspective about life. My body is my story. I'm proud of it.

Oh, and by the way, just see what happens when I use that "Your body is a story line with Luke the next time he complains about losing his hair.

But physically is the most minimal way in which I am aging. Do you know how many people I graduated from high school with are still living with their parents? Do you know how many of them are still regularly conversing with each other on My Space? Have never left their comfort zone? Are SO afraid of growing up? Have never made a new friend? All went to UCO? It makes me a little sad. But that isn't the half of it. I was chatting with a friend on the phone the other day and she says "We went out to a bar to hear some bands play and then we went to a club to go dancing." She's two years older than me. All I could think was "Do people do that? Have I become so wretched and old that I forgot that people GO OUT and have fun?" Last night for fun, Luke and I read each other Trivial Pursuit cards while I breastfed a baby and my other kid did puzzles in the floor. What a juxtaposition in lifestyle!! The last time I went to a BAR? Okay, I don't even remember the last time I went to a bar. The last time I visited Chicago and COULD have gone bar-hopping, I was pregnant. When did I spiral light years ahead of my friends. People I know and love and would like to have relationships with are living in a way that I can't even comprehend. I have to be home by nine every night because it is bedtime for Helen! But it's not just kids! Luke and I started living like this almost a YEAR before I got pregnant. We just sat around at night with maybe a single glass of wine chatting about politics. When did this happen? When did I start rocking out to Ben Folds? When did I stop smearing on the face paint and shaking my ass at night clubs? When did I trade curse words for poo and doody and frick? When did I buy that minivan? When did I start a savings account and start caring about taxes and the price of a gallon of gas and the environment and Jesus and kids and safety? When did I stop caring about everything else?

Oh that's right. It was when I grew up. When I started taking responsibility for myself. And through that started caring about and taking responsibility for others. And I wouldn't trade it for even a second to go to Cabo for the weekend and act like a fool and drink margarita's. And so...In conclusion, I don't really care about my stupid, bad haircut.

Wanna see it?

2006-07-18T18:51:00.000-07:00

If given an outpouring of comments to that effect, I will post a picture of the extremely bad haircut I received today. And I assure you...it is bad.

Some Stories

2006-07-10T22:55:00.000-07:00

So, here are just a couple of stories from things going on in the Rush Home, and at the end, a little moral that I have been thinking about a lot these past few days...

Story One: Why I Fall Down A Lot

I fall down a lot. Not in a lovely allegorical way where I fail at things, although that is true. But in the most literal way. See, I am five foot eight (tall for a lady) and I am, let's say, top heavy. I also have incredibly small feet. Like size six. Like I can still buy kid's shoes. And because of this, I picture myself to be a rather large structure balanced precariously on a rather small platform. It is why I am a terrible dancer. And it is why I fall down.

So yesterday, I bit it big time. And alas, I cannot blame it on my feet. It is because I am also unabashedly clumsy. I was carrying a big stack of linens to the bedroom, forgot that we had moved a shelf out of the closet, tripped over it and fell...Hard. The shelf was one of those plastic things that holds underwear and socks...Like those crates you see in dorm rooms with the holes in the sides...Know what I mean? Well, two of my toes managed to get caught IN the holes (why I was walking with my toes apparently splayed so far out this could happen is a mystery) and in trying to disentangle my toes, I twisted my knee. I also broke a toe. I bruised another. I fell ON the shelf as I drug it along with me into the bedroom and commandeered a bruise over 3 inches long on my leg. BUT, I landed on the linens I was carrying. So all that falling, and I actually landed on some pillows! But the problem is, I never would have fallen if I hadn't been carrying them. They blocked my view of the shelf. Ahhh, they were my savior and my demise.
The End.

Story Two: If You Sing Loudly, Someone Will Hear You

For those of you who don't know, our house is in our landlord's back yard. It is like a little guest house with 3 bedrooms and 1500 square feet. We have a patio, but no lawn, and our kitchen window actually opens into the landlord's patio and yard area. Also, for those of you who don't know, I listen to country music. It's a dirty little secret. But I am actually trained in singing it. Take vocal lessons in a small town in Oklahoma, and they will actually teach you how to put that twang in...My high school choir teacher took four years trying to get it back out again. Anyway, I listen to it. And I like it. And I sing along with it...LOUD. Today, I told Luke, "If I'm gonna be barefoot, in the kitchen, I might as well listen to country." And so I was, barefoot, in the kitchen, doing dishes and belting out Patty Loveless with the stereo.
Luke takes the kids outside to play, and I actually turn the radio UP to sing some louder. And I look up out the window and see Earl, my landlord in his backyard. I slowly turn from the sink, pause the stereo and go outside to Luke. "You couldn't hear me could you?" He says, "Yes. Brother has been looking for you." "YOU COULDN'T HEAR ME SINGING COULD YOU?" I ask again. Catching on, Luke says, "No, I couldn't." in that way that totally meant he was lying. Well, I should have sold tickets.
The End.

