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.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Clock
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.
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.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
On No You Di'n't!
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!!
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!!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
An Organized Sort of Fun
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?
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?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Worst Day Ever
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.
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.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Truth
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.
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.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Housekeeping
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.
* 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.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Edible Christmas
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.
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.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Five Years
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.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Never Turn Your Back
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.
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.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Good Things To Know
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.
* 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.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
My Sadness
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.
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.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Kids Say Mean Stuff
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.
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.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Everything Has Egg In It
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.
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.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Huh Uh
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.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
That Girl
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
My Bed, My Cat, Some Urine...
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Things That Are Happening...
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.
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.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
I Hope It's Not Contagious
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
A Question For Which I Need Answers...
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.
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.
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