Story Three: If the Landlord Can Hear You Singing, He Can Also See You In Your Panties

Tonight I took a shower. This is a blissful occurrence for me, because I admittedly do not shower very often. You show me a stay-at-home Mom with 15 minutes to herself everyday, and I will show you all my Unicorns and Rainbows with little pots of Gold at the end. So tonight I took a shower...With Helen. And when I was done, I went downstairs to get dressed. Now my parents are coming to visit tomorrow, so I have been cleaning like mad. And regardless of the fact that I do laundry about twice a week, we will always have about 5 unfinished loads. Kids are messy. So are Husbands. So I stop in the middle of getting dressed (oh, did I mention I am manic about cleaning?) to change the load of laundry that has finished. So I go to the dryer and pull out the clothes and pile them on my bed across the hall. And I am standing folding the laundry listening to the sounds of Luke and the kids above my head. They were all chasing a balloon around the upstairs when I left. And they are all laughing and thumping above me. So I have one of those really wonderful moments when you realize that life is really great and you have great kids and a great spouse and you realize that you are blessed and you REALIZE THAT THE CURTAINS ARE OPEN ABOVE THE WASHER AND DRYER AND THAT THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THE BACKYARD OF YOUR LANDLORD'S HOUSE AND THAT YOU ARE STANDING FOLDING A TOWEL IN YOU LITTLE UNDERPANTS AND THAT SLUTTY CROSBY STILLS AND NASH TANK TOP YOU LIKE TO SLEEP IN!!!!! It was truly a wonderful moment.

The Moral Of My Stories

I have long since outlived my desire to prove much of anything to anybody. Most of you who read this know me fairly well. You know I have always had a pretty easy go of telling people "what I really think." But the truth is, I spent years running scared and burning bridges and destroying relationships because I hated to think that people didn't like me unless I didn't like them first. Now there is truth to the fact that people generally really like me, or REALLY don't. That I have come to terms with. But the other stuff...the impressing people, the witty banter and pressure to BE...I'm just through with it. I just want to LIVE. RIGHT NOW. Like no body's looking. I want to fall down and sing loud and fold clothes in my panties BECAUSE I CAN. Because I love me. And because my husband loves me. And I got friends who love me. And if other people don't love me, well...Why would I want to be friends with that anyway!? I want to live everyday of my life like that day one year ago when Luke and I prayed and said, "Let's Move To Wyoming!" It was this crazy rush. There was a lot of giddy laughing. A lot of "OH MY GOSH! Are we gonna do this?" And we did. And we try to live everyday like that now. Lord, if I didn't do something everyday that would probably make most people think me certifiable then I just wouldn't be me. So my moral? Live life. Make the choices that are right for you (with the help of God and Jesus, of course) and right for the people you love. And if you are happy, you give Happy to others. Misery may love company, but being joyful sure rubs off, too. And embrace your life right now. Stop waiting for life to come to you. Stop waiting to start living it until you are at X point financially or until you are at X point in your career. Live THIS life. Find life in falling down and singing loud and acting like a fool. You get up every morning and put on your clown-suit. It's a way better way to live.

Helen Dancing

2006-07-09T19:45:00.000-07:00

PeaNUT Butter

2006-07-08T15:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday helen went grocery shopping with me at Albertson's. We picked up some peanut butter And the following conversation took place.

"This?" asks Helen.

"That's peanut butter," I reply.

"Penis butter?"

"NO! NO! NO!"

Laughing, "Penis butter!" and then louder in a shouting voice, "PENIS BUTTER!"

"Mommy says NO, Helen. Peanut butter. Just butter. Call it butter. Regular butter." Because at this point we were attracting more than a couple of stares.

Helen

2006-07-06T11:02:00.000-07:00

Helen gives us a zoological lesson.

Philip

2006-07-05T18:03:00.000-07:00

This is a test. I'm trying to get video to post on my site, so I hope it works!

I am not a freak!

2006-07-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, that may be a debatable statement to many of those who know me, but I have many issues of late that make me want to scream this statement from the rooftops. So, here are a few points on which I do not consider myself a freak, and wish people would stop treating me as such:

* I realize that someday I will appreciate my great genes. My Dad is mostly Native American, my mother Scotch-Irish. And so, I will manage to look about 15 until I am 30, and at 30, I will finally look 21 and so on. But I have two kids, and I have been married for nigh on five years and if one more person says something like, "You are TOO young to have kids!!" or accuses me of being a teenage Mom, or looks at me like I am trashy because they THINK I am a teenage mom, I'm going to explode. This situation is NOT being helped by the fact that my dentist has referred me to the Orthodontist for braces. Apparently I am grinding away all my enamel during sleepy-time. Can you imagine!? Like it isn't hard enough to look this young, now I get to wear braces?! And of course I cannot afford the really nice invisaline ones. No, I get regular run-of-the-mill metal braces. I would just like to ask that people who do not know me, stop making assumptions about my age and ability to manage my household. The other day a woman in a gas station asked me if "I was sure I had kids." When I said I had two, she asked how old. And I said, "nine months and twenty-one months." She said, "Oh, they are not that big." As if this discounted the importance of my having kids, or explained HOW it is that I have had them. Because clearly, to her, I am only seventeen years old.

* I am a Christian. But I am not a freak! Why can I not make any Christian friends? Why is it that the friends I have that AREN'T Christians treat me as though I have the plague? I am a Liberal Moderate. I make sure each day that I show love and not judgment. I am incredibly uncomfortable with evangelism and proselytizing. But at the same time, why is it that an Agnostic can shout from the rooftops what they don't believe in, but if I mention Jesus, suddenly I am trying to convert everyone? And why such disdain? I respect a person's right to not believe or to not know what they believe. Why is it that I seem to not garner any respect for believing then? And where are all the other moderates in Wyoming? There's LDS, I know where they are. And there's super-conservative Baptists...They've already kicked me out of their church. But where are the others like me? Luke and I go to the UCC church where we are the ONLY two people under 45. And I like people my parent's age, but I would really like some friends with whom I have something in common.
Here's an example of what I'm talking about in my life right now. I was on a trip to SLC with a friend and a girl she knows. This other girl is a "friend" of mine in the way that we both know some people in common. We start talking about the Mormon church. I know a lot about its history. She starts going on and on about how much she hates church and how Jesus isn't real and how she will never go to church because she doesn't buy into the "myth." Great. But I point out that there is little contention about the actual existence of Jesus. He was a real person, even if you do not believe he was...A spiritual figure. So she says, "Okay, well then I certainly don't believe he was God. I don't believe in God at all. The bible is bullshit. I believe in evolution. I believe we came from monkeys." Again, I calmly reply that no one believes we came from monkeys. This is not even remotely a scientifically accepted form of evolution. To say we came from monkeys is an exaggerated form of Darwinism, and is certainly not jiving with the actual evidence of evolution. I tell her that actually, I believe in evolution. I believe in Creation Evolution. I believe that God gave man and life in general the ability to adapt and live in its environment in order to sustain life. She looks at me dead-on and says...I kid you not..."Then I believe in the big bang." WHAT? WHAT, WHAT, WHAT???? I wanted to shake her. That's just contrary! I JUST WANT NORMAL FRIENDS!!!!!!! And I am a normal person!

* Last night was the Fourth of July. I think most of you know I am not...Overly sentimental about my patriotism. I like America, I'm glad I live here, yada, yada, yada. But last night at the fireworks display, there were people standing and saluting the FIREWORKS while Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" blared proudly from their car speakers. People hanging out of car windows shouting "WOO HOO!! AMERICA!" And of course the people almost setting me and my family of fire while they drink beer and set off fireworks in the parking lot of the fair grounds where we have gathered to watch the spectacle. EVERYONE was drunk. I was glad because it was a family affair and lots of little kids were running around and I thought it was a pretty good idea for everyone to drink and drive. But really, people are CRAZY for American holidays. Give them an excuse to drink and blow things up while waving the American Flag and they are set for life. Seriously...Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Columbus Day, President's Day, really, any three-day-weekend. I don't think I am a freak because I do not put this kind of great passion into celebrating my "freedom." But then again, I think a good war protest is a good way to celebrate my freedom. Because I'm a damn, dirty hippie. But, I am not a freak.

I have more on this. I am not a freak because I choose to discipline my kids and not let them act like heathens. I am not a freak because I actually LIKE my husband and am glad when he is at home. I am not a freak because I have a good marriage. I am not a freak because I had two kids and managed to LOSE the baby weight by choosing a healthy life-style of good food and exercise. I am not a freak because we do not have cable TV, and I have not actually WATCHED TV in over a month. Overall, I think I am a fairly well-adjusted adult who makes consciencious decisions about my well-being, the well-being of my family and the well-being of others and my community. But what I am beginning to think is that in this place, in this day and age, that may very well make me a freak. Thoughts anyone?

You Don't Wear Make-Up to Yellowstone

2006-07-02T20:42:00.000-07:00

The Family

So we went on a weekend jaunt to Yellowstone. We signed the first contract on a house on Friday, and decided it was time for a break. Buying a house makes me die a little inside. I had no idea how much goes into it...But I digress. We made a last minute reservation to an over-priced lodge in Jackson, threw some stuff in the car and headed north.

We were in Yellowstone from about 11:00 AM until after 9:00 PM. We saw a total of maybe six sites. It's a really big place. It takes almost an hour to get from one place to the next because you keep stopping in between to take pictures of bison and deer that are actually too far away to even show up in a photo. But it is a lot of fun.

It smells like crap most of the time because all those geysers are spewing sulfur in the air, and maybe you go to eat lunch and miss Old Faithful erupting even though you are about 50 yards away. And since you don't want to wait another 94 minutes, you go onto the Norris geysers and realized you just wasted an hour and paid $40 to eat a sandwich. Again, a lot of fun. So you drive around taking pictures of everything and getting out and walking 2 miles to look at what may or may not be something very interesting, and if it IS interesting or beautiful you can guarantee that there is a very stereotypical group of tourists (I'm not saying who, you can draw your own conclusions) taking a pictures of everything and everyone and basically blocking the view anyway. Oh, then there is the part where you really love to hike and consider yourself in pretty good shape, but underestimate how hard it is to climb a mountain carrying 30 pounds of squirming kid on you back and you have a little asthma attack and didn't bring an inhaler and instead have to do Yoga breathing to keep your chest from exploding. And the rest of the time, you are pushing a 40 pound stroller containing 60 pounds of kids. Oh, have I mentioned I have totally ripped biceps now that I have two kids?

So, then, maybe we go to one of the more tourist-y spots and I run into the lady who owned the Day Care I managed in Shawnee and we both pretended to not know the other because, let's face it, we never got along and parted on pretty bad terms (hey, I was 37 weeks pregnant and she was trying to withhold my maternity leave)! It's a small, small world. But again, overall it's fun.

I know I am making this out to seem horrible, but we seriously had a great time. The kids just soaked it all up, and you just can't even imagine the kind of pretty that God managed to shove into such a small space. I felt renewed. Awesome. And we took a lot of pictures. And this is where the title of this post comes in. When you are going to a National Park, and you know you are going to be hiking and walking and sweating and sunscreening and insect-repelling, you DO NOT wear make-up. Unfortunately, this is also the time that your family starts taking a million pictures, and you are smiling in each one with white zinc-oxide chap stick with SPF clinging to your lips and no visible eye lashes, or eye brows for that matter, and you are splotchy and freckley and well, gross. It gives the effect of looking healthy and dead in every photo. So, all those wonderful pictures of our fam at Yellowstone will be cataloged next to "Pictures taken right after I had a Baby" and "Pictures where I have been sleeping" and other situations in which you do not want others to know what you really look like.

Washing Feet

2006-06-29T20:30:00.000-07:00

After Philip was born, I did not handle life very well. As many of you know, he was not exactly planned. One does not usually think, "well now that our first child is four-months-old, it is probably time to have another." But God had a better plan in mind. A plan to put me through another ridiculously difficult pregnancy and follow it up with a big, bad case of the post-partums, all to teach me a little something about who is really in control.

For months after Philip's arrival, I cried...a lot. I ended most days knowing that I yelled more than I played or comforted. And ending a day with the knowledge that you yelled at a newborn and a 14-month-old does not leave a warm, fuzzy feeling in your heart. I hated breast-feeding. I hated being touched-out. I hated holding my kids. I hated me a lot. I thought I was failing as a mother and a wife. And frankly, I was. I had so many balls in the air. And the whole world felt like it was crashing down on me. Finally, something snapped. I was raging at everything, and I finally raged at God that he gave me these kids, why couldn't he help take care of them! And you know that still small voice? The one that comes after the wind and shaking and fire? Well, it really, really does. And man, something so small and still can sure slap your face.

I realized the truth in what I had said. God GAVE me these kids. I may have made them (well, Luke helped some, but I say he got off easy in the long run), but God MADE them. And then, unbelievably, he entrusted them to me. He TRUSTED me. But with that came the burden of having to really trust Him. So I laid those kids down at the foot of the throne (not literally, as I have never been to Heaven) and I told Him, "Lord, I can't do this. But since you have decided I need to, I had better start doing a better job. I'm going to need a lot of help. I need a lot of patience, and I will need more perserverance. Since these beautiful creatures aren't really mine, I am going to need a lot of help to take care of them to Your standard. And I cannot do that alone."

And I swear, God said "Okay." And he sounded like James Earl Jones.

And that day, I discovered the amazing truth about Christianity. If you really start to practice it, there's this amazing return. That return is a simple promise...Life, and life more abundantly. And if God is Love and Christ is God and I am a little Christ, then my life had better be about Love. And if I love the Lord then I get love back in spades. Love to give out. Love to spread around. Abundant Love. Amazing. Awesome in the true sense of the word. I have now become a servant of Christ. A real one, I think. Because I feel like I get it. I feel like something clicked. I look at my kids and I think that God has given me wonderful gifts, and now I gotta start giving some back. Easy. Because if you are in it, really, really in it, you have abundance, and as with any excess we are commanded to give it back. Share it with those who need it. And I finally think I can.

So tonight we made a fort in the living room. Furniture pushed back, dining room chairs brought in, king-sized sheets spread over everything, and we crawled in and out and pulled the sheets down on ourselves and laughed. Fort Roeschley. We have hardwood floors, so everyone's knees and feet were dirty from crawling, and it's summer and you wear sandals and your feet get dirty. And after we collapsed Fort Roeschley the final time, I took Helen to dress her for bed. We went into the bathroom and sat one the edge of the tub. She was very still in my lap, tired from playing. Her little back resting against me. And I washed her feet. And she didn't laugh and squirm like she normally would. She just sat. And we breathed deep. This is servanthood. This is motherhood. This is life.

They're Plotting Something...

2006-06-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

So, the baby, or Philip if you prefer, was laying in my lap after finishing a light, mommy-provided snack. He looks at me and very clearly says, "Die."

I reply, "No, no! You don't want Mommy to die! Luke, did the baby just tell me to die?"

At this point, Helen jumps on the band wagon and starts dancing about chanting, "Die mama, die! Mama Die!" And laughing hysterically.

Now I am afraid, very afraid.

An Eventful Parade

2006-06-26T17:16:00.000-07:00

Due to the wonderful outpouring of comments, I will tell my wonderful tale of the guy shooting himself in the leg, and of course, my getting hit by the car.

This past weekend was Flaming Gorge Days, a festival of sorts that takes place in Green River, Wyoming. Green River is only 11, 12 or 14 miles from Rock Springs (depending on which mileage sign you happen to be passing), so we loaded up the kids to go see the Flaming Gorge Days parade on Saturday morning. There was also a festival in one of the parks for kids with free slides and face painting...That sort of thing. Family Fun for all. Also on Saturday night there promised to be a rockin' concert by Tesla and Everclear. Wouldn't wanna miss that...

So to get the unnecessary details out of the way, the parade was fairly normal, Helen made off with enough candy to confuse parade with Halloween and I got a sunburn on the only four inches of skin I neglected to put sunscreen on...My neck. So all that aside, when I say the parade was fairly normal, that is with the exception of...

There was a float that was made up like the Old West. The front half was a saloon, the back half was a jail with a hangman's gallows. Right in front of where we had pulled up a section of roadside grass, the float stops to do a little skit. The gist of it was lost on me because some of the men (all of whom were dressed in period appropriate clothing) were shooting off old-timey rifles with blanks which made the baby cry. I will at this point acknowledge that "the baby" has a name, which is Philip. Anywho, I guess after shooting off their child upsetting weapons, they stopped to reload their blanks. AND THEN...

One poor guy shot himself in the leg with a blank.

Now for any of you who happened to see OBU's stage catch fire during the theatre department's production of Little Moon of Alban, you realize that blanks shoot off a wad of residue and smoke and other goodness. So, the poor sucker shoots himself in the leg, and the crowd went freakin' nuts. Guys were taking off their shirts to make tourniquets and people were giving up water bottles to cleanse the wound. Now also, try to picture if you can, the one woman in an old fashioned dress having a semi-panic attack stopping all the other floats and shouting "Stop the parade!! He's been shot!!" Now also picture no one really caring enough to stop the parade. All the other floats just keep on coming, throwing candy and driving a wide berth around the guy bleeding in the middle of the street.

So the ambulance arrives, after navigating around all the still moving parade traffic, and takes the guy away. Luckily enough, like three floats after the ambulance is the local fire department who takes the time to stop and wash the blood out of the street. Thanks boys. And at the end of all this, there was a lady trying to return the T-shirts and blankets people had offered the wounded. Some of them were...soiled, let's say. I don't know about you all, but if I had offered a shirt to be used on some guys gun shot would, and then a lady tried to hand it back, I think my response would be..."Really, no thanks. I have other shirts." So ends story one...

Now, let me start by clearing the air about something here. WE did not get hit by a car. My CAR did not get hit by a car. I got hit by a car. As we were exiting the very eventful parade before it was over (I told Luke we'd already seen the most exciting part, that of course being the part where a guy shoots himself in the leg), we passed a little make-shift parking lot. We were going down a narrow sidewalk, and Luke was pushing the stroller and I was walking behind. A big white truck was exiting said make-shift parking lot. He was looking left, waiting for traffic to clear, and I was on the right side, but still very much in front of his truck. Apparently traffic cleared, because he just WENT! And he clipped me on my right arm and hip. I yelled, not because it hurt, but because he HIT ME WITH HIS TRUCK! His wife calmly turns and kinda glances at me...And then they just drive away. Seriously. They. Just. Left. Just drove off. "Did you know you just hit a lady?" I imagine his wife asking. And he says, "Yeah, but I don't seem to mind."

So, after all that blood and getting hit by that truck, we decided to skip the park festivities and certainly we decided to skip Tesla and Everclear (who am I kidding we WERE NOT going to that concert of crap anyway) and just went home to take a nap. It was the most eventful parade ever. The End.

Questions Anyone?

2006-06-24T12:13:00.000-07:00

Well, no one seems interested in my blog. Sad. Not even one comment. Well, I thought I would mix it up a little bit. See if I can intrigue anyone into commenting.

Today I saw a guy shoot himself in the leg.

Today I also got hit by a car.

Anyone interested?

2006-06-22T20:49:00.000-07:00

From time to time our family takes off on dorky, educational field trips. We visit sites from the Oregon Trail, recreated ferry crossings for wagon trains, wildlife preserves, places with fossils and museums, that sort of thing. The best part of living in Wyoming is you are always a car ride away from something interesting and/or beautiful, even if you are worlds away from anything else. I realize that I could never get hired to work for the Wyoming Bureau of Tourism because Luke and I think History and Science are fun, and I don't think most people seek out vacations where there are neat geological formations or an abandoned mine town.

We pull over to look at ANY roadside attraction. And sometimes they really pay off. So far, we have found the highest butte in Wyoming, which consequently has a secret ladder carved into one side by the Masons. They used to meet and do...Mason-y things up there. You know all that ritualistic, cult stuff that Masons do (BTW, my Dad's a Mason, so I just don't buy that it's a cult). Today we went to Sinks Canyon, a FANTASTICALLY beautiful state park where the Popo Agie River flows into an underground cave, travels about 3 miles underground and comes back up only a quarter of a mile away running at twice the flow with which it disappears. That basically means it picks up more water from somewhere under ground. We have found Wyoming's Hot Springs, Thermopolis, where you can take a nude swim in a private natural bath house. Kilpecker Sand Dunes is a desert in the middle of the mountains. There are four completely creepy deserted ghost towns within a half hour from our house. There are prehistoric rock formations that look like a big row of elephants, which Luke and I have dubbed Elephant Butt Rocks, a fitting name, I assure you. And these are just a few. We go out every Saturday, or now that it is summer and Luke isn't working, just once a week.

I know I can talk it up enough on here, and maybe there are some of you thinking these things sound interesting. But I really have to wonder...If you came to visit me, and I suggested we go look for Ghost Towns you might say yes. But would you agree if you knew that I would research the town first? If I brought along notes and while you were poking around looking at creepy artifacts, Luke and I were discussing when the last boom was, and what they were mining and who was president at the time, and how weird it is that people used to ride horses everywhere? Because that is what we do. I am so lame!!!! I can tell you ridiculous historical facts about Rock Springs that I admit, are of NO interest to anyone else. But living up here, you just can't help but embrace this incredible sense of history. The Bureau of Land Management has actually managed to keep Wyoming looking like it did 200 years ago. You can picture Wagon Trains and tepee villages. There are wild horses here!!! Herds of them! Free range cattle! Herds of antelope cross the highway while you are driving. It is very...Primitive.

Most people I know can't believe we live in a place without a Chipotle, a Gap...Well, without much of anything. But I am in love with this isolation. I love that my kids will grow up to be smart because we can take them to Yellowstone in under three hours to learn about volcanoes instead of just letting them read about them in school. When they study US history, we can take them to the Oregon Trail. We can show them where Joseph Smith and Brigham Young led a group of crazy people into the Salt Lake Valley. When they are in Chemistry learning about why things don't sink in Salt Water, we can take them to the Great Salt Lake. I love it. I love that my family is so close. I love our little excursions. I love when the kids fall asleep on the way home and Luke and I drive through the mountains chatting and feeling...Well, good.

Today I told Helen, "The Lord has been good to us today. He made this world so beautiful and gave us a chance just to live on it." If you ever want to come visit us, I can't guarantee excitement, and I can't guarantee that I won't tell you stories about scabs and labor strikes in the coal mines, but I can guarantee this. Here in Wyoming, you will be in God's country. It is good for the soul. God is so very, very good. And you just can't help but feel it, hear it and smell it here. I am so glad I get the chance to live on this earth.

2006-06-18T19:09:00.000-07:00

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

What happens when your kids throw poop.

2006-06-16T14:36:00.000-07:00

I haven't written a blog post in over a year. It feels strange. But I am just going to jump right in, as if no time at all has passed.

We are trying to potty train Helen. It is not working. It started with a timer, some panties and her potty in the kitchen floor. We would exchange diaper for panties, have a chat about staying dry and set the timer for 15 minutes. When the timer dings, we clap our hands excitedly and check for dry panties. If panties are dry, a single M&M is the reward. Then we sit on the potty for 2 minutes, and if we go, two M&Ms is the fantastic reward. It sounds like an unbeatable plan. Alas, it did not work.

The first three times, we did not even earn the first M&M because Helen chose this time to pee 4 times in 45 minutes. The next 15 minute interval, she stays dry. Hooray! An M&M is exchanged, goods for her services. She sits on the potty for two minutes. Oh, I should interject that "sits" is a bit of an overstatement. Bounces on while touching "herself" and then her face is far more accurate. She does not pee. We get off and I set the timer. At this point Helen walks over and just pees (a river, a lake, an ocean) all over the kitchen floor, stomps in it and walks away satisfied. I take this time to change her into a Pull-Up because, let's face it, I do the laundry.

So, it is decided she is not ready to train. We will back up. She goes into the bathroom with me now. We talk about all the wonderful people in the world who go in the potty. I show her that Mommy pee pees in the potty. And then it happens. Crimes against humanity. She looks at my pee, takes two LARGE steps backward, all the while looking at me as if I had killed puppies, and says, "Ewwwwww, Mama," in a very disappointed tone. When she poops, we empty the diaper into the toilet. "This is where poop goes," I say. To which she replies, "Ewwww, Mama." every time she says it, she looks at me with eyes narrowed and a voice that actually makes me feel bad about it. I look at her and say, "Yeah, well you go in your pants!" I justify to my 21-month-old why my pee in the toilet is not gross.

Fast forward to yesterday, and you get to the title of this post. Every parent knows that occasionally while changing a diaper, you get a free agent, a loner, A... rover if you will. A stray piece that unbeknownst to you escapes and rolls away. Generally you find these in the most disgusting ways, but this beats all.

It is ten o'clock on a normal Thursday morning. I sit in the floor changing squirmy Philip from PJ's to normal clothes and in comes Helen, hands hidden behind her back.
"What do you have?" I ask.
"NO!" she replies.
"What is it?"
And at this point she hurls something across the room and it breaks against the hardwoods and sends millions of pieces across the floor. I go to investigate.
"WHAT IS THAT?" I ask incredulously.
"It's poop," she replies and leaves the room.

Yes, it was indeed poop. A dried piece from God Knows Where now broken and flung across my floor. A great deal of time goes into the sweeping and swiffering of poop pieces from my lovely hardwood floors.

This action came from the very child who thinks poop in the potty is gross. However, it is apparently NOT gross to carry it around and then throw it.

We have, in fact, given up the silly notion of potty training until the ripe age of two.

A Story I Wrote

2005-04-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

Here is a story I wrote a very long time ago when I used to blog on Xanga. My Xanga site seems to be about to be shut down and is not easily accessed, so I decided to copy it here. If you have already read it, I am sorry. if you haven't, enjoy.

...

She lay shrouded in ambiguity and was dying slowly of passive agression. She had no plans for this world, but did just enough to get by. She had no meaningful relations, and neglected her home. People knew her enough to like her, but never enough to despise what she knew they could. There was always an excuse not to work. She made enough to get be on the kindness of others. No one knew what she thought, who she was, or what she meant. She kept it that way. It felt safe.

To her left, he sat idly shifting. He had many things of import to say. He knew how to change the world. His energy was barely contained, but for action, he was quadrapalegic. He read seven books yesterday. He wants to tell her about them, but he knows she won't read them. He is anxious for the world to start moving so his plans can begin. Inside, he knows it has always been going, but is scared his plans will fail. Besides, he made twenty-seven dollars in tips yesterday. It may not be worth all that time he spent in college, but it sure feels good to live the real life.

Next was the man with the monocle. He adjusted it constantly while speaking of shin splints and arthritis. He has never left this town, and probably never will. But he sounds mighty in the condemnation of others, but knows his empathy spreads farther than most. He hopes they dont notice his breath, he hasn't slept in weeks. He wants to take care of others, but has never been one to take care of himself. At the end of the day, he goes home alone. He knows he always will.

She meekly folded her hands in her lap. The man next to her made her nervous. He kept spinning that monocle and smelled like booze. She hated them all and smiled. She had once read that the meek would inherit the earth, and she wanted it all right now. Her quiet persona matched her stature, but her vengence was strong. She knows no one can see the heart. She is glad. Hers is a stop watch, a gift from the wizard. Nothing about her is real. All tin and creaks, but with fresh paint. She smiles because no one knows. She has never read a book, and all her peotry rhymes, but she will quote Aristotle when her time comes to speak.

He puffed up his chest while looking at hers. He liked how she had her hands folded. He knew the quiet ones always had a wild side. He had no idea where he was. He had stumbled in off the street. He didn't remember a day after his seventeenth birthday. So he functioned from there everyday. He felt big, like a man. He hoped this wasn't a church or a book club. He wasn't much for studying. He had a job he didn't know how to do, and a wife he didn't know how to love. He came home at the end of the day, and wondered where his glory went. Tonight he would go home and call seven people he went to high school with. Same as every night.

He had brought his guitar and strummed it slowly. He had never really learned how to play. He felt like a groupie. He probably was. He was self-conscious of his weight. He hoped no one would notice. He smoked with no hands, letting the ash fall into someone's coffee. He liked the guy next to him. He bet he used to play ball. We all used to play ball. He suddenly pontificated loudly about the end of the world. No one seemed to hear. That was the troube these days. No one ever seemed to hear. Maybe he would move home.

The guy with the guitar kept ashing in his coffee. He wished he had chosen somewhere else to be. The woman next to him was like the sun. Maybe they could just leave together. He was strong and quiet. But he felt awkward. He took up too much space. He felt like he might explode the room. He didn't want to speak. He was afraid he would have to. He never cried in public. Well, he had that once... He is wistful and kind, but needs to leave. He knows the door is so close. But how do you just go?

She completed the circle. The man on her right was the moon. She loved him. On her left sat the consequences of too many years of hiding. She itched her knows. She hated this song. She watched everyone in the circle, but knew she would never say a word. She could feel each of them, but felt so detatched anymore. Ever since they bought that house, the one with all the brick. She should have lived uptown. She didn't know anyone. She had just met herself. She wished she could quit smoking, but vices were her life. The guy kept eying the door. She hoped he would ask her to leave with him. But the meeting was beginning.

They folded their chairs and leaned them side by side against the wall. They lined up. Someone cleaned the coffee pot. The sign above the door glowed EXIT. Two people coughed. The single bulb swayed before plunging into darkness as someone pulled the chain. A door opened. It was raining. Someone left and thought they were a rock star. One wrote a book on philosophy that no one ever read. Not even a publisher. One died of passive aggression, but not the one you'd think. Someone never left home. Someone went too far. All but two were alone, though they all bedded someone that evening. Two of them smiled at the rain.

If I had a little white box...

2005-03-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

Last night, luke and I went and had a late dinner at Denny's after I finished up at work. As we were nearing the end of our meal, the waitress (who was wearing a banana clip, I might add) came to see if we needed anything else. I said, "Can I get a box?" This seems a simple and common enough question, yet the waitress looked at me and says, "A To Go Box?" I said yes and she went away. Luke and I were kind enough to wait until she was gone to laugh a lot about it. "A To Go Box?" No, maam, I need a refrigerator box. A Box of hamburger buns. A Box of sugar packets. I now wonder what sort of boxes I had at my disposal that I have now passed up the opportunity to receive.

Take Up Painting, Take Up Piano, Take A Vacation, Take A Number

2005-02-21T20:27:00.000-08:00

Sometimes in life, you will be over taken by overwhelming and inexplicable sadness. Where it comes from, you don't know. How to rid your self of it is not easy. But when you come to that point, when you cry at commercials, sit-come, anything ANYONE says to you or about you, and you are NOT in fact pregnant, it is time to take a step back and fix your otherwise happy and well-planned life.

SOOOOOO...

I am going to begin taking piano lessons again. I am also borrowing a set of oil paints from my mother. I have started doing Yoga again. I have pulled out the typewriter that was graciously given to me by a fantabulous friend. Most importantly, I am taking a 5 day vacation, sans baby and husband, to the illustrious Chi-Town to stay with K and M, and spend some quality time with nice people who like me and remind me that I do not have to be lonely, even when I feel like we don't know anyone anymore.

But Luke and I reasoned out the root of my blueness last night. HOW, I ask you, did Luke and I, open-minded democrats with love and homosexual accepting tendencies, marry young and have a kid? Because the people who are like us on the one front, are very anti-marriage, or at least anti-children and find us, not as cool as we were when not so tied to family life. On the other hand, our more familial oriented counter-parts are all minivan driving, Baptist loving, gay hating blond southerners that find Luke and I the most odd sort of company.

The ultimate solution to this should be our new church. Okay, we have not actually BEEN to this church yet, but we start next Sunday. It is a nice little church here in Norman where a friend of mine is on staff. When asked, she described her church as "open and progressive and possibly the most socially conscious church in the area." Beautiful! It also has a growing "Married with Children" department, but it isn't all 30 somethings (no offense intended to anyone who is 30 something (Scott) but you are a different animal and you know what I mean). Anywho, all this should be coming together soon such as to deliver me from the Bell Jar. Much love you you all, and I look forward to seeing at least one of you in Chicago around March 9.

When Strangers Want To Hold Your Baby

2005-02-15T14:24:00.000-08:00

For any of my friends out there who ask to hold babies you meet in super markets and restaurants, I have only one thing to say to you: Don't ask to hold someone else's baby. We are left standing awkwardly, not wanting to appear rude, but the voice in our head is screaming, "NO, NO, NO!!! I don't know you! I don't know where your hands have been! I am actually slightly creeped by your lack of social judgement that you would actually ask to HOLD a stranger's baby that I want you to hold her even less!!!" What I end up saying out loud is generally, "Well, I am in a hurry" or something that sounds convincing at that time. Clearly, being in a hurry is not ALWAYS going to work. If I am in line at the bank, saying that I'm in a hurry will just sound foolish. And actually, I am one of those people who generally, squeamishly, says "Okay." And then tries to look as uncomfortable as possible so that the stranger gives her back.

But today, a woman in the grocery store asked to hold her, which meant taking her out of the car seat. Now, I am actually not under the impression that ALL people are child molesters, and I am not worried about people dropping Helen on the floor. But It just seems to me that asking to hold her is the equivalent of saying, "Oh! What a really cute purse. Can I hold it?" or "Your hair is pretty! Can I smell it?" I just don't like other people touching my stuff, or me and in line with that, my kid. So, back to the story at hand... This woman says, "Can I hold your baby? I promise I won't hurt her! I would never hurt a baby!"

I don't know about the rest of you, but this actually made me think that she MIGHT WANT to hurt the baby. Too much insistence, too soon. A little to emphatic on the "not a child abuser" front. Thank God for her car seat. I got to use that excuse. "Well, it is really hard to get her in and out of her seat and I really don't want to take her out. And I'm in a hurry."

My First New Blog

2005-02-13T18:45:00.000-08:00

Well kittens, this is Sarah's new blog. It is away from the prying eyes of people who may go on to take everything I say personally and then write mean things that are directed at me on their own blogs. This blog is for those of you who know me well enough to read the things I write and take them in just the context that you know I would say them. It is a blog to share funny stories about my kid and the wierd shit one encounters day to day. I thank you all to leave comments and disagreement is welcome, but I ask that we all keep a certain amount of perspective about how this is, in fact, just a blog. It is not a serious place. It is not a place to develop relationships. It is just a place to tell little stories. And perhaps take the occasional survey.

The surveys start now:

When you go into a clothing store, and you like a shirt, do you feel the need to try it on in every single color? Then, do you feel the need to take any shirts you do not want and throw them in the floor? Because if you do, I might want to hit you in your face